“This is Professor James, Father,” Ella said, “the man Mr. Sargent wrote to you about.”
Abrams nodded, as if he had already taken his guest’s measure. “A friend of John Sargent’s is bound to be someone we will like,” he said, extending his hand in greeting. “And we are pleased you have chosen to come to us this evening. It happens to be our Sabbath. We are not strict practitioners of our faith, but we hold to its basic rituals, which I hope you will find of interest.”
William murmured that he was more than happy to be included, and Abrams motioned for him to take a seat beside Ella. “Mrs. Abrams will now light the Sabbath candles and say the barucha, the prayer to commemorate the beginning of the day of rest,” Abrams explained for William’s benefit.
“Not that we rest,” muttered Fiona, clearly at odds with her family’s decision to maintain a footing in the Old World. Ella darted her sister a disapproving glance, and Fiona bowed her head.
Esther Abrams moved forward with a large taper, pulled up her shawl so that it draped over her head, lit the candles, and recited the prayer in mumbled Hebrew. William noticed that the twins were kicking each other under the table and that Ella had to pinch one of them to stop.
“We start with a chicken consommé with egg noodles,” said Ella, taking over the narration from her father and motioning to the maid to bring the soup. “I hope you like chicken consommé.”
William said he did, though he found he had little appetite. The atmosphere around the table was not serene. A good deal of fighting was going on between the twins, and a dispute had erupted between Fiona and her father over her curfew that evening.
“You will be home by ten,” pronounced Asher Abrams. “You are only sixteen, and this is London, where Professor James will tell you that it is not wise for young ladies to be gallivanting late at night.”
“I won’t be gallivanting,” protested Fiona petulantly. “I will be with Billy Sassoon.”
“So much the worse,” said Asher. “Boys of that type are entirely untrustworthy.”
“Billy’s mother was Jewish,” protested Fiona.
“Yes, but she has forgotten it. We have not.”
Fiona pouted, obviously wishing that they had.
“It is very difficult, Professor James, to raise a child in our circumstances. I want my children to be English, but I do not want them to forget their ancestors. Can you understand that?”
William said that he did. There had been a similar kind of balancing act in his own home, where the intellectual aspirations of his father had rubbed up against the more mundane social realities of their wealth and position. The result of this dual pressure had not been entirely successful, if judged by the condition of his younger siblings, not to mention certain facets of his own mental health.
A brisket with apricots and crisply fried potatoes had made an appearance, along with greens and haricots verts. The food was served in the American style, he noted, which might well be the Jewish style. Ella had passed him the potatoes, and his hand had brushed hers; his skin seemed to burn at the touch. The idea was ridiculous, yet he found himself unable to turn his head to look at her.
Mrs. Abrams, whose presence had been inconspicuous, suddenly spoke. “Do you have a family, Professor James?” she queried.
William noticed what he sensed from the portrait—that she had, beneath her timidity, something of the same shrewd perspicuity as her husband.
“I do,” said William, looking down at his plate as he spoke. “I have three children. A fourth was lost to us three years ago. Otherwise, a healthy brood, I’m pleased to say, like yours.”
“And your wife joins you here?”
“No,” said William, wondering if he was speaking with more emphasis than the question demanded. “She is at home with the children. Our youngest is barely two and therefore in need of her care.”
A bread pudding arrived, followed by coffee and liqueur. Alfred, who had pushed away his food and leaned back in his chair, announced that he wanted his father to contact a dealer in Paris on his behalf.
“You can contact him yourself,” said Abrams irritably.
“But he won’t listen to me,” retorted Alfred.
“He’ll listen if he thinks you have talent.”
Alfred’s face hardened. “That’s hogwash.” He spoke scornfully. “Everyone knows that success in the art world is about money. Get someone rich and powerful to back you, and everyone concludes you’re a genius.”
“I beg to differ with you,” said Abrams. “Success as an artist requires talent and work.”
“And I beg to differ with you,” mimicked Alfred. “What do you know about art? You know how to buy and sell things, I admit. You know what will bring a good price and how to wrangle it from your clients. But you wouldn’t understand a work of originality and vision that has not acquired a niche in your marketplace. So don’t start giving me lectures on my career. If you want to help, contact your friends on my behalf. If not, keep quiet. I don’t need your philistine advice.”
There was something so harshly denigrating in this speech that even the formidable Asher Abrams seemed cowed. “I’ll make some calls,” he muttered, at which Alfred rose abruptly from the table, kissed his mother perfunctorily on the cheek, and left the room.
Watching this embarrassing scene, William was reminded of how cruel life inside a family could be. Alfred Abrams might seem, to the untutored observer, to be spoiled and ungrateful, but he knew how a formidable father could sap the manhood and confidence from a sensitive son. The scene disturbed him, because he knew that blame could not be neatly apportioned. Both parties had suffered, and both had inflicted injury.
After Alfred left, the twins clattered to be excused, and Fiona, after some additional quarreling about her curfew, also took her leave. Mrs. Abrams began supervising the clearing of the plates, and Abrams was diverted by the entry of a bespectacled young man who seemed to be relaying information regarding the framing of some paintings that he was putting up for sale. Business did not wait, apparently even for the Sabbath.
In the midst of all this activity, William felt he should turn to Ella and make conversation. It was something he profoundly wanted to do, yet he had avoided turning his head to look at her during dinner. Her beauty and intelligence unnerved him and made him feel like he ought to say something important or brilliant. Looking at her now, however, he saw that the sharp, inquiring expression that had infused her features earlier in the evening had been replaced by a soft, dreamy look. He guessed that she had gone off into a reverie during her father’s unpleasant exchange with her brother, and she had not yet returned from her escapist dream. The expression made her look distant but also vulnerable, and he felt more emboldened to address her. “Do you study philosophy?” He hit on this as a way to begin, since she had spoken so knowledgeably about his work earlier in the evening.
She met his eyes, and he felt her seriously considering her reply.
“I don’t know that I study,” she finally said, “but I read.”
“Isn’t it the same thing?”
“I don’t think so. Study is a concentrated activity in which the subject matter is allowed to take precedence over everything else. I don’t have the luxury of that. I spend most of my time in more practical occupations.” She motioned vaguely to the room around her. Whether she was referring to household management or to the paintings on the walls was not clear.