Aaron the Jew: A Novel

It is due to Mr. Whimpole to state that he was not aware that the manner in which he was conducting himself during this interview was not commendable. Being a narrow-minded man, he could not take a wide and generous view of abstract matters, which, by a perversion of reasoning, he generally regarded from a purely personal standpoint. Such men as he, in their jealous regard for their own feelings, are apt to overlook the feelings of others, and, indeed, to behave occasionally as if they did not possess any. This was Mr. Whimpole's predicament, and, having met a ready-witted man, he was made to suffer for his misconduct. He sent forth his sting in this wise:

"You speak, Mr. Cohen, of being fair and straightforward in your dealings; but, for the matter of that, we all know what we may expect from a-"

And having got thus far in his ungenerously-prompted speech, he felt himself unable, in the presence of Rachel, and with her reproachful eyes raised to his face, to conclude the sentence. Aaron Cohen finished it for him.

"For the matter of that," he said, gently, "you all know what you may expect from a Jew. That is what you were going to say. And with this thought in your mind you came to trade with me. Well, sir, it may be that we both have something to learn."

"Mr. Cohen," said Mr. Whimpole, slightly abashed, "I am sorry if I have said anything to hurt your feelings."

"The offence, sir, is atoned for by the expression of your sorrow."

This was taking high ground, and Mr. Whimpole's choler was ready to rise again; but he mastered it, and said, in a conciliatory tone, -

"I will disguise nothing from you; I was born in this house."

"The circumstance will make it all the more valuable to us. My dear," – impressing it upon Rachel with pleasant emphasis-"Mr. Whimpole was born in this house. A fortunate omen. Good luck will come to us, as it has come to him. It is a low-rented house, and those who have been born in it must have been poor men's children. When they rise in the world as Mr. Whimpole has done, it is better than a horseshoe over the door. In which room were you born, Mr. Whimpole?"

"In the room on the back of the first floor," replied Mr. Whimpole, making a wild guess.

"Our bedroom. There should be a record on the walls; there should, indeed, be a record, such as is placed outside those houses in London which have been inhabited by famous people. Failing that, it is in the power of every man, assuredly every rich man, to make for himself a record that shall be unperishable-far better, my dear sir, than the mere fixing of a plate on a cold stone wall."

Mr. Whimpole gazed at Aaron Cohen to discover if there was any trace of mockery in his face; but Aaron was perfectly grave and serious.

"A man's humility," said Mr. Whimpole, raising his eyes to the ceiling, "his sense of humbleness, would prevent him from making this record for himself. It has to be left to others to do it when they have found him out."

"Aha! my dear sir," said Aaron, softly, "when they have found him out. True, true; but how few of us are! How few of us receive our just reward! How few of us when we are in our graves receive or deserve the tribute, 'Here lies a perfect man!' But the record I speak of will never be lost by a rich man's humility, by his humbleness; for it can be written unostentatiously in the hearts of the poor by the aid of silver and gold."

"I understand you, Mr. Cohen," – inwardly confounding Aaron's flow of ideas-"by means of charity."

"Yes, sir, by means of charity, whereby the name of a man becomes sweet in the mouth. A good name is better than precious oil, and the day of one's death better than the day of his birth. There is an old legend that a man's actions in life are marked in the air above him, in the places in which they are performed. There, in invisible space, are inscribed the records of his good and bad deeds, of his virtues, of his crimes; and when he dies his soul visits those places, and views the immortal writing, which is visible to all the angels in heaven and which covers him with shame or glory. Gosport doubtless has many such records of your charity."

"I do my best," said Mr. Whimpole, very much confused and mystified; "I hope I do my best. I said I would disguise nothing from you; I will therefore be quite frank, with no intention of wounding you. I am strictly a religious man, Mr. Cohen, and it hurts me that one whose religious belief is opposed to my own should inhabit the house in which I was born. I will give you a hundred and twenty pounds for the lease; that will leave you a profit of twenty pounds. Come, now!"

"I will not accept less for it, sir, than the sum I named."

"Is that your last word?"

"It is my last word."

Mr. Whimpole rose with a face of scarlet, and clapped his hat on his head. "You are a-a-"

"A Jew. Leave it at that. Can you call me anything worse?" asked Aaron, with no show of anger.

"No, I cannot. You are a Jew."

"I regret," said Aaron, calmly, "that I cannot retort by calling you a Christian. May our next meeting be more agreeable! Good-evening, Mr. Whimpole."

"You do not know the gentleman you have insulted," said Mr. Whimpole, as he walked towards the door; "you do not know my position in this town. I am in the expectation of being made a justice of the peace. You will live to repent this."

"I think not," said Aaron, taking the candle to show his visitor out. "I trust you may."

"You may find your residence in Gosport, where I am universally respected, not as agreeable as you would wish it to be."

"We shall see, we shall see," said Aaron, still smiling. "I may also make myself respected here."

"There is a prejudice against your race-"

"Am I not aware of it? Is not every Jew aware of it? Is it not thrown in our teeth by the bigoted and narrow-minded upon every possible occasion? We will live it down, sir. We have already done much; we will yet do more. Your use of the word 'prejudice' is appropriate; for, as I understand its meaning, it represents a judgment formed without proper knowledge. Yes, sir, it is not to be disputed that there exists a prejudice against our race."

"Which, without putting any false meaning upon it, will make this ancient and respectable town" – here Mr. Whimpole found himself at a loss, and he was compelled to wind up with the vulgar figure of speech-"too hot to hold you."

"This ancient town," said Aaron, with a deeper seriousness in his voice, "is known to modern men as Gosport."

"A clever discovery," sneered Mr. Whimpole. "Are you going to put another of your false constructions on it?"

"No, sir. I am about to tell you a plain and beautiful truth. When in olden times a name was given to this place, it was not Gosport: it was God's Port; and what Gods port is there throughout the civilised world in which Jew and Christian alike have not an equal right to live, despite prejudice, despite bigotry, and despite the unreasonable anger of large corn-chandlers and respected churchwardens? I wish you, sir, good-night."

And having by this time reached the street door, Aaron Cohen opened it for Mr. Whimpole, and bowed him politely out.

CHAPTER XII

THE COURSE OF THE SEASONS

Upon Aaron's return to the little parlour he saw that Rachel was greatly disturbed.

"My life!" he said, and he folded her in his arms and tenderly embraced her. "Don't allow such a little thing as this to distress you; it will all come right in the end."

"But how you kept your temper," she said; "that is what surprised me."

"It gave me the advantage of him, Rachel. I was really amused."

He pinched her cheeks to bring the colour back to them.

"Some men must be managed one way, some another. And now for our game of bezique. Mr. Whimpole's visit" – he laughed at the recollection-"will make me enjoy it all the more."

There was no resisting his light-heartedness, and he won a smile from her, despite her anxiety.

Rachel was not clever enough to discover that it was only by the cunning of her husband that she won the rub of bezique. He was a keen judge of human nature, and he knew that this small victory would help to soothe her.

The next day was Friday, and the three golden balls were put up, and the name of Aaron Cohen painted over the shop door. A great many people came to look, and departed to circulate the news.

At one o'clock the painting was done, and then Aaron said to his wife, "I shall be out till the evening. Have you found any one to attend to the lights and the fire?"

They were not rich enough to keep a regular servant, and neither of them ever touched fire on the Sabbath.

"I have heard of a woman," said Rachel; "she is coming this afternoon to see me."

"Good," said Aaron, and, kissing Rachel, went away with a light heart.

In the afternoon the woman, Mrs. Hawkins, called, and Rachel explained the nature of the services she required. Mrs. Hawkins was to come to the house every Friday night to put coals on the fire and extinguish the lights, and four times on Saturday to perform the same duties. Rachel proposed eightpence a week, but Mrs. Hawkins stuck out for tenpence, and this being acceded to, she departed, leaving a strong flavour of gin behind her.

When Aaron returned, the two Sabbath candles were alight upon the snow-white tablecloth, and on the table a supper was spread-fried fish, white bread, and fresh butter, and in the fender a steaming coffeepot. Rachel was an excellent cook, and had always been famous for her fried and stewed fish, which her husband declared were dishes fit for kings; and, indeed, no one in the land could have desired tastier or more succulent cooking.

Aaron washed and said his prayers, and then they sat down to their meal in a state of perfect contentment. The head of the modest household broke two small pieces of bread from the loaf, and dipping them in salt, besought the customary blessing on the bread they were about to eat; then praised the fish, praised the butter, praised the coffee, praised his wife, and after a full meal praised the Lord, in a Song of Degrees, for blessings received: "When the Eternal restored the captivity of Zion, we were as those who dream. Our mouths were then filled with laughter, and our tongues with song."

He had-a rich baritone voice, and Rachel listened in pious delight to his intoning of the prayer. The supper things were cleared away, the white tablecloth being allowed to remain because of the lighted candles on it, which it would have been breaking the Sabbath to lift, and then there came a knock at the street door.

"That is the woman I engaged," said Rachel, hurrying into the passage.

There entered, not Mrs. Hawkins, but a very small girl, carrying a very large baby. The baby might have been eighteen months old, and the girl ten years; and of the twain the baby was the plumper.

Without "With your leave" or "By your leave," the small girl pushed past Rachel before the astonished woman could stop her, and presented herself before the no less astonished Aaron Cohen. Her sharp eyes took in the lighted candles, the cheerful fire, and the master of the house in one comprehensive flash. With some persons what is known as making up one's mind is a slow and complicated process, with the small girl it was electrical. She deposited the large baby in Aaron's lap, admonishing the infant "to keep quiet, or she'd ketch it," blew out the candles in two swift puffs, and, kneeling before the grate, proceeded to rake out the coals. So rapid were her movements that the fender was half filled with cinders and blazing coals before Rachel had time to reach the room.

"In Heaven's name," cried Aaron, "what is the meaning of this?"

"It's all right, sir," said the small girl, in the dark; "I've come for aunty."

"Put down the poker instantly!" exclaimed Aaron. "Your aunty, whoever she may be, is not here."

"Tell me somethink I don't know," requested the small girl. "This is Mr. Cohen's, the Jew, ain't it?"

"It is," replied Aaron, with despairing gestures, for the baby was dabbing his face with hands sticky with remnants of sugarstuff.

"Well, wot are yer 'ollering for? I'm only doing wot aunty told me."

"And who is your aunty?"

"Mrs. 'Orkins. Pretend not to know 'er-do! Oh yes, jest you try it on. Aunty's up to yer, she is. She sed yer'd try to do 'er out of 'er money, and want 'er to take fippence instid of tenpence."

"Did she? You have come here by her orders, I suppose?"

"Yes, I 'ave; to poke out the fire and blow out the candles, and I've done it."

"You have," said Aaron, ruefully. "And now, little girl, you will do as I tell you. Put down that poker. Get up. Feel on the mantelshelf for a box of matches. I beg your pardon, you are too short to reach. Here is the box. Take out a match. Strike it. Light the candles. Thank you. Last, but not least, relieve me of this baby with the sticky hands."

The small girl snatched the baby from his arms and stood before him in an attitude of defiance. For the first time he had a clear view of her.

"Heaven save us!" he cried, falling back in his chair.

Her appearance was a sufficient explanation of his astonishment. To say that she was ragged, and dirty, and forlorn, and as utterly unlike a little girl living in civilised society as any little girl could possibly be, would be but a poor description of her. Her face suggested that she had been lying with her head in a coal scuttle; she wore no hat or bonnet; her hair was matted; her frock reached just below her knees, and might have been picked out of a dust-heap; she had no stockings; on her feet were two odd boots, several sizes too large for her and quite worn out, one tied to her ankle with a piece of grey list, the other similarly secured with a piece of knotted twine. Her eyes glittered with preternatural sharpness; her cheek bones stuck out; her elbows were pointed and red; she was all bone-literally all bone; there was not an ounce of flesh upon her, not any part of her body that could be pinched with a sense of satisfaction. But the baby! What a contrast! Her head was round and chubby, and was covered with a mass of light curls; her hands were full of dimples; her face was puffed out with superabundant flesh; the calves of her legs were a picture. In respect of clothes she was no better off than Mrs. Hawkins's niece.

"Wot are yer staring at?" demanded the girl. "At you, my child," replied Aaron, with compassion in his voice.

"Let's know when yer done," retorted the girl, "and I'll tell yer 'wot I charge for it."

"And at baby," added Aaron.

"That'll be hextra. Don't say I didn't warn yer."

There were conflicting elements in the situation; its humour was undeniable, but it had its pathetic side. Aaron Cohen was swayed now by one emotion, now by another.

"So you are Mrs. Hawkins's niece," he said, with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Yes, I am. Wot 'ave yer got to say agin it?"

"Nothing. Is baby also Mrs. Hawkins's niece, or nephew?"

"If you've no objections," said the girl, with excessive politeness, "she's Mrs. Pond's little gal, and I nusses 'er."

"I have no objection. What is your name?"

"Wot it may be, my lordship," replied the girl, her politeness becoming Arctic, "is one thing-wot it is, is another."

"You are a clever little girl," said Aaron, smiling and rubbing his hands, "a sharp, clever little girl."

"Thank yer for nothink," said the girl. She had reached the North Pole; it was necessary to thaw her.

"Upon the mantelshelf," said Aaron, "just behind that beautiful blue vase, are two penny pieces. Step on a chair-not that cane one, you'll go through it; the wooden one-and see if you can find them."

"I see 'em," said the girl, looking down upon Aaron in more senses than one.

"They are yours. Put them in your pocket."

The girl clutched the pennies, jumped from the chair-whereat the baby crowed, supposing it to be a game provided for her amusement-and having no pocket, held the money tight in her hand. Visions of sweetstuff rose before her. The pennies getting warm, the ice in the North Pole began to melt. But there was a doubt in the girl's mind; the adventure was almost too good to be true.

"Yer don't get 'em back," she said; "stow larks, yer know."

"I don't want them back. And now, perhaps, you will tell me your name."

"Prissy. That's the short 'un."

"The long one is-"

"Priscilla."

"A grand name. You ought to have a silk gown, and satin shoes, and a gold comb." Prissy opened her eyes very wide. The ice was melting quickly, and the buds were coming on the trees. "And baby's name?"

"Wictoria Rejiner. That's grander, ain't it?"

"Much grander. Victoria Regina-a little queen!" Prissy gave baby a kiss, with pride and love in her glittering eyes. "What makes your face so black, Prissy?"

"Coals. Aunty deals in 'em, and ginger-beer, and bundles of wood, and cabbages, and taters, and oranges, and lemons. And she takes in washing."

"You look, Prissy, as if you had very little to eat."

So genial was Aaron Cohen's voice that spring was coming on fast.

"I don't 'ave much," said Prissy, with a longing sigh. "I could eat all day and night if I 'ad the chance."

"My dear," said Aaron to his wife, "there is some coffee left in the pot. Do you like coffee, Prissy?"

"Do I like corfey? Don't I like corfey! Oh no-not me! Jest you try me!"

"I will. Give me Victoria Regina. Poke the fire. That's right; you are the quickest, sharpest little girl in my acquaintance. Pour some water from the kettle into the coffee-pot. Set it on the fire. Rachel, my dear, take Prissy and baby into the kitchen and let them wash themselves, and afterwards they shall have some supper."

The buds were breaking into blossom; it really was a lovely spring.

In a few minutes Rachel and the children re-entered the room from the kitchen, baby with a clean face, and Prissy with a painfully red and shining skin. Following her husband's instructions, Rachel cut half-a-dozen slices of bread, upon which she spread the butter with a liberal hand. Prissy, hugging Victoria Regina, watched the proceedings in silence. By this time the coffee was bubbling in the pot.

"Take it off the fire, Prissy," said Aaron Cohen; and in another minute the little girl, with baby in her lap, was sitting at the table with a cup of smoking hot coffee, well sugared and milked, which she was so eager to drink that she scalded her throat. The bread and butter was perhaps the sweetest that Prissy had ever eaten, and the coffee was nectar. The baby ate more than Prissy; indeed, she ate so much and so quickly that she occasionally choked and had to be violently shaken and patted on the back, but she became tired out at last, and before Prissy had finished her bounteous meal she was fast asleep in her nurse's arms.

Aaron Cohen leaned back in his chair, and gazed with benevolent eyes upon the picture before him; and as he gazed the sweetest of smiles came to his lips, and did not leave them. Rachel, stealing to the back of his chair, put her arms round his neck, and nestled her face to his.

It was a most beautiful summer, and all the trees were in flower.

CHAPTER XIII

AARON COHEN PREACHES A SERMON ON LARGE NOSES

The fire was burning brightly, and the old cat which they had brought with them to Gosport was stretched at full length upon the hearthrug. The children were gone, and Prissy had received instructions to come again at ten o'clock to extinguish the candles. It may be said of Prissy, in respect of her first visit to the house, that she came in like a lion and went out like a lamb.

It was a habit on Sabbath eve for Aaron to read to his wife something from the general literature of the times, or from the newspapers, and to accompany his reading with shrewd or sympathetic remarks, to which Rachel always listened in delight. Occasionally he read from a book of Hebrew prayers, and commented upon them, throwing a light upon poem and allegory which made their meaning clear to Rachel's understanding. Invariably, also, he blessed her as Jewish fathers who have not wandered from the paths of orthodoxy bless their children on the Sabbath. Now, as she stood before him, he placed his hand on her head, and said, -

"God make thee like Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah. May the Eternal bless and preserve thee! May the Eternal cause His face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee! May the Eternal lift up His countenance towards thee, and grant thee peace!"

It was something more than a blessing; it was a prayer of heartfelt love. Rachel raised her face to his, and they tenderly kissed each other. Then he took his seat on one side of the fire, and she on the other. A prayer-book and one of Charles Dickens's stories were on the table, but he did not open them; he had matter for thought, and he was in the mood for conversation. He was in a light humour, which exhibited itself in a quiet laugh, which presently deepened in volume.

"I am thinking of the little girl," he explained to Rachel. "It was amazing the way she puffed out the candles and poked out the fire-quick as lightning. It was the most comical thing! And her black face-and Victoria Regina's sticky fingers! Ha, ha, ha!"

His merriment was contagious, and it drew forth Rachel's; the room was filled with pleasant sound.

"I saw Mr. Whimpole to-day," said Aaron, "and I made him a bow, which he did not return. My Jewish nose offends him. How unfortunate! Yes, my life, no one can dispute that the Jew has a big nose. It proclaims itself; it is a mark and a sign. He himself often despises it; he himself often looks at it in the glass with aversion. 'Why, why, have I been compelled to endure this affliction?' he murmurs, and he reflects with envy upon the elegant nose of the Christian. Short-sighted mortal, not to understand that he owes everything to his big nose! A great writer-a learned man, who passed the whole of his life in the study of these matters-proclaims the nose to be the foundation, or abutment, of the brain. What follows? That the larger is the nose of a man, the better off for it is the man. Listen, my dear." He took a book from a little nest of bookshelves, and turned over the pages. "'Whoever,' says this learned writer, 'is acquainted with the Gothic arch will perfectly understand what I mean by this abutment; for upon this the whole power of the arch of the forehead rests, and without it the mouth and cheeks would be oppressed by miserable ruins.' He lays down exact laws, which govern the beautiful (and therefore the large) nose. Its length should equal the length of the forehead, the back should be broad, its outline remarkably definite, the sides well defined, and, near the eye, it must be at least half an inch in breadth. Such a nose, this great authority declares, is of more worth than a kingdom. It imparts solidity and unity to the whole countenance; it is the mountain-bear in mind, my dear, the mountain-that shelters the fair vales beneath. How proud, then, should I be of my nose, which in some respects answers to this description! Not in all, no, not in all. I am not so vain as to believe that my nose is worth more than a kingdom; but when I am told that a large nose is a sign of sensibility, and of good nature and good humour, I cannot help a glow of conceited satisfaction stealing over me. How many great men have you known with small noses? There are, of course, exceptions, but I speak of the general rule. Our co-religionist, Benjamin Disraeli-look at his nose; look at the noses of all our great Jewish musicians and composers-it is because they are of a proper size that they have become famous. Some time since in London I had the opportunity of looking over a wonderful Bible-six enormous volumes published by Mr. Thomas Macklin nearly a century ago-embellished with grand pictures by the most eminent English artists; and there I saw the figures of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob, and other ancestors of ours. There is not a small nose on one of the faces of these great patriarchs and prophets. The great painters who drew them had learned from their studies how to delineate the biblical heroes. Moses the law-giver-what an administrator, what a grand general was that hero, my dear! How thoroughly he understood men and human nature! Aaron, the high priest; King Solomon, the man of wisdom; Isaiah, the prophet and poet-they all had tremendous noses. A big nose is a grand decoration, and I would sooner possess it than a bit of red ribbon in my button-hole, or a star on my breast. Indeed, my life, I have it-the nose of my forefathers!" Aaron made this declaration in a tone of comic despair. "And, having it, I will not part with it except with life."