Aaron the Jew: A Novel. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold
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