The Novelist.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 319, 23 March 1878, Page 4

The Novelist.

SOLOMON ISAACS, A CHRISTMAS STORY. By B. L. Fakjko>\

OHAi’TiiK Xlll.—Solomon Isaacs changes his Name. Leon read the letter three or four times. All was clear to him now, and he understood why his father had not informed him that he was no longer poor, and why his mother was so agitated when he mentioned Rachel’s name. He was not long making up his mind as to the course he should pursue, and with as much coolness as he could bring to his aid he dressed himself, breakfasted, and then went to the room in which his mother and father were sitting. He found them looking admiringly at some visiting-cards, which had been delivered within the last five minutes. There were three small packages, and the names inscribed upon them were— Mb. Slomon Izabd. Mbs. Sloman Izabd. Mb. Leon Izabd. Before Leon could utter a word his father thrust one of the packets into his hand, and said, “ There, Leon, that yours.” Leon read the name aloud : “ Mr. Leon Izard. "Who is he ?” “ You, Leon, you !” answered his father, with a triumphant air. “ Me !” “ And this is me : “ Mr. Slomon Izard.” And this is mother : “ Mrs. Slomon Izard.” “ I don’t understand it,” said Leou very much mystified. “ Not understand it !” exclaimed Solomon Isaacs. “ It’s as clear as mud. They all do it, every one of ’em —so the lawyer told me—directly they gets rich. He’s done the business for lots of ’em ’isself. He put a c to Brown, and made him Brown-e ; and he took the i out of Smith, and put in a j so that no one could pronounce it—-that was clever, Leon, very clever ! and he made a Marsh out of Moses ; and put a cle before Robinson, and made him L>e Robinson ; and he took such a lot of nasty letters out of Izzy Jacob’s name that his own father didn’t know it ! It costs money, Leon, it cost money ; it’s done by Act of Parleyment. I don’t understand much about it, but the lawyer said it was all right.” “ Oh,” said Leon, a light breaking upon him, “ then you’ve altered your name ? ” “ Our name, Leon, our name !” interrupted his father. “ And Izard stands for Isaacs, and Slomon for Solomon ?” “Yes, that’s it, that’s it. Mr. Slomon Izard ! Sounds grand, don’t it ! and the lawyer says I can be a baron if I like ; he can do it for a ’undred pound. Baron Slomon Izard ! ’Ow would that sound, eh ? Baroness Siomon Izard ! ’Ow do you like that, Milly ? If anybody calls me Solly Ilcey now, I’ll ’ave the lore of ’im ! The lawyer says I can, and I will. So they’d better look out with their imperence.” “ I think the lawyer is mistaken,” said Leon dryly ; and then, after a pause, “ What on earth made you do such a foolish thing ?” “ Leon,” cried Solomon Isaacs, “you’re out of your mind. It’s the fashionable thing ! They all do it.” “ Solomon Isaacs : Slomon Izard,” said Leon in a musing tone, holding up his hands, palms upward, and, as it were, weighing the names. “ Isaac was a prince in Israel, and Solomon was our wisest king.” “ But they didn’t call him King Solly !” interposed Solomon Isaacs eagerly. “ There’s no wisdom in Solly. And as for Isaac—-do you think ’i3 own wife dared to call ’im Ilcey V”

“ I don’t know,” replied Leon ; “ what I do know is that I am quite satisfied with my name. Leon Isaacs is good enough for me.”

“ But there’s the cards, Leon, there’s the cards!” implored Solomon Isaacs. “You won’t waste the cards ! Think of the expense! and see ’ow beautiful they look ! You’ll use the cards now they’re printed—say you’ll use the cards, like a good boy ! ’ “Not I, father. Izard ! Izard ! What in the world is the real meaning of Izard ?” He ran out of the room, and returned with a dictionary in his hand. “ Why, father,” he said, “ do you know what an izard is ?” “ I’m one,” said Solomon Isaacs, a look of alarm spreading over his features. “ Then you’re a goat—a foolish goat ?” “A goat ! a foolish goat !” groaned Solomon Isaacs, falling back on his wife, and almost upsetting her.

“ Yes, a foolish wild goat. Here it is in the dictionary.”

It stood in the dictionary, “ a wild goat.” Leon added “foolish” out of malice ; he was ashamed of his father’s act. For a moment or two Solomon Isaacs was speechless with indignation. Then he gasped, “ I’ll ’ave the lore of ’im ! he’s swindled me ! A goat ! I’ll ruin ’im ! I’ll—l’ll ” “It serves you right,” said Leon. “You can do as you please, of course ; I intend to stick to Isaacs. I’m not ashamed of the name, and I hope I shall never do anything to shame it. If anybody asks me for a person of the name of Izard, I shall declare I know nothing of him.”

“But what am I to do ?” inquired Solomon Isaacs, with a helpless look. “ I can’t be Izard and Isaacs too ; and the lawyer told me I’m Izard now, by Act of Parleyment !” “ All your letters will go wrong, father. There’ll be a regular confusion.” Solomon Isaacs groaned. “ You’ll be summoned twice over if you dispute a debt,” said Leon, secretly enjoying his father’s discomfiture, “ once in the name of Izard, and then in the name of Isaacs. I think you have made a mistake. You had best go to the lawyer, and consult him about it.” Solomon Isaacs threw his hat on the back of his head, and was about to rush out of the room, when Leon stopped him,

“ That business will wait, father. I have something here that must be attended to at once.” “ What is it, Leon ?” “ I have received a letter from Rachel, and I want to talk to you about it.” Solomon Isaacs cooled down immediately. This truly was important business, and must be attended to without delay. “ Shall I read the letter, father ?” “ Yes, Leon, read it ; there’s no ’arm in that.” Leon read the letter carefully, and with feeling. Mrs. Isaacs listened to it with tears in her eyes ; her heart hied for the poor girl. Solomon Isaacs listened to it with gloating satisfaction. His purpose was accomplished, and he had saved his fifty pounds. “Keep that letter !” he cried ; “keep that letter, Leon ! It’s worth a thousand pounds ! The girl’s a fool !” “ Don’t call Rachel hard names, father. I intend to keep the letter.” “That’s right, my boy, that’s right. I went there for your good, Leon, to prevent a breach of promise case.” “ Was anything said about such a thing, then ? asked Leon. “ No ; but it would sure to come. You’re all right now. She can never bring an action agin you as long as you’ve got that paper ! Why, there’s not another girl in London would write such a letter !” “ I don’t believe there is, father. I wouldn’t part with it for five hundred pounds.” “ Bravo, Lean, bravo !” “ I will keep it as a testimony ” “ Yes,” interrupted Solomon Isaacs, “ that’s it. As a testimony—as a testimony !” “ As a testimony—though I required none—of the goodness and nobleness of the girl I intend to make my Avife, if she will have me !” “ Fh ?” cried Solomon Isaacs, with a blank look of amazement. “ I shall go to her at once, and shall tell her that you have done a cruel and unwarrantable thing ; and I shall beg her pardon and her father’s pardon for you.” “ Leon,” cried Solomon Isaacs, in despaii-, “ are you a fool ?” “ Neither fool nor rogue, I hope,” was the answer somewhat sadly spoken. “Do you forgit what I’ve done for you ?” said Solomon Isaacs, almost sobbing with grief and vexation. “ Do you forgit the eddycation I give you so that you might be a gentleman '{” “No, father, I do not forget it—l never can forget it. I shall ever be grateful to you for having given me an education which helps perhaps to teach me my duty now.” “ What,” screamed Solomon Isaacs. “Is it because I sent you to the Free School, aud gave you an eddyeation, instead of sending you into the streets to ’awk for a living, that you’re a-going to throw us over now—that you’re agoing to act contrairy to your father’s wishes?” “ It may be so ; I cannot tell. I have your blood in me, aud something of your nature ; if I had grown up ignorant, I might perhaps have acted as you wish. But I am grateful that I can see things in a better light.” Solomon Isaacs dashed his fist upon the table and cried iD a voice trembling with passion, “ Damn eddyeation !” “ Bless education !” cried Leon warmly. “ Thank God, it is now within the reach of every poor boy in the land ! Good-morning, father. A kiss for you, mother ! I’m off to see Rachel !” He dashed out of the room. Solomon Isaacs ran after his son, with some dim notion in his mind of laying violent hands upon him ; but by the time he reached the street-door Leon was at the bottom of the street. Returning to the sitting-room, Solomon Isaacs finned about for some time, and condescended to give his wife a highly inflamed account of his visit to Moses Levy. “ I went there for’is good, Milly,” he said at the conclusion of his fanciful narration “ with money in my pocket, and he abused me like a pickpocket. * Mo Levy,’ I said to ’im, as I wiped my shoes on ’is mat— I did, Milly ; I wiped the dirt off my shoes afore I left ’is ’ouse ; I wouldn’t take a bit of it away with me—‘ Mo Levy,’ I said, ‘ never you take the liberty of opening your lips to me agin.’ I ’ad to come away quick, or I should ’ave done ’im a mischief ; I didn’t want to soil my ’ands with touching of ’im. ‘ Arter what you’ve said to me this night,’ I said, 1 aud arter what you’ve said agiu Mr-s. Isaacs, I wouldn’t bemean myself by walking on the same side of the street with you.’ Them was my last words to ’im, my last words.” “ What did he say agin me ?” mooned Mrs. Isaacs, her heart palpitating with distress. “ What could Mo Levy ’ave to say agin me ?” “ It’d blister my tongue to tell you,” replied Solomon Isaacs ; “ I wouldn’t be so low as to repeat it ! There was nothing bad enough for you.” “ O Ikey !” Solomon Isaacs gave a violent jump. He required something more tangible than mere fancies to vent his rage upon, and his wife had supplied it. “ Do you want to drive me distracted with your ‘ O Ikey’ !” he snarled. “ Confound your ‘ O Ikey !’ What do you mean by throwing dirt in my face ? If ever you ‘ O Ikey !’ me agin, I won’t live in the same house with you ! Mind that !” Then he also dashed out of the room—oddly enough, with an unconscious imitation of Leon’s it anner a few minutes previously—somewhat comforted by the distress into which he had thrown his wife. Chapter XlV.—Mrs. Isaac's Dreams that Her Husband has Sold Himself to the •. Mrs. Isaacs did not see her lord and master again until the evening. In the meantime she received a short note from Leon, in which he said he had important business to attend to, and would not be home until very late, certainly not until past midnight. Solomon Isaacs upon hia x’eturn asked his wife after

Leon, and she gave him the message. “ Very well.” said he ; “ then we’ll go to the theaytre to-night, aud show ’im that we can do without ’im.” If that was really his aim, it was not likely to be to judge from his behavior. The hour that intervened until it was time to go to the theatre he agreeably filled up by reopening the subject of his visit to Moses Levy, aud giviug his comments thereon. Mrs. Isaacs did nothing but sit aud wring her hands in silence. Her heart was heavy with grief at these dreadful proceedings—at Leon’s absence from home, at the breach between herself and the friends she loved best in the Avorld, at the severance of all the ties which made life sweet to her. All lier strength was gone, aud she felt as though she would like to die. Her hot tears fell upon the silk dress she had put on for the theatre that night. Was it for this they had grown rich ? Was money to poison her days, and bring discord into her life ? Was it not only to rob her of her old friends, but of her child’s and husband’s love ? Since she and her husband had lived in their grand house, scarcely one affectionate word had passed between them. He was a changed man ; his mind was entirely occupied with the cares of money. The more he had, the more he wanted, the more he grasped at. It seemed to her at times that he was going out of his mind. He was speculating heavily, often wildly, on the Stock Exchange, and almost every word lie uttered had reference to the rising and falling of stocks and shares. “ Why shouldn’t I be as rich as the Rothschilds ?” he said to her more than once ; “ I know as much as they do.” But he was deficient in heroic qualities ; he was not equal to either fortune. When the market went against him, he suffered agonies, talking in his sleep, and getting up at all hours of the night ; when the securities he held were rising in value, he paced the room in transports of delight, and so comported himself that Mrs. Isaacs was afraid of him. His manner terrified her ; she could neither suffer with him in his losses, nor rejoice with him in his gains. When he was an old-elo’ man, she sympathised with him in his dealings ; she did so no longer. If her experiences daring the past few months were a foretaste of what was to come her happiness in life was gone. Humbly born, she was lmjipy and contented to move among those of her own degree. When she was poor the gleams of sunshine in her life were neither few nor far between, and many simple pleasures were ready to her hand, to enjoy in .simple ways. How different everything was now ! Parted from her friends, deprived of love, her days were days of misery. How she wished she were back in Spitalfields, dressed in her cotton gown, working and cooking, and exchanging the friendly word and smile with old acquaintances whom she had known from childhood ! How she envied the poor people there, and the life they led ? “ I must have done something very wicked when I was a gi:l,” she thought, “ for sich a misfortune as this to come upon me.” This was the substance of her musings as she sat waiting for her husband, who was dressing for the theatre. They went in state, in their own carriage, with their own coachman on the box, and their own footman beside him to open and shut the door for them.

“ Don’t look so glum, Milly,” Solomon Isaacs whispered to her as they entered the theatre ; “ look lively, or everybody’ll be staring at you.” She tried to look lively, and failed dismally. She was dismayed by the fuss and ceremony of their entrance ; she was not allowed to sit in her bonnet, and the attendants worried her into complete bewilderment with their officious attentions. Such a thing as enjoyment under these circumstances was out of the question. The people did stare at her—stared at her when she spoke, stared at her husband when he made comments on the company (it must be confessed they both spoke in very loud voices), cestscornful glances at them, and shrugged their shoulders, as much as to say, “ How on earth have these vulgar creatures found their way in here ?” Supremely unconscious of the disdain which he was regarded, and interpreting the notice he attracted into a species of adulation of the diamonds in his shirt and on his fingers, Solomon Isaacs lolled back in his chair, pat up his feet, to the disgust of the lady before him, and patronised the performers and the audience in a lordly way. Ignorant as she was, Mrs. Isaacs understood what was going on around them, and was ready to cry with gi’ief and vexation. The comedy that was being played caused peals of laughter to proceed from all parts of the theatre, but, from the rise to the fall of the curtain, not a smile crossed Mrs. Isaacs’ lips. How miserable she was ! How comfortable she used to be when she sat iu the pit or the gallery, wagging her head, and holding her sides with laughter !. In those times she was not too proud to take a packet of sandwiches with her, to stuff her pockets with oranges, and to eat them with enjoyment in the very face of the British public. Ah ! those were the happy nights ! It was a real pleasure to go to a theatre then—anticipating the treat for a week before, and talking of it for weeks afterwards. Then she would clap her hands till they were red, and call for the performers by their familiar names ; now she dared not move a finger. “ Ices and refreshments !” said a spruce attendant, iu a dulcet voice, between the acts ; “ will the lady take an ice, sir ?” “Yes, yes,” said Solomon Isaacs, in a loud tone ; he would show the people about him that he had money to spend. “Yes, yes. Take a ice, Milly.” She took one gingerly, and spilt some of it over her dress, as she listened to the attendants crying out in the pit, “ Oranges ! Lemonade ! Bottled ale or stout !” That is where she would like to be sitting, not in the stalls, surrounded by persons who put up their eyeglasses at her. Mr. Isaacs also took an ice, and devoured every particle of it. He did not relish paying a shilling each for them, but he comforted himself with the reflection that he was doing the fashionable thing in a fashionable way.

On the drive home, not a word was spoken. Of the footman who opened the door for them

Solomon Isaacs asked if his son had come in, and being answered in the negative, walked straight up-stairs to bed, without looking at his wife. She, poor soul, went into the grand drawing-room, which, iu accordance with her husband’s instructions, had been lighted up for Leon’s behoof, and s?.t down and thought over the experiences she had passed through since her departure from Spitaifields. During her sad musings, an odd reminiscence intruded itself upon her, connected with her first visit to a theatre in the days of her childhood. On that memorable occasion she had seen a melodrama, the principal character in which had sold himself to the devil. The incidents which led to the unholy barter, with the figures of the two personages whom it chiefly concerned, had formed themselves into an abiding remembrance, conveying hitherto no terror to Mrs. Isaacs’ mind, but presenting itself in a somewhat agreeable light, as a pleasant memory of childhood. But in the recalling of the reminiscence at this period of her life, its aspect was entirely changed. The man in the melodrama had sold his soul for money—had betrayed an innocent girl, and brought her to shame—and, in the end, had paid the forfeit of his bond by a descent into the regions of everlasting fire.

The room in. which Mrs. Isaacs sat aud brooded over her unhappy lot was gaudily furnished and decorated. In point of fact, there was a great deal of gilt about it, yellow being the color approximating most nearly to Solomon Isaacs’ conception of the highest style of art. In the centre of the mantle-piece, flanked with gilt ornaments, stood a large gilt clock, with a gilt representative of old Father Time pointing a gilt forefinger to the gilt figures on the dial, with a gesture that indicated, “ Time flies, but I (gilt) go on for ever.” Above the dial hovering within a species of cupola, was the figure of aflying angel, somewhat out of harmony with the prevailing tone, inasmuch as its robes and wings were fashioned of shining silver. But every other object in tlieroom obstrusively proclaimed Solomon Isaacs’ leading idea. The legs and backs of the chairs were gilt, the knobs and cornices of the clieffonier were gilt, the chandelier was gilt, and the lustres were wrapped in yellow gauze ; the gas (London gas) burnt with a yellow flame. With this uniform glare in her eyes, and with silence all around her, Mrs. Isaacs sobbed and dozed. The knobs and cornices of the chiffonier gradually resolve themselves into faces, stony and immovable at first, hut p esent imbued with life. Their features move aud twitch into innumerable forms of expression ; the faces multiply with amazing rapidity ; and every one of the thousands of eyes are directed towards Mrs. Isaacs. Whichever way she turns, the eyes follow her. She looks up to the ceiling, and grotesque forms peer upon her from within the folds of the yellow gauze ; she looks down upon the carpet and grotesque images creep about her feet. And now a painful idea impresses itself upon her. It is that her gaze possesses the magic gift of transmuting everything into gold—everything with the exception of the figure of the angel of shining silver which floats above the image of old Father Time. On. the Avail hang tAvo pictures, representing scenes of rural happiness ; and as Mrs. Isaacs turns toAvards them, the floAvers assume a golden hue, the fields become golden fields, the Avater golden Avater. The Avails and ceiling of the apartment change to gold, and the transformation continues until the room and everything it contains glitter with the precious metal. This fatal gift inexpressibly distresses her, and she experiences a feeling of relief Avheii the angel of shining silver floats from the cupola and stands in radiant Avliiteness before her. It does not surprise her that, in its flight, it has assumed the proportions of a human form. “This Avomen’s husband,” says the angel, “where is he ?” Witli one voice, which does not rise above a Avhisper, the grotesque figures in the room reply, “ Asleep,' and dreaming.” The angel floats through the golden Avails, and instantaneously reappears, bearing in his arms the form of Solomon Isaacs, asleep. The angel places the man on the ground, Avhere he lies surrounded by a circle of Aveird and eager faces. FolloAving the indication of their fingers, Mrs. Isaacs observes that the space occupied by her husband has assumed the shape of a pit, filled Avith innumerable coins of gold. Rolling in liis golden grave, the sleeping man clutches at the treasure, and, holding his hands above his head, allows the precious pieces to fall through his fingers in a glittering slioA\ r er. “ Hold your hands,” says the angel, “ hold you hands and ans Aver me. Is this gold Avhich fills your soul Avith joy more precious to you than aught else in the Avorld ?” “ More precious than all,” replies the sleeping man, holding his empty hands above his head. “ More precious than a good name ?” “More precious than happiness ?” “ It is happiness.” “ More precious than lo\’e ?” “It is love.” “ More precious than SAveet memories ?” A disdainful smile hovers about the lips of the sleeping man as he strives to release his hands from the spiritual thraldom Avhich holds them fast. “ Not yet,” says the angel. “ You have a son.” “ I have.” “ Over Avhose heart you Avould throw the glittering spell Avhich guides your ways.” “ Leon is Avise.” “You had, in years gone by, another child, who died when you Avere poor.” “ I had another child. Who is that I hear crying ?” “ Your Avife. You sorrowed Avhen that child Avas taken from you.” “ Well ?” “ Why, then, did you smile Avhen I asked if gold was better than sweet memories ?" There is a moments pause before the sleeping man replies : “ That was long ago. I live in to-day. All my life I have worked for to-day.”

“ It is not possible,” says the angel, turning from the sleeper, “ that this man can understand the true meaning of his words. Human, he must possess humanity. There must be within him some hidden spring whose released waters would sweep from his soul his monstrous creed.” As he speaks, the air becomes fragant with the perfume of flowers, and the ground about his feet is strewn with roses and lilies. Stooping, he gathers the loveliest of these, and fills the hands of the sleeping man with flowers. His touch transforms them and robs them of their beauty ; they slip through his fingers to the ground, with a dull metallic sound. Then it is that Mrs. Isaacs sees lying among the flowers at the angel’s feet the babe that was taken from her in the early days of their married life. With a yearning motion she stretches forth her arms to clasp it to her bosom, and sobs to find that it is beyond her reach. With infinite compassion the angel raises the body of the dead child, and places it in the sleeper’s uplifted hands. Pallid and sweet it lies—for a moment only : its form withers into yellow dust, which falls in a shower upon the golden grave. “ I have no power over him,” says the angel sadly. “ What fancies are stirring within this man’s brain that render him dead to life s most sacred teachings ?” A startling change takes place in the scene, and, for a moment only, Mrs. Isaacs beholds the fantasy of Solomon Isaacs’ dream—a vision within a vision. It presents itself in the shape of a tableau from the melodrama she witnessed on the occasion of her first visit to a theatre, when she was a girl. Every detail is reproduced with faithful exactness, the only point of difference being that, in the face of the principal character who is about to enter into an unholy compact with the Evil One, Mrs. Isaacs recognises the face of her husband. “ Don’t do it ! don’t do it !” she screams, as this vision within a vision is fading from her sight and, falling on her knees, she clasps the angel’s robes. “ Save him ! He doesn t know the meaning of it. He wasn’t always so. Don’t let him do it ! When we were first married “ Why, mother!” the angel replies, in the voice of her son Eeon. “ What s the matter with you ? have you got the nightmare ?” She open’s her eyes. Eeon stands before her, looking down ivpou her in wonder. The angel in shining silver is in its proper place, within the cupola, hanging over the figure of old Father Time. There is no change in the pictures on the wall, nor is there a grinning face to be seen. Everything in the room is a"> it was before she fell asleep. Grateful as she is to discover she has been dreaming, All's. Isaacs cannot for a little while recover from her agitation. “ O Eeon,” she whispers, as he assists her to rise, “I dreamt that your father was selling himself to the devil !”

“I wouldn’t tell him,” says Leon, in a cheerful tone. “ You’ve eaten something that has disagreed with you.” “ I took a ice at the theayter to-night, Leon,” says Mrs. Isaacs, panting. “It must have beeu that, then,” says Leon with a smile. “ Extremes meet. Ice is the last thing you’d expect to find in the old gentleman’s quarter’s Come, mother, it’s time to get to bed. It’s nearly one in the morning.”