Chapter V: The Friedbergs of Maida Vale

Mrs. Friedberg possessed one of the kindest hearts in the world, and when she heard that Celia Franks, whose father was a distant relative of her own, intended coming to London, she at once offered the girl a temporary home, so that she should not have to go and live amongst strangers. Her daughters demurred just a little when the plan was first suggested, for the prospect of having another girl about the house was not particularly pleasing to them; but their mother, taking into consideration that a good many bills in connection with Adeline’s wedding were as yet unpaid, and that Mr. Karne’s terms were sufficiently liberal to enable her to settle at least some of them, overruled their numerous objections, and wrote off to Durlston to make all arrangements.

They were quite delighted with Celia when she came. She was so different to what they had imagined her to be, and her sweet face and gentle manners quite won their hearts. They did all they could to put her at her ease, and very soon came to look upon her as one of the family; but Celia was shy and reserved at first, and it took her some time to become accustomed to the novelty of her surroundings.

Herbert Karne brought her to town, and stayed for a few days in order to go with her to the entrance examination at the Academy. The principal was delighted with her voice, and arranged for her to go to M. Emil Lambert, the eminent professor of singing. She was also to be taught elocution, pianoforte, harmony, and counterpoint, and was to attend the various classes and lectures in connection with the Academy curriculum. Herbert was glad that her time would be so fully occupied, for she would have no opportunity for feeling the pain of separation.

“You will be a musician to your finger tips by the time you have finished studying,” he said, as they came away.

Mrs. Friedberg gave Celia a sitting-room at the top of the house, where she could practise without the least fear of being disturbed. It was light and cheerful, and looked out upon the front of the road. Celia liked to sit by the window and watch the omnibuses pass; and she would speculate as to where all the passengers were going. The life and movement in the streets quite fascinated her: it was so entirely different from the quiet seclusion of the Towers.

When Herbert had gone, and her first attack of homesickness had been overcome, the girl amused herself by unpacking and arranging some of the little treasures she had brought from Durlston. The room looked more homelike when her cuckoo-clock was on the mantelpiece, and her own little knick-knacks were arranged on the sideboard. Then there were her numerous books and music, which, with their familiar bindings, greeted her like old friends as she sorted and put them in their places.

The piano had been placed against the wall, but Celia had it moved into the centre of the room; and draped the back of it with stiff ivory silk, on the centre of which was a beautiful representation of St. Cecilia at the organ, the handiwork of her brother.

The appearance of the room was quite transformed by the time she had finished, and she called Lottie Friedberg up to see the changes she had made. A large painting of Herbert Karne, done by himself, rested on an easel of carved oak, and close by was a panel portrait, in the Rembrandt style, of Lady Marjorie Stonor in evening dress. Celia had instinctively placed these two in close proximity to each other, though she did not know why she had done so. There were other pictures and paintings in evidence as well, and Lottie examined them all with keen interest.

“That’s rather a nice-looking fellow,” she observed, pausing before a cabinet photograph in a silver frame; “he looks like an actor, and his eyes are just a wee bit like George Alexander’s, don’t you think so?”

Celia smiled. “I don’t know Mr. Alexander, so I can’t say,” she returned. “But this gentleman does not belong to the dramatic profession. He is a doctor--a great friend of my brother’s.”

“I suppose you met a good many Christian johnnies in Durlston, didn’t you?” queried Lottie, as she turned over the pages of an autograph album. “We don’t see many here. Ma doesn’t like them, because, as they are no good for matrimonial purposes, she thinks it is not much use knowing them. There’s one lives next door, Harold Brooke, and we sometimes meet him at the Earls Court Exhibition with some more fellows. Maud and I got stuck on the big wheel with them once, for more than an hour, and Ma was down below shouting up to us, and looking as wild as can be. Oh, it was such a lark, I can tell you! I must introduce you to the Brookes. Harold is rather good fun, and not so insipid as most _goyeshka_[2] fellows, but he’s got two stuck-up sisters, and they always pass us by with their noses in the air--because we happen to be Jews, I suppose. They have a cousin staying with them, Enid Wilton, who is rather a nice girl. She is studying music at the Academy, too, so I expect you will meet her there.”

She sat down at the piano, and began to strum a popular ditty. Lottie always made it a rule to learn the latest song directly it came out; she would have considered it quite a crime to have played anything belonging to one of last season’s comic operas.

Celia watched her as she played. She was a well-built girl of eighteen, with very dark hair and eyes, a slightly aquiline nose, and full red lips. Her forehead was low, and not particularly intelligent, and her mouth indicated sensuality. She wore a number of bangles at her wrists, which jingled and knocked against the keyboard as she played. The jingle quite irritated Celia, and she was not sorry when the gong sounded somewhere in the lower regions for supper, and Lottie closed the piano with a bang.

The two girls went downstairs arm-in-arm. Lottie seemed inclined to be very friendly, and showed her affection in a somewhat demonstrative manner.

As they were entering the dining-room, Mr. Friedberg passed in just before them, rubbing his hands dry from his ceremonial ablutions, and mumbling some prayers as he did so. Then he took some bread and dipped it in salt, whilst he said the Hebrew grace, after which he took his seat at the supper table. He was a short thick-set man with a grey beard; and he habitually wore a black velvet skull-cap.

The other members of the family sat down with a great deal of chatter, and minus the grace. Mrs. Friedberg immediately collared the eldest boy, Montie, and ungently pushed him out of the room.

“Go upstairs and wash your hands, you lazy young jackanapes!” she called out indignantly. “And take Victor with you, and ask Mary for a clean collar. How dare you come to table looking like chimney-sweeps! I am quite ashamed of them,” she added, turning to Celia, apologetically. “They give me more trouble than all the girls put together.”

She took her place at the head of the table, and began to carve some smoked beef; whilst Maud, her eldest unmarried daughter, who sat at the other end, served the boys to liberal helpings of cold fried fish.

There was very little resemblance between Maud and her mother, for Mrs. Friedberg was stout and florid, with prominent cheek-bones and a loud high-pitched voice. Maud, on the contrary, was thin, and of insignificant appearance. Her eyebrows receded from her eyes, and made her look as if she had once been surprised and had never quite recovered from it; and she was in the habit of going about with her mouth open.

Dinah, the youngest girl, was the prettiest of the bunch; for her eyes were large and expressive, and she could smile very naïvely on occasion. She had long cork-screw curls, which reached almost to her waist and were tied by a piece of ribbon. These curls were the plague of her life, for the boys could never resist the temptation to pull them whenever they approached her vicinity, and a quarrel nearly always ensued.

Celia sat between Victor and Lottie, much to the former’s discomfort, for he was shy and awkward in the presence of a stranger. Mrs. Friedberg watched him with the eyes of a ferret, and worried him with so many “don’ts” that the poor boy became quite flustered, and accidentally upset a glass of claret over Celia’s dress. His mother was furious, and broke into a tirade of wrath, though Celia assured her that her skirt was an old one, and that it was not of the slightest consequence. Victor subsided under the table, and boohooed lustily; and although Celia felt very sorry for him, she did not like to interfere.

She found the social amenities of family life a little bit trying at first, for she was so unused to anything of the sort. The Friedbergs as a family possessed exuberant spirits, and did not mind telling each other home-truths, which had the effect of making Celia feel exceedingly uncomfortable. She often thought they were quarrelling, when in reality they were only indulging in affectionate banter, but there had never been anything of the kind between her half-brother and herself, and she was not able to understand it.

As the meal progressed, she noticed that each piece of bread and butter which she transferred to her own plate, Lottie immediately turned over, with the buttered side downwards. Celia was quite mystified, until Lottie told her the reason after supper, when they were out for a stroll in the garden.

“You must have thought it very rude of me to touch your bread,” she said laughingly. “But I was so anxious to prevent Pa from seeing the butter. Of course you can do as you like, and have butter with meat if you want it; but Pa is so particular, and it would have upset him dreadfully if he had noticed it.”

Celia was genuinely surprised. “How stupid of me!” she exclaimed, quite vexed with herself. “It never occurred to me to consider that at all. Herbert and I do not observe the Jewish dietary and ceremonial laws, so you must excuse any blunders I may make.”

“But surely you keep a Jewish house, don’t you?” asked Di, looking quite shocked. “I suppose you have _kosher_[3] food, and all that; though I should think it must be rather difficult to procure in a little place like Durlston?”

Celia shook her head. “No, we don’t keep what you call a Jewish house,” she answered frankly, “although we could do so if we wished, for there is a Jewish provision shop in Durlston, where all the people at Mendel’s factory buy their things. Whenever we give an entertainment for the factory people, we always provide _kosher_ food for them, otherwise they wouldn’t come; but we never trouble about it for ourselves. You see, Herbert does not believe in it,” she added, almost apologetically. “And he is so sincere, that he would not keep it up simply for old association’s sake.”

Di and Lottie exchanged glances. They began to foresee trouble; for unless Celia intended to conform to their customs, there would be constant dissension in the house. They knew their father so well. He was an orthodox Jew of the old school, and had no patience with the new-fashioned way of making religion fit in with the usages of modern Jewish society. His wife and children, however, held entirely different ideas; and in order to satisfy him as to their vigilance in religious duties, they were obliged to have recourse to all kinds of petty deceits. They knew exactly how far they could bamboozle him without running the risk of detection; for woe betide any member of the family whom Mr. Friedberg found disregarding some item of the law. Lottie wondered what course her father would adopt where Celia was concerned. He certainly had no right to interfere with her, so long as she did not offend his religious susceptibilities in any way; but, in the matter of ceremonial religion, he was so arbitrary that he would most probably take it upon himself to act as her mentor. She deemed it advisable to give Celia a few hints about her father’s rigid surveillance, and how best to avoid it; but Dinah interposed, and skilfully changed the subject, for she thought that her sister was telling a little more than was necessary.

They had said enough between them, however, to set Celia thinking; and by the time she retired to rest that night, she had made up her mind, that neither Mr. Friedberg nor any one else should ever become the keeper of her conscience.