194
T h e
K i n g ’ s
B u s i n e s s
old Faubourg St. Germain but swings open to her knock. But he—” “You mean ‘Philippe’?” “Yes! He is partly Jewish, and the main branch of his family have been regular bankers to half the old royalty. Also they have made many marriages of State, and have a tragic something about them. He is anxious over his only son, Madame tells me.” The next morning was the last on board. “And here I am, Mademoiselle,” the Personage was saying.” And may I settle myself here beside you in this sheltered corner ? I have much to say to you in a brief time.” Constance considered him, her interest aroused by the romance and glamour of old Europe—always attractive to imaginative Americans! “Easter is approaching, did you realize it?” he asked her. “Yes! And I so wished to spend it in Jerusalem! But Cousin Elizabeth—” “Ah, Mademoiselle, your cousin has the right of i t ! FJle a raison! Do not see Jerusalem at Easter! Armand my son, and I, were there once! More of that later! -But there is another Easter in my life, and you, my dear young lady, are in it.” He leaned back in the steamer chair for a moment and looked away; across the tossing water. His face with its vivid attractiveness, its deep lines suggestive of both humor and an underlying sadness, took on a real melan choly. “Paris! In the spring! You were there, with your par ents—a little one, learning to walk. My wife and I were charmed with you all and, as the Eastertide approached, we were much together. Then, suddenly, a sickness came. My wife was taken from me. All in a short week it hap pened ! On the day you call Good Friday she slipped away from me. You see, Mademoiselle, it was the one love of my heart that went from me. I have never been able to love another. The cries of my boy baby, a year or so younger than you, wrung my very soul. Blindly I went to your appartbment. They are Christians. Surely they believe something. They, perhaps, will comfort me, was my thought. But no! They knew nothing—no more than I. They knew less of your Bible than I, in fact! It. was Easter morning, I remember. The Paris streets were full of life and color, but my heart felt black and dead. I was turning blankly to leaveHhem, hardly realiz ing that your mother was urging md'to live a noble life, to forget my sorrow. I know now that she is what you call ‘Unitarian,’ but at that time I felt, somehow, that I had gone to her for bread, and that she had given, me a stone. As I turned to the door, you came in,''Mile. Con stance. Your good -nurse had taken you with her to early church, and you 'Were carrying a few white lilies-of-the- valley, your lovely English name for the flower we call muguet des bois. When you saw me you reached out your little arms to be taken up, and as you put them around my neck, and I smelled the sweetness of your flowers, I knew the first softening of that cold grief that seemed to have bound my heart. Its grip loosened and I wept with my face against your little heart. You were saying, in baby fashion, ‘Poor! Poor!’ and patting my cheek. Yes; I was very poor! I had lost my all. Them you:offered me your lilies and laid them across my face/khying, ‘Easter lilies.’ As you said this it flashed upon me that somewhere there was hope. That sometime, adown the future, I should find comfort! ‘Easter’ meant Resurrection—life from death.
Once in an old chapel I had read on the wall, 7 am the Resurrection and the life. He that believeth on me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.’ As for the lilies, they seemed to me, to mean that all that I had loved would be restored to me! I seized on it as a desperate man snatches at a good omen. And that hope never left me. I traveled with my son later on—we wandered far. I never saw your parents again. Our ways diverged some how. But I never forgot. And, Mademoiselle, I have hoped all down the years. Do you understand now my interest in meeting you ?” Constance had listened attentively as this man told his story with all the vividness and abandon of his race. She asked him to go on. “My son grew up. My pride in him was very great. Tutors, travel, interesting social contacts—every ad vantage possible, I gave him. Did you know, Mademoi selle—you undoubtedly know, for my house, my family, is known in Europe and the Americas, I am partly Jewish.” As he said this his chin dropped down upon his breast and he looked out from under his heavy black brows as if at a far-away place that Constance could not see. Was he thinking of his own persecuted people? Constance wondered much! It must have multiplied his sorrows. “But I must tell you of the other Easter to which this is but the prelude,” , he went on. “I had thought about Easter and watched for it in many countries, loving to see the flowers spring from the earth, emblematic as they were to me of the life after death in which I longed to believe. Loving always the lilies best, for the sake of those you gave me long ago, Mademoiselle! But oh, the disap pointment of the celebrations men have instituted for Easter! In Russia it megnt carousals—drinking of vodka! In Rome, high mass—processionals! No comfort or assur ance for me of another life anywhere! Then a grief came to my boy. He discovered one day that he—that he was not a Gentile. I mean he found that as a Jew he was out side the pale. This, from which I had fondly hoped to shield him, occurred several years ago. I explained to him the prejudice, but he could not bear to believe it.1He suf fered with all his intense young soul. ‘Take me away, father! Away from where this has happened! Take me’ —the idea suddenly,came to him—‘Take me to Jerusa lem, the city of David, from which my people come.’ “We went, for his heart was set on it. Youth always hopes to run away from griefs—or situations.” Connie winced a trifle. She herself was a runaway! “We went,” he was saying, “despite the throngs of Easter pilgrims. But here again was disappointment, as in all things earthly, Mademoiselle. The crowds, the shrines, the commercialization of what should have been sacred, the Arabs and their hostility—even then apparent to our people—everywhere was disillusionment! We strolled sadly up on one of the hilltops around the holy city, our ancient Zion, on Easter eve, and actually found a little secluded place where we might watch the clouds and the sunset. The clouds at least were unmarred—untouched. Men could not spoil them. You remember how Byron had the same thought about this sea? Well, a strange thing occurred then, as the sun went down in a great glory. Somewhere near us a man’s voice unexpectedly began to sing. It was a deep voice, and full of a very tender devo tion. “ ‘Jerusalem the golden, with milk and honey blest, Beneath thy contemplation sink heart and voice oppressed: I know not, oh, I know not, what joys await us there, What radiancy of glory, what bliss beyond compare.’
Made with FlippingBook - Online catalogs