Talking of anti-Semitism one of those mornings, Ferrand said: “Yes,
_monsieur_, plenty of those gentlemen in these days esteem themselves
Christian, but I have only once met a Christian who esteemed himself a
Jew. _C’était très drôle--je vais vous conter cela._
“It was one autumn in London, and, the season being over, I was
naturally in poverty, inhabiting a palace in Westminster at fourpence
the night. In the next bed to me that time there was an old gentleman,
so thin that one might truly say he was made of air. English, Scotch,
Irish, Welsh--I shall never learn to distinguish those little
differences in your race--but I well think he was English. Very feeble,
very frail, white as paper, with a long grey beard, and caves in the
cheeks, and speaking always softly, as if to a woman.... For me it was
an experience to see an individual so gentle in a palace like that.
His bed and bowl of broth he gained in sweeping out the kennels of all
those sorts of types who come to sleep there every night. There he
spent all his day long, going out only at ten hours and a half every
night, and returning at midnight less one quarter. Since I had not much
to do, it was always a pleasure for me to talk with him; for, though
he was certainly a little _toqué_,” and Ferrand tapped his temple, “he
had great charm, of an old man, never thinking of himself, no more than
a fly that turns in dancing all day beneath a ceiling. If there was
something he could do for one of those specimens--to sew on a button,
clean a pipe, catch beasts in their clothes, or sit to see they were
not stolen, even to give up his place by the fire--he would always do
it with his smile so white and gentle; and in his leisure he would
read the Holy Book! He inspired in me a sort of affection--there are
not too many old men so kind and gentle as that, even when they are
‘crackey,’ as you call it. Several times I have caught him in washing
the feet of one of those sots, or bathing some black eye or other, such
as they often catch--a man of a spiritual refinement really remarkable;
in clothes also so refined that one sometimes saw his skin. Though he
had never great thing to say, he heard you like an angel, and spoke
evil of no one; but, seeing that he had no more vigour than a swallow,
it piqued me much how he would go out like that every night in all the
weather at the same hour for so long a promenade of the streets. And
when I interrogated him on this, he would only smile his smile of one
not there, and did not seem to know very much of what I was talking. I
said to myself: ‘There is something here to see, if I am not mistaken.
One of these good days I shall be your guardian angel while you fly the
night.’ For I am a connoisseur of strange things, _monsieur_, as you
know; though, you may well imagine, being in the streets all day long
between two boards of a sacred sandwich does not give you too strong a
desire to _flâner_ in the evenings. _Eh, bien!_ It was a night in late
October that I at last pursued him. He was not difficult to follow,
seeing he had no more guile than an egg; passing first at his walk of
an old shadow into your St. James’s Park along where your military
types puff out their chests for the nursemaids to admire. Very slowly
he went, leaning on a staff--_une canne de promenade_ such as I have
never seen, nearly six feet high, with an end like a shepherd’s
crook or the handle of a sword, a thing truly to make the _gamins_
laugh--even me it made to smile though I am too well accustomed to
mock at age and poverty, to watch him march in leaning on that cane. I
remember that night--very beautiful, the sky of a clear dark, the stars
as bright as they can ever be in these towns of our high civilisation,
and the leaf-shadows of the plane-trees, colour of grapes on the
pavement, so that one had not the heart to put foot on them. One of
those evenings when the spirit is light, and policemen a little dreamy
and well-wishing. Well, as I tell you, my Old marched, never looking
behind him, like a man who walks in sleep. By that big church--which,
like all those places, had its air of coldness, far and ungrateful
among us others, little human creatures who have built it--he passed,
into the great Eaton Square, whose houses ought well to be inhabited by
people very rich. There he crossed to lean him against the railings of
the garden in the centre, very tranquil, his long white beard falling
over hands joined on his staff, in awaiting what--I could not figure to
myself at all. It was the hour when your high _bourgeoisie_ return from
the theatre in their carriages, whose manikins sit, the arms crossed,
above horses fat as snails. And one would see through the window some
lady _bercée doucement_, with the face of one who has eaten too much
and loved too little. And gentlemen passed me, marching for a mouthful
of fresh air, _très comme il faut_, their concertina hats pushed up,
and nothing at all in their eyes. I remarked my Old, who, making no
movement watched them all as they went by, till presently a carriage
stopped at a house nearly opposite. At once, then he began to cross
the road quickly, carrying his great stick. I observed the lackey
pulling the bell and opening the carriage door, and three people coming
forth--a man, a woman, a young man. Very high _bourgeoisie_, some
judge, knight, mayor--what do I know?--with his wife and son, mounting
under the porch. My Old had come to the bottom of the steps, and spoke,
in bending himself forward, as if supplicating. At once those three
turned their faces, very astonished. Although I was very intrigued,
I could not hear what he was saying, for, if I came nearer, I feared
he would see me spying on him. Only the sound of his voice I heard,
gentle as always; and his hand I saw wiping his forehead, as though
he had carried something heavy from very far. Then the lady spoke to
her husband, and went into the house, and the young son followed in
lighting a cigarette. There rested only that good father of the family,
with his grey whiskers and nose a little bent, carrying an expression
as if my Old were making him ridiculous. He made a quick gesture, as
though he said, ‘Go!’ then he too fled softly. The door was shut.
At once the lackey mounted, the carriage drove away, and all was as
if it had never been, except that my Old was, standing there, quite
still. But soon he came returning carrying his staff as if it burdened
him. And recoiling in a porch to see him pass, I saw his visage full
of dolour, of one overwhelmed with fatigue and grief; so that I felt
my heart squeeze me. I must well confess, _monsieur_, I was a little
shocked to see this old sainted father asking as it seemed for alms.
That is a thing I myself have never done, not even in the greatest
poverty--one is not like your ‘gentlemen’--one does always some little
thing for the money he receives, if it is only to show a drunken man
where he lives. And I returned in meditating deeply over this problem,
which well seemed to me fit for the angels to examine; and knowing what
time my Old was always re-entering, I took care to be in my bed before
him. He came in as ever, treading softly so as not to wake us others,
and his face had again its serenity, a little ‘crackey.’ As you may
well have remarked, _monsieur_, I am not one of those individuals who
let everything grow under the nose without pulling them up to see how
they are made. For me the greatest pleasure is to lift the skirts of
life, to unveil what there is under the surface of things which are not
always what they seem, as says your good little poet. For that one must
have philosophy, and a certain industry, lacking to all those gentlemen
who think they alone are industrious because they sit in chairs and
blow into the telephone all day, in filling their pockets with money.
Myself, I coin knowledge of the heart--it is the only gold they cannot
take from you. So that night I lay awake. I was not content with what
I had seen; for I could not imagine why this old man, so unselfish, so
like a saint in thinking ever of others, should go thus every night to
beg, when he had always in this palace his bed, and that with which
to keep his soul within his rags. Certainly we all have our vices,
and gentlemen the most revered do, in secret, things they would cough
to see others doing; but that business of begging seemed scarcely in
his character of an old altruist--for in my experience, _monsieur_,
beggars are not less egoist than millionaires. As I say, it piqued me
much, and I resolved to follow him again. The second night was of the
most different. There was a great wind, and white clouds flying in
the moonlight. He commenced his pilgrimage in passing by your House
of Commons, as if toward the river. I like much that great river of
yours. There is in its career something of very grand; it ought to know
many things, although it is so silent, and gives to no one the secrets
which are confided to it. He had for objective, it seemed, that long
row of houses very respectable, which gives on the embankment, before
you arrive at Chelsea. It was painful to see the poor Old, bending
almost double against that great wind coming from the west. Not too
many carriages down here, and few people--a true wilderness, lighted
by tall lamps which threw no shadows, so clear was the moon. He took
his part soon, as of the other night, standing on the far side of the
road, watching for the return of some lion to his den. And presently
I saw one coming, accompanied by three lionesses, all taller than
himself. This one was bearded, and carried spectacles--a real head of
learning; walking, too, with the step of a man who knows his world.
Some professor--I said to myself--with his harem. They gained their
house at fifty paces from my Old; and, while this learned one was
opening the door, the three ladies lifted their noses in looking at the
moon. A little of æsthetic, a little of science--as always with that
type there! At once I had perceived my Old coming across, blown by the
wind like a grey stalk of thistle; and his face, with its expression
of infinite pain as if carrying the sufferings of the world. At the
moment they see him those three ladies drop their noses, and fly within
the house as if he were the pestilence, in crying, ‘Henry!’ And out
comes my _monsieur_ again, in his beard and spectacles. For me, I would
freely have given my ears to hear, but I saw that this good Henry had
his eye on me, and I did not budge, for fear to seem in conspiracy. I
heard him only say: ‘Impossible! Impossible! Go to the proper place!’
and he shut the door. My Old remained, with his long staff resting
on a shoulder bent as if that stick were of lead. And presently he
commenced to march again whence he had come, curved and trembling, the
very shadow of a man, passing me, too, as if I were the air. That time
also I regained my bed before him, in meditating very deeply, still
more uncertain of the psychology of this affair, and resolved once
again to follow him, saying to myself: ‘This time I shall run all risks
to hear.’ There are two kinds of men in this world, _monsieur_, one
who will not rest content till he has become master of all the toys
that make a fat existence--in never looking to see of what they are
made; and the other, for whom life is tobacco and a crust of bread,
and liberty to take all to pieces, so that his spirit may feel good
within him. Frankly I am of that kind. I rest never till I have found
out why this is that; for me mystery is the salt of life, and I must
well eat of it. I put myself again, then, to following him the next
night. This time he traversed those little dirty streets of your great
Westminster, where all is mixed in a true pudding of lords and poor
wretches at two sous the dozen; of cats and policemen; kerosene flames,
abbeys, and the odour of fried fish. Ah! truly it is frightful to see
your low streets in London; that gives me a conviction of hopelessness
such as I have never caught elsewhere; piquant, too, to find them so
near to that great House which sets example of good government to all
the world. There is an irony so ferocious there, _monsieur_, that one
can well hear the good God of your _bourgeois_ laugh in every wheel
that rolls, and the cry of each cabbage that is sold; and see him
smile in the smoky light of every flare, and in the candles of your
cathedral, in saying to himself: ‘I have well made this world. Is there
not variety here?--_en voilà une bonne soupe!_’ This time, however, I
attended my Old like his very shadow, and could hear him sighing as
he marched, as if he also found the atmosphere of those streets too
strong. But all of a sudden he turned a corner, and we were in the most
quiet, most beautiful little street I have seen in all your London. It
was of small, old houses, very regular, which made as if they inclined
themselves in their two rows before a great church at the end, grey in
the moonlight, like a mother. There was no one in that street, and no
more cover than hair on the head of a pope. But I had some confidence
now that my Old would not remark me standing there so close, since in
these pilgrimages he seemed to remark nothing. Leaning on his staff,
I tell you he had the air of an old bird in a desert, reposing on
one leg by a dry pool, his soul looking for water. It gave me that
notion one has sometimes in watching the rare spectacles of life--that
sentiment which, according to me, pricks artists to their work. We had
not stayed there too long before I saw a couple marching from the end
of the street, and thought: ‘Here they come to their nest.’ Vigorous
and gay they were, young married ones, eager to get home; one could see
the white neck of the young wife, the white shirt of the young man,
gleaming under their cloaks. I know them well, those young couples
in great cities, without a care, taking all things, the world before
them, _très amoureux_, without, as yet, children; jolly and pathetic,
having life still to learn--which, believe me, _monsieur_, is a sad
enough affair for nine rabbits out of ten. They stopped at the house
next to where I stood; and, since my Old was coming fast as always to
the feast, I put myself at once to the appearance of ringing the bell
of the house before me. This time I had well the chance of hearing.
I could see, too, the faces of all three, because I have by now the
habit of seeing out of the back hair. The pigeons were so anxious to
get to their nest that my Old had only the time to speak, as they were
in train to vanish. ‘Sir, let me rest in your doorway!’ _Monsieur_, I
have never seen a face so hopeless, so crippled with fatigue, yet so
full of a gentle dignity as that of my Old while he spoke those words.
It was as if something looked from his visage surpassing what belongs
to us others, so mortal and so cynic as human life must well render all
who dwell in this earthly paradise. He held his long staff upon one
shoulder, and I had the idea, sinister enough, that it was crushing his
body of a spectre down into the pavement. I know not how the impression
came, but it seemed to me that this devil of a stick had the nature of
a heavy cross reposing on his shoulder; I had pain to prevent myself
turning, to find if in truth ‘I had them’ as your drunkards say. Then
the young man called out: ‘Here’s a shilling for you, my friend!’ But
my old did not budge, answering always: ‘Sir, let me rest in your
doorway!’ As you may well imagine, _monsieur_, we were all in the
silence of astonishment, I pulling away at my bell next door, which was
not ringing, seeing I took care it did not; and those two young people
regarding my Old with eyes round as moons, out of their pigeon-house,
which I could well see was prettily feathered. Their hearts were making
seesaw, I could tell; for at that age one is still impressionable.
Then the girl put herself to whispering, and her husband said those two
words of your young ‘gentlemen,’ ‘Awfully sorry!’ and put out his hand,
which held now a coin large as a saucer. But again my Old only said:
‘Sir, let me rest in your doorway!’ And the young man drew back his
hand quickly as if he were ashamed, and saying again, ‘Sorry!’ he shut
the door. I have heard many sighs in my time--they are the good little
accompaniments to the song we sing, we others who are in poverty; but
the sigh my Old pushed then--how can I tell you--had an accent as if it
came from Her, the faithful companion, who marches holding the hands
of men and women so that they may never make the grand mistake to
imagine themselves for a moment the good God. Yes, _monsieur_, it was
as if pursued by Suffering herself, that bird of the night, never tired
of flying in this world where they talk always of cutting her wings.
Then I took my resolution, and, coming gently from behind, said: ‘My
Old--what is it? Can I do anything for you?’ Without looking at me,
he spoke as to himself: ‘I shall never find one who will let me rest
in his doorway. For my sin I shall wander forever!’ At this moment,
_monsieur_, there came to me an inspiration so clear that I marvelled
I had not already had it a long time before. He thought himself the
Wandering Jew! I had well found it. This was certainly his fixed idea,
of a cracked old man! And I said: ‘My Jew, do you know this? In doing
what you do, you have become as Christ, in a world of wandering Jews!’
But he did not seem to hear me, and only just as we arrived at our
palace became again that old gentle being, thinking never of himself.”
Behind the smoke of his cigarette, a smile curled Ferrand’s red lips
under his long nose a little on one side.
“And, if you think of it, _monsieur_, it is well like that. Provided
there exists always that good man of a Wandering Jew, he will certainly
have become as Christ, in all these centuries of being refused from
door to door. Yes, yes, he must well have acquired charity the most
profound that this world has ever seen, in watching the crushing virtue
of others. All those gentry, of whom he asks night by night to let him
rest in their doorways, they tell him where to go, how to _ménager_
his life, even offer him money, as I had seen; but, to let him rest,
to trust him in their houses--this strange old man--as a fellow, a
brother voyager--that they will not; it is hardly in the character
of good citizens in a Christian country. And, as I have indicated to
you, this Old of mine, cracked as he was, thinking himself that Jew
who refused rest to the good Christ, had become, in being refused for
ever, the most Christ-like man I have ever encountered on this earth,
which, according to me, is composed almost entirely of those who have
themselves the character of the Wandering Jew.”
Puffing out a sigh of smoke, Ferrand added: “I do not know whether he
continued to pursue his idea, for I myself took the road next morning,
and I have never seen him since.”