Chapter Thirty-three
Deronda, meanwhile, often went rambling in those parts of London which are most inhabited by ordinary Jews. He walked to synagogues, he looked into shops, he observed faces: a process not very promising of discovery. Why did he not consult a Rabbi on the chances of finding a mother named Cohen, with a son named Ezra, and a lost daughter named Mirah? He thought of doing so – after Christmas.
The fact was that Deronda, for all his sense of the poetic, could not escape the pressure of that hard unaccommodating Actual, which does not consult our taste. Enthusiasm dwells at ease among ideas; but it gets squeamish when faced with bodily reality. Dreamily imagining oneself in quest of a beautiful maiden’s relatives in Cordova, elbowed by Jews in the time of Ibn Gebirol, the incidents can be borne without shock. Or suppose the Crusaders of the eleventh century were transported to Whitechapel as they hounded a reviled Jew, who turned round erect and heroic in the face of death – what would the dingy shops signify then? But the chief poetic energy lies in the enthusiasm that is not diminished by the commonplace nature of its beloved ideas made flesh: the force of imagination that pierces the solid fact, instead of floating among cloud-pictures.
Deronda was usually inclined to condemn the feeble, fastidious sympathy which shrinks from the broad life of mankind; but now, with Mirah before him as a living reality, he saw every Jew and Jewess in the light of comparison with her, and feared a collision between her idea of the unknown mother and brother, and the fact. His fear was all the keener because of a suppressed knowledge that a similar collision might lie hidden in his own lot.
In this mood he rambled without expecting any more result than the preparation of his own mind – as if, Mirah being related to Welsh miners, he had gone to look more closely at the ways of those people, perhaps wishing at the same time to learn something about the history of Strikes.
He did not wish to find anybody in particular; and whenever he looked at the name over a shop door, he was well content that it was not Ezra Cohen. I confess, he particularly desired that Ezra Cohen should not keep a shop. But wishes are held to be ominous; so Deronda felt the scale of superstition dip against him when one morning he turned out of the noise of Holborn into a little side street.
He had paused to hail a hansom cab, when his attention was caught by some fine old silver clasps displayed in the window on his right. He thought that Lady Mallinger might like to have these missal-clasps turned into a bracelet: then he saw that the shop was a pawnbroker’s, with most of its space given to jewellery, lace and bric-a-brac. A placard in one corner announced – Watches and Jewellery exchanged and repaired.
A figure appeared at the door, saying in a tone of cordial encouragement, “Good day, sir.” The face, unmistakably Jewish, belonged to a young man of about thirty. Deronda, wincing from the shopkeeper’s persuasiveness that would probably follow, returned the “good day,” then crossed the street and beckoned to the cabman. From there he saw the name over the shop window – Ezra Cohen.
There might be a hundred Ezra Cohens lettered above shop windows, but Deronda had not seen them. Probably the young man was Ezra himself; and he was about the age to be expected in Mirah’s brother, who was grown up while she was still a little child.
But as he drove home Deronda tried to convince himself that there was not the slightest likelihood of this Ezra being Mirah’s brother; and that even if he did turn out to be, and if the mother was found to be dead, it was not Deronda’s duty to make the discovery known to Mirah. In inconvenient disturbance of this conclusion, he knew that Mirah would have a religious desire to know of her mother’s death, and also to learn whether her brother were living. How far was he justified in determining her life by his own notions? Was it not his secret complaint that others had ordered his own life, so that he had not open daylight on all its relations?
He found relief in reflecting that he had not yet made any discovery, and that by looking into the facts he could learn whether there was need for any decision. He intended to return to that shop as soon as he could, and buy the clasps for Lady Mallinger. But he was prevented for several days by Sir Hugo, who, about to make an after-dinner speech, wanted Deronda to help him on a legal question, besides wasting time every day on argument. As on many other questions, they held different sides, but Sir Hugo did not mind this; and when Deronda put his point well, he said with a mixture of satisfaction and regret,
“Confound it, Dan! why don’t you make an opportunity of saying these things in public? You might enter Parliament. You know that would gratify me.”
“I am sorry not to do what would gratify you, sir,” said Deronda. “But I cannot persuade myself to look at politics as a profession.”
“Why not? If everybody looked at politics as if they demanded an inspired vocation, the business of the country would never get done.”
“I don’t want to make a living out of opinions,” said Deronda; “especially out of borrowed opinions. Not that I mean to blame other men. I dare say many better fellows than I am don’t mind getting on to a platform to praise themselves, and giving their word of honour for a party.”
“I’ll tell you what, Dan,” said Sir Hugo, “a man who sets his face against every sort of humbug is simply impracticable. There’s a bad style of humbug, but there is also a good style – one that oils the wheels and makes progress possible. There is no action possible without a little acting.”
“There may be an occasional necessity for it,” said Deronda. “But it is one thing to say, ‘In this particular case I am forced to put on this fool’s cap and grin,’ and another to buy a pocket fool’s cap and practise grinning. Public expediency keeps an ideal before it; but if I were to enter politics I might mistake my success for public expediency.”
It was after this dialogue that Deronda set out on his second visit to Ezra Cohen’s. As he entered the street, an inward reluctance slackened his pace along this unattractive thoroughfare. His thoughts of public expediency made him wonder how far he could call it a wise expediency to conceal the fact of Mirah’s close kin.
We have seen why he had come to regard concealment as a bane of life; and the prospect of being urged against his inclination was naturally grating. He even paused here and there before the most respectable shop-windows, half persuading himself not to increase his knowledge about Ezra Cohen, even though he had decided that this man was most unlikely to be Mirah’s brother.
One of the shop-windows he paused before was that of a second-hand book-shop, where, on a narrow table outside, a mixture of the literature of the ages was represented, from the immortal verse of Homer to the mortal prose of the railway novel. Deronda noticed a book that he wanted – the life of the Polish Jew, Salomon Maimon; which he picked up, and entered the shop to pay for, expecting to see a grimy personage behind the counter.
But instead of the ordinary tradesman, he saw, on the dark background of books in the long narrow shop, a figure that was startlingly unusual. A man in threadbare clothing, whose age was difficult to guess, his skin being yellow like an old ivory carving, was seated on a stool by the counter, reading yesterday’s Times; but when he looked up, the thought glanced through Deronda that such a face might have been seen in a prophet of the Exile, or in some New Hebrew poet of the mediaeval time. It was a fine Jewish face, given an intensity of expression by strenuous eager experience, and perhaps by bodily suffering also. The features were clear-cut, not large; the brow not high but broad, and fully defined by the crisp black hair.
It might never have been a handsome face, but it must always have been forcible; and now with its dark, far-off gaze, and yellow pallor, one might have imagined coming upon it in some past prison of the Inquisition; while the look fixed on a customer seemed questioning enough to have been turned on a messenger of salvation or of death. To Deronda’s mind this figure was so unusual, that there was a perceptible interval of mutual observation before he asked, “What is the price of this book?”
After examin
ing the book, the supposed bookseller said, “There is no mark, and Mr. Ram is not in now. I am keeping the shop while he is gone to dinner. What are you disposed to give for it?” He looked examiningly at Deronda, who had the disagreeable idea that this striking personage might want to see how much could be got. He said, “Don’t you know how much it is worth?”
“Not its market-price. May I ask have you read it?”
“No. I have read an account of it, which makes me want to buy it.”
“You are a man of learning – you are interested in Jewish history?” This was said in a deepened tone of eager inquiry.
“I am certainly interested in Jewish history,” said Deronda, quietly, curiosity overcoming his dislike to the inspection he was under.
But immediately the strange Jew rose from his seat, and Deronda felt a thin hand pressing his arm tightly, while an excited voice said in a hoarse whisper–
“You are perhaps of our race?”
Deronda coloured deeply, and answered, “No.” The grasp was relaxed, the hand withdrawn, the eagerness of the face collapsed into melancholy, as if some possessing spirit which had leaped into the eyes had sunk back again. Moving away, the stranger said with distant civility, “I believe Mr. Ram will be satisfied with half-a-crown, sir.”
The effect of this change on Deronda was oddly embarrassing and humiliating, as if some high dignitary had found him deficient. He paid his half-crown and carried off his book with a mere “good-morning.”
He felt vexed at the sudden end of the interview, so that he should not know more of this man, who was certainly uncommon – as different as a Jew could be from Ezra Cohen, through whose door Deronda now entered, and whose flourishing face was negotiating with some one on the other side of the partition. Seeing Deronda enter, he called out “Mother!” and then with a familiar smile, said, “Coming, sir – coming directly.”
Deronda felt some anxiety, which was not soothed when he saw a vigorous woman of over fifty enter the shop. Not that there was anything very repulsive about her: the worst that could be said was that she had that look of having washed with little water, which is common to older people of her class, and of having presumably slept in her large earrings, if not in her necklace. In fact, what caused Deronda’s heart to sink was her not being so coarse and ugly as to exclude the idea of her being Mirah’s mother.
Anyone who has looked at a face for signs of kinship in it will understand his process – how he tried to think away the fat which had gradually disguised the outlines of youth, and to discern the underlying expressions of the face. He was sorry to see no absolute negative to his fears. It was not impossible that this mother might have had a lovely, refined daughter like Mirah. The eyebrows had a vexatious similarity of line; and who knows how far a face may be masked by age? Her good-humoured glance shone out in a motherly way at Deronda, as she said, in a mild guttural tone–
“How can I serve you, sir?”
“I should like to look at the silver clasps in the window, please,” said Deronda.
They were not easy to get at. The son called out, “I’ll reach ’em, mother,” with alacrity; and handed the clasps to Deronda with the smiling remark–
“Mother’s too proud: she wants to do everything herself. That’s why I called her to wait on you, sir. But I can’t let her do herself mischief with stretching.”
Here Mr. Cohen made way for his parent, who gave an amiable laugh, as much as to say, “The boy will joke, but he’s the best son in the world.”
Deronda began to examine the clasps.
“They are only three guineas, sir,” said the mother, encouragingly.
“First-rate workmanship, sir – worth twice the money,” said the son from a distance.
Meanwhile two new customers entered, and the repeated call, “Addy!” brought from the back of the shop a group that Deronda turned frankly to stare at, feeling sure that the stare would be held complimentary. The group consisted of a black-eyed young woman who carried a little one, its head already covered with black curls, and deposited it on the counter, where it looked round with even more than the usual intelligence of babies: also a robust boy of six and a younger girl, both with black eyes and black-ringed hair, looking more Semitic than their parents. The young woman answering to “Addy”, a sort of parakeet in a bright blue dress, with coral necklace and earrings, and her hair in a huge bush, looked as complacently lively and unrefined as her husband. Her difference from the mother deepened in Deronda the unwelcome impression that the latter was not so utterly common a Jewess as to exclude her being Mirah’s mother.
Meanwhile, the boy ran forward energetically, and standing about four feet from Deronda, with his hands in the pockets of his miniature knickerbockers, looked at him with a precocious air of survey. With diplomatic intentions, Deronda patted the boy’s head, saying–
“What is your name, sirrah?”
“Jacob Alexander Cohen,” said the boy distinctly.
“You are not named after your father, then?”
“No, after my grandfather; he sells knives and scissors,” said Jacob, wishing to impress the stranger with that high connection. “He gave me this knife.” Here a pocket-knife was drawn forth, and the small fingers opened two blades and a cork-screw with much quickness.
“Is not that a dangerous plaything?” said Deronda, turning to the grandmother.
“He’ll never hurt himself, bless you!” said she, contemplating her grandson with placid rapture.
“Have you got a knife?” says Jacob, coming closer. His small voice was hoarse in its glibness, as if it belonged to an aged commercial soul, fatigued with bargaining through many generations.
“Yes. Do you want to see it?” said Deronda, taking a small penknife from his waistcoat-pocket.
Jacob seized it immediately, holding the two knives to compare them. By now the other clients were gone, and the whole family centred their attention on the marvellous Jacob.
“Mine’s the best,” said Jacob at last, returning Deronda’s knife as if he had considered the idea of exchange and had rejected it.
Father and mother laughed aloud with delight. “You won’t find Jacob choosing the worst,” said Mr. Cohen, winking. Deronda, looking at the grandmother, who had only an inward silent laugh, said–
“Are these your only grandchildren?”
“Yes. This is my only son,” she answered. It seemed natural enough that Deronda should say next–
“And you have no daughter?”
There was an instant change in the mother’s face. Her lips closed, she looked down, and finally turned her back on Deronda to examine some Indian handkerchiefs that hung behind her. Her son gave a significant glance, and put his fingers to his lips – then said quickly, “I think you’re a first-rate gentleman in the city, sir, if I may be allowed to guess.”
“No,” said Deronda. “I have nothing to do with the city.”
“I thought you might be the young principal of a first-rate firm,” said Mr. Cohen, wishing to make amends for his mother’s silence. “But you understand silver-work, I see.”
“A little,” said Deronda, taking up the clasps and laying them down again. That unwelcome bit of evidence had made his mind busy with a plan which was certainly more like acting than anything he had done before. But he no longer wished to be left in uncertainty, when more knowledge might nullify that evidence.
“To tell you the truth,” he went on, “my errand is not so much to buy as to borrow. I dare say you do such transactions?”
“Well, sir, I’ve accommodated gentlemen of distinction – I’m proud to say it. There’s no business more honourable, nor more charitable, nor more necessary for all classes, from the good lady who wants a little of the ready for the baker, to a gentleman like yourself, sir, who may want it for amusement. I like my business, and I like my shop – I wouldn’t be without it to become the Lord Mayor. It puts you in connection with the world at large. Now, what can I do for you, sir?”
&nb
sp; Mr. Cohen was in excellent spirits about himself. While speaking with lively rapidity, he took the baby from his wife and presented his face to be explored by its small fists.
Deronda, not in a cheerful mood, was rashly thinking this Ezra Cohen to be the most unpoetic Jew he had ever met with in books or life: no shadow of a suffering race distinguished his vulgarity of soul from that of a prosperous, pink-and-white huckster of the purest English lineage. However, this was no reason for not persevering in his project, and he answered–
“I have a diamond ring to offer as security – not with me at this moment, unfortunately. But I will bring it this evening. Fifty pounds at once would be a convenience to me.”
“Well, you know, this evening is the Sabbath, young gentleman,” said Cohen, “and I go to the Shool. The shop will be closed. But if you can’t get here before, and are any ways pressed – why, I’ll look at your diamond. You’re perhaps from the West End – a longish drive?”
“Yes; and your Sabbath begins early at this season. I could be here by five: will that do?” Deronda had hoped that by asking to come on a Friday evening he might get a better opportunity of observing the family character, and perhaps could ask some decisive question.
Cohen assented; but here the marvellous Jacob put in, “You are coming again. Have you got any more knives at home?”
“I think I have one,” said Deronda, smiling at him.
“Has it two blades and a hook, and a white handle like that?” said Jacob, pointing to the waistcoat-pocket.
“I dare say it has.”
“Do you like a cork-screw?” said Jacob, with serious inquiry.
“Yes,” said Deronda, experimentally.
“Bring your knife, then, and we’ll shwop,” said Jacob, stamping about with the sense that he had concluded a good transaction.
The grandmother had now recovered her usual manners, and the whole family watched Deronda radiantly when he caressingly lifted the little girl, and seating her on the counter, asked for her name also. She looked at him in silence, and put her fingers to her gold earrings, which he did not seem to have noticed.
“Adelaide Rebekah is her name,” said her mother, proudly. “Speak to the gentleman, lovey.”
“Shlav’m Shabbes fyock on,” said Adelaide Rebekah.
“Her Sabbath frock, she means,” explained the father. “She’ll have her Sabbath frock on this evening.”
“And will you let me see you in it, Adelaide?” said Deronda gently.
“Say yes, lovey,” said her mother, enchanted with this handsome young gentleman, who appreciated remarkable children.
“And will you give me a kiss this evening?” said Deronda.
Adelaide Rebekah immediately put up her lips to offer a kiss, whereupon her father, in glowing satisfaction with himself and the admiring stranger, said cordially–
“Somebody will be disappointed if you don’t come this evening, sir. You won’t mind sitting down in our family place and waiting a bit for me, if I’m not in when you come, sir? Bring the diamond, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Deronda thus left the most favourable impression behind him. But for his own part he was in the heaviest spirits. If these were really Mirah’s relatives, he could not imagine that she could find any sweetness in the reunion with them beyond her filial duty. What did this vaunting brother need? And Deronda shrank from imagining a first meeting between the mother and Mirah, and still more from the idea of Mirah’s domestication with this family.
He took refuge in disbelief. To find an Ezra Cohen was no more extraordinary than to find a John Smith; and as to the coincidence about the daughter, it would probably turn out to be a difference. If, however, further knowledge confirmed the undesirable conclusion, what would be wise expediency?– to conceal it, or to brave the consequences for the sake of that openness which is the sweet fresh air of our moral life?