“That’s better,” he said. “That’s better than painting those pictures that nobody wants. You paint what they ask you and you’ll soon make your fortune, and be able to give your mother dresses covered with beads and tickets for the theatre and china ornaments. And you can be thankful you don’t live in Russia. They wouldn’t let you be an artist there. If you became a student they would send you off to Siberia and you would die in the snow.”
It was the first time Moscowitsch had spoken to him since the breach with Birnbaum, and Mendel was at his ease with him again, and glad to be with his people. He knew that Moscowitsch was greatly attached to Golda, and had more than once urged his being taken away from his painting and put to some useful trade.
“Oh! I shall very soon succeed,” he said boastfully. “This is only a beginning. You keep an eye on that paper of yours. You will find something else to read besides what Russia does to the Jews. You will see what England does for a Jew when he has talent and honesty.”
“They made Disraeli a lord,” said Moscowitsch.
“I shall be something much better than a lord.”
“They only make painters R.A.”
“I shall be much better than that,” said Mendel.
“It is like old times,” laughed Golda, “to hear him boasting.”
Mendel opened another letter. It was an invitation to become a member of an exhibiting club which considered itself exclusive.
“I have been invited to become a member of a club.”