MANICHAEAN
03-06-2011, 12:43 PM
A WOMAN’S WORLD.
The wedding party was held in honour of Ephraim Weiss and a bride whose prenuptial maiden name had been Ester Teixeira de Mattos Nunes. If there is a truism in the supposition that opposites attract, then this was certainly the case here.
Ephraim was a young man of a somewhat flippant outlook on life, that belied a deep cultivated intelligence and sensitivity, the latter quality of which was exposed only on occasion to those he selectively held close. His bride was exotic, not in name alone, but in the perceptible gaiety of her demeanor. There was a touch of something Iberian about the dark liquid eyes and thick black hair, the delicacy of the bone structure and the passion she generated to those around her.
The party was held at the spacious family house of the groom in Golders Green, North London, where the men stood in calm little groups, chatting, smoking and pretending to pay no heed to the rustling animation of the women’s world.
The best man, Peter Achinoam was stood to one side with the groom’s mother. He was afraid to look into her heavy-seeing eyes and he smiled faintly, trying to think of other things. Yet he was tense, feeling that he and the elderly, woman were conferring together like traitors, like enemies within the camp of other people. He resembled a deer, that throws one ear back upon the trail behind, and one ear forward, to know what is ahead.
“Oy,” she said, in an incomprehensible monosyllable, that sounded profoundly cynical. Peter felt afraid, as if he dared not realize. And Mrs Weiss moved away, forgetting him. But she returned on her traces. “I should like to know who exactly are all these new faces I have never seen before.”
The guests moved in upon the buffet and retired to separate tables around the large room. There was a strange freedom, that almost amounted to anarchy in the house. It was rather a resistance to authority than liberty. In some cases the two families sat together, but in others they found spiritual comfort in those they knew. Sometimes Mrs Weiss glared fiercely down the row of faces, bending forwards and staring unceremoniously, and Peter explained to the best of his knowledge, who was who. She seemed satisfied. Her eyes closed wearily, a peace came over her face. Then she started, a little social smile came on her face, for a moment she looked the pleasant hostess. For a moment she bent graciously, as if everyone were welcome and delightful. And then immediately the shadow came back, she glanced from under her brows like a sinister creature at bay, distaining them all.
Elsewhere by the heavy drapes, Rachael Rosen was engaged in conversation with a young man of apparent prospects. She pouted musingly, with expressionless indecision.
“Don’t you think it is always wrong to provoke a spirit of rivalry in families? It makes bad blood. And bad blood accumulates. You do hate it, yes?” She paused, as if to allow this statement to cool.
Her mother broke from coven and descended on the prey. “Ah my daughter, what a wife she would make”
“Mother!”
“Hush now,” she said addressing her daughter, but fixing her focus on the young man.
“My daughter, what a cook. You should try her spicy dumplings. To die for, to die for. Come round this weekend. You will see for yourself.”
Over at the main table Peter watched his glass being filled with champagne. The bubbles broke at the rim, and feeling a sudden thirst at the sight of the fresh wine he drank up his glass. A queer little tension in the room roused him. He felt a sharp constraint. He looked round at one of the hired male helps from the catering company. And the hired help came, with a silent step of cold servant-like disapprobation. Peter decided that he detested toasts, and hirelings, and assemblies, and mankind altogether. Then he rose to make a speech. But he was somehow disgusted.
The face of a tall straight, well dressed woman turned slowly and as if drugged to the speaker. His dark maleness did not blind her to the significant stillness of his bearing. “I need to know you,” she thought. “We are two of a kind in this emotional void of no mans land.”
The speeches over, Ephraim had lost his new bride for the moment and was visibly relaxing in his usual offhand manner with his childhood best friend Abe Chatzkel.
“You don’t believe in having any standard of behaviour at all, do you?” he challenged Ephraim, censoriously.
“Standards- no. I hate standards. But they’re necessary for the common ruck. Anybody who is anything can just be himself and do as he like. It’s the hardest thing in the world to act spontaneously on one’s impulses – and yet it’s the only really gentlemanly thing to do.”
“You don’t expect me to take you seriously, do you?” asked Abe.
“Yes, my friend, you’re one of the few people I do expect that of.”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t come up to your expectations here, at any rate. You think that people should just do as they like?”
“I think they always do. But I should like them to like the purely individual thing in themselves, which makes them act in singleness.”
“It’s a nasty view of things, Ephraim,” said Abe, “and no wonder you are afraid of yourself and your own unhappiness.”
“How am I afraid of myself?” said Ephraim; “and I don’t think I am unhappy, especially on a day like this.”
There was a pause of strange enmity between the two men, that was very near to love. It was always the same between them; always their talk brought them into a deadly nearness of contact, a strange perilous intimacy which was either hate or love, or both.
They parted; Abe to mingle with the guests, Ephraim to reclaim his wife, but with apparent unconcern, as if their going apart were a trivial occurrence. And they really kept it to this level. Yet they burned with each other inwardly. This they would never admit. They intended to keep their relationship a casual free-and-easy friendship, they were not going to be so unmanly and unnatural as to allow any heart-burning between them. They had not the faintest belief in deep relationships between men and men, and their disbelief prevented any development of their powerful but suppressed friendliness.
The wedding party was held in honour of Ephraim Weiss and a bride whose prenuptial maiden name had been Ester Teixeira de Mattos Nunes. If there is a truism in the supposition that opposites attract, then this was certainly the case here.
Ephraim was a young man of a somewhat flippant outlook on life, that belied a deep cultivated intelligence and sensitivity, the latter quality of which was exposed only on occasion to those he selectively held close. His bride was exotic, not in name alone, but in the perceptible gaiety of her demeanor. There was a touch of something Iberian about the dark liquid eyes and thick black hair, the delicacy of the bone structure and the passion she generated to those around her.
The party was held at the spacious family house of the groom in Golders Green, North London, where the men stood in calm little groups, chatting, smoking and pretending to pay no heed to the rustling animation of the women’s world.
The best man, Peter Achinoam was stood to one side with the groom’s mother. He was afraid to look into her heavy-seeing eyes and he smiled faintly, trying to think of other things. Yet he was tense, feeling that he and the elderly, woman were conferring together like traitors, like enemies within the camp of other people. He resembled a deer, that throws one ear back upon the trail behind, and one ear forward, to know what is ahead.
“Oy,” she said, in an incomprehensible monosyllable, that sounded profoundly cynical. Peter felt afraid, as if he dared not realize. And Mrs Weiss moved away, forgetting him. But she returned on her traces. “I should like to know who exactly are all these new faces I have never seen before.”
The guests moved in upon the buffet and retired to separate tables around the large room. There was a strange freedom, that almost amounted to anarchy in the house. It was rather a resistance to authority than liberty. In some cases the two families sat together, but in others they found spiritual comfort in those they knew. Sometimes Mrs Weiss glared fiercely down the row of faces, bending forwards and staring unceremoniously, and Peter explained to the best of his knowledge, who was who. She seemed satisfied. Her eyes closed wearily, a peace came over her face. Then she started, a little social smile came on her face, for a moment she looked the pleasant hostess. For a moment she bent graciously, as if everyone were welcome and delightful. And then immediately the shadow came back, she glanced from under her brows like a sinister creature at bay, distaining them all.
Elsewhere by the heavy drapes, Rachael Rosen was engaged in conversation with a young man of apparent prospects. She pouted musingly, with expressionless indecision.
“Don’t you think it is always wrong to provoke a spirit of rivalry in families? It makes bad blood. And bad blood accumulates. You do hate it, yes?” She paused, as if to allow this statement to cool.
Her mother broke from coven and descended on the prey. “Ah my daughter, what a wife she would make”
“Mother!”
“Hush now,” she said addressing her daughter, but fixing her focus on the young man.
“My daughter, what a cook. You should try her spicy dumplings. To die for, to die for. Come round this weekend. You will see for yourself.”
Over at the main table Peter watched his glass being filled with champagne. The bubbles broke at the rim, and feeling a sudden thirst at the sight of the fresh wine he drank up his glass. A queer little tension in the room roused him. He felt a sharp constraint. He looked round at one of the hired male helps from the catering company. And the hired help came, with a silent step of cold servant-like disapprobation. Peter decided that he detested toasts, and hirelings, and assemblies, and mankind altogether. Then he rose to make a speech. But he was somehow disgusted.
The face of a tall straight, well dressed woman turned slowly and as if drugged to the speaker. His dark maleness did not blind her to the significant stillness of his bearing. “I need to know you,” she thought. “We are two of a kind in this emotional void of no mans land.”
The speeches over, Ephraim had lost his new bride for the moment and was visibly relaxing in his usual offhand manner with his childhood best friend Abe Chatzkel.
“You don’t believe in having any standard of behaviour at all, do you?” he challenged Ephraim, censoriously.
“Standards- no. I hate standards. But they’re necessary for the common ruck. Anybody who is anything can just be himself and do as he like. It’s the hardest thing in the world to act spontaneously on one’s impulses – and yet it’s the only really gentlemanly thing to do.”
“You don’t expect me to take you seriously, do you?” asked Abe.
“Yes, my friend, you’re one of the few people I do expect that of.”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t come up to your expectations here, at any rate. You think that people should just do as they like?”
“I think they always do. But I should like them to like the purely individual thing in themselves, which makes them act in singleness.”
“It’s a nasty view of things, Ephraim,” said Abe, “and no wonder you are afraid of yourself and your own unhappiness.”
“How am I afraid of myself?” said Ephraim; “and I don’t think I am unhappy, especially on a day like this.”
There was a pause of strange enmity between the two men, that was very near to love. It was always the same between them; always their talk brought them into a deadly nearness of contact, a strange perilous intimacy which was either hate or love, or both.
They parted; Abe to mingle with the guests, Ephraim to reclaim his wife, but with apparent unconcern, as if their going apart were a trivial occurrence. And they really kept it to this level. Yet they burned with each other inwardly. This they would never admit. They intended to keep their relationship a casual free-and-easy friendship, they were not going to be so unmanly and unnatural as to allow any heart-burning between them. They had not the faintest belief in deep relationships between men and men, and their disbelief prevented any development of their powerful but suppressed friendliness.