An Engagement of Convenience: A NovelZangwill, Louis
General
An Engagement of Convenience: A Novel
Zangwill, Louis
Fiction
Despite the magnificent gravity of his presence, their host turned out
to be an unaffected human being, whom they encouraged to talk of his own
affairs, and who was pleased at their manifest interest in his homely
establishment and in his little family. His wife and he worked together,
and it was her cooking on which they were now being regaled. Their
favourable verdict gave him an almost naive gratification; a radiance
and an illumination broke brilliantly across his features. He told them
the Jewish names of the various dishes, but though they repeated them
sedulously, the strange, charming words would not remain in their heads
a moment. Meanwhile the kitchen was being stimulated to a display of
delicate skill and finesse; the fish was as good, declared Lady Betty,
as anything she had tasted at the Maison d'Or. A few other clients began
to appear--a long-bearded Russian, carefully dressed, accompanied by a
simple, buxom daughter of rosy complexion and deep, serious, aspiring
eyes; then a middle-aged man, with a leonine mane that was dashed with
grey and suggested the poor composer of genius; and finally a spectacled
German in a threadbare cut-away coat, carefully brushed, who suggested
unrequited scholarship. But all these, after the first distinguished bow
and salutation on the part of the host, were left to the attentions of
the assistant; the host himself being magnetised by the unaccustomed
guests with whom he was deep in conversation. But, though he waited on
them perfectly, there was yet conveyed in his bearing such a touch of
distinction and courteous affability that they were sensible as of an
honour that was being bestowed upon them. And that he was no mere
small-souled tradesman was abundantly evident when he brought them a
bottle of claret with the romantic recommendation that it had been grown
on Palestine soil, and that, in its passage from the wine-press to their
table here, it had never left the hands of his compatriots. He handled
the bottle with pride and certainly emotion, and begged them to accept
of it, and to allow him to fill their glasses. They were touched by the
invitation, though they were naturally unwilling to accept such a gift
from a poor man, but he understood their doubts and laughingly explained
that, as he did not possess a wine licence, he could not possibly accept
payment; a piece of reasoning which drew them into the laugh and
disposed of their hesitations.
They made him join them, however, and they drank to the prosperity of
the Palestine colonies, irrelevantly but charmingly coupling the toast
with that of their host and hostess, the children and the restaurant.
The other visitors smiled quietly, and, with conspicuous good breeding,
scarcely turned their eyes towards this convivial table, the Russian
conversing in an undertone with his daughter, and the musician with the
scholar.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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