Capitalists and financiers -- Fiction; Great Britain -- Politics and government -- Fiction; Political fiction
In his eyes the governors of colonies, the wives of Viceroys, the
holders of Egyptian bonds, the mortgagees of Irish lands, half the
Russian patriots, and all the brave spokesmen of Hungary, were swept
into the universal net of his mania.
It got worse with every passing year: there were Jews at Oxford, and at
Cambridge, and at Trinity College, Dublin; the Jews overran India; they
controlled the _Neue Frie Presse_ of Vienna, the _Tribuna_ of Rome, the
_Matin_ of Paris, and for all I know, the _Freeman's Journal_ in Dublin.
The disease advanced with his advancing age; soon all the great family
of Arnold were Jews; half the English aristocracy had Jewish blood; for
a little he would have accused the Pope of Rome or the Royal Family
itself; and I need hardly say that every widespread influence, from
Freemasonry to the international finance of Europe, was Israelite in
his eyes; while our Colonial policy, and especially the gigantic and
successful struggle in South Africa, he twisted into a sort of petty
huckstering, dependent upon Petticoat Lane.
Mary Smith loved her brother. She did all she could to dispel these
mists and to bring out that decent side of him which had made him
years ago as popular a young man as any in London--but he was past
praying for. A private income, large, like all the Bailey incomes,
of over £4000 a year, permitted him a dangerous independence; and in
his freehold house in Bruton Street he lived his own life altogether,
attached to his servants, whom he never changed, subscribing to absurd
foreign papers that dripped with anti-Semitic virus, and depending upon
the perpetual attention of his manservant Zachary, an honest fellow
enough, but one who, from perpetual association with his master, seemed
to have imbibed something of that master's eccentricities. _He_ was as
dandy as the gentleman who employed him was slovenly, and all Bruton
Street noted with a smile the extraordinary figure the fellow made when
he went out on his rare holidays, in a tight frock-coat, a hat like
polished ebony, and gloves that were always new.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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