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(Harvard University)
A FEW PRESS OPINIONS
ON
"AARON THE JEW."
BY
B. L. FARJEON.
* * * *
Globe.
"Aaron is a most engaging figure; nothing loftier, purer, sweeter, can
be imagined than the beautiful tie which unites him to his gentle,
true-hearted Rachel."
Speaker.
"In many respects a really powerful story, strong and sympathetic. The
book is infinitely superior in tone and motive to much of the current
fiction."
Guardian.
"A very tender and touching sketch, showing what a beautiful and noble
life is possible to a Jew who would really live in the true spirit of
his simple faith and the best traditions of his people. Charming
pictures of Jewish household life.... Exceedingly pleasant to read."
Daily Telegraph.
"Written with earnestness, sincerity, and lively sympathy with all that
is good, generous, and tender."
The Scotsman.
"Powerful studies of lofty human character. It is full of genuine
life, of real men and women, and of sustained interest.... A
delightful story. 'Aaron the Jew' is a strong and original piece of
work, and will well repay perusal."
Lady's Pictorial.
"This book has been received with such a chorus of praise that nothing
is left to say. It is the best novel that Mr. Farjeon has produced
since 'Grif.'"
Glasgow Herald.
"'Aaron the Jew' is a benevolent and beautiful character. The story is
an interesting one."
Western Morning News.
"Mr. Farjeon has never written a more natural and touching story than
this of 'Aaron the Jew.' All his characters are of an attractive and
noble-minded type."
Westminster Gazette.
"Very simply and touchingly written; rises to the level of real
pathos."
Jewish Chronicle.
"The book is interesting, and is a worthy addition to the Jewish
stories which are so much in fashion just now."
Jewish World.
"'Aaron the Jew' is a contribution to light fiction, all the more
welcome because its very slightness may cause it to be read by people
who still know nothing of Jews and Judaism, and so tend to remove
senseless prejudices."
Record.
"A powerfully written work."
World.
"Mr. Farjeon's new novel, 'Aaron the Jew,' is his best work since
'Grif' made him known to the reading world as a writer of fiction
gifted with exceptional power and originality. The story is finely
conceived and worked out with great care and lucidity."
Liverpool Daily Post.
"The book is, indeed, in every way an excellent production of Mr.
Farjeon's pen, and will no doubt attain the popularity it
unquestionably deserves."
_AARON THE JEW_
A Novel
_By_
_B. L. FARJEON_
AUTHOR OF
"_Great Porter Square_," "_Grif_," "_Blade o' Grass_,"
"_The Last Tenant_," _etc._, _etc_.
London, 1895
HUTCHINSON & CO
34, _PATERNOSTER ROW_
_All rights reserved_
_CHEAP AND POPULAR EDITION_.
* * * * * *
THE LAST TENANT
BY
B. L. FARJEON.
_In crown 8vo, cloth gilt, gilt top, 2s. 6d.;_
_picture boards, 2s_.
* * * * * *
"A well written novel of absorbing interest."
_Scotsman_.
"The story enchains the reader's attention from the first page to the
last."--_Yorkshire Post_.
"Must be pronounced a successful piece of detective narration. Those
who like a good detective story will find what they want in 'The Last
Tenant.'"
_Manchester Guardian_.
* * * * * *
London: HUTCHINSON & CO., Paternoster Row.
CONTENTS.
BOOK THE FIRST.
_MOTHER AND CHILD_.
* * * *
CHAP.
I. THE POOR DOCTOR.
II. DR. SPENLOVE'S VISITOR.
III. DR. SPENLOVE UNDERTAKES A DELICATE MISSION.
IV. FLIGHT.
V. DEATH BETTER THAN LIFE.
VI. THE FRIEND IN NEED.
VII. DR. SPENLOVE ADVISES.
VIII. WHAT WAS PUT IN THE IRON BOX.
IX. MR. MOSS PLAYS HIS PART.
BOOK THE SECOND.
_RACHEL_.
* * * *
X. THE VISION IN THE CHURCHYARD.
XI. MR. WHIMPOLE INTRODUCES HIMSELF.
XII. THE COURSE OF THE SEASONS.
XIII. AARON COHEN PREACHES A SERMON ON LARGE NOSES.
XIV. A PROCLAMATION OF WAR.
XV. THE BATTLE IS FOUGHT AND WON.
XVI. JOY AND SORROW.
XVII. DIVINE CONSOLATION.
BOOK THE THIRD.
_THE TEMPTATION AND THE FALL_.
* * * *
XVIII. UNTO THEM A CHILD IS BORN.
XIX. BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH.
XX. A MOMENTOUS NIGHT.
XXI. OVER A BRIGHT CLOUD A BLACK SHADOW FALLS.
XXII. THE LIVING AND THE DEAD.
XXIII. PLUCKED FROM THE JAWS OF DEATH.
XXIV. THE CURTAIN FALLS AWHILE.
BOOK THE FOURTH.
_HONOUR AND PROGRESS_.
* * * *
XXV. AFTER MANY YEARS.
XXVI. THE FOUNDATION OF AARON'S FORTUNE.
XXVII. THE FEAST OF PASSOVER.
XXVIII. RACHEL'S LIFE IN THE NEW LAND.
XXIX. THE FAREWELL.
XXX. AT THE GRAVE OF HIS CHILD.
BOOK THE FIFTH.
_THE GATHERING OF THE CLOUD_.
* * * *
XXXI. AARON IS ASKED FOR A SUBSCRIPTION, AND RELATES THE
STORY OF A CONVERT.
XXXII. AARON COHEN ADDRESSES A JEWISH AUDIENCE.
XXXIII. WHAT SHALL BE DONE TO THE MAN WHOM THE KING DELIGHTETH
TO HONOUR?
XXXIV. THE HONOURABLE PERCY STORNDALE.
XXXV. THE SPIRIT OF THE DEAD PAST.
XXXVI. BEFORE ALL, DUTY.
BOOK THE SIXTH.
_RETRIBUTION_.
* * * *
XXXVII. ESTHER MOSS RECEIVES A LETTER.
XXXVIII. RUTH'S SECRET.
XXXIX. THE HONOURABLE PERCY STORNDALE MAKES AN APPEAL TO
AARON COHEN.
XL. A DUTY PERFORMED.
XLI. THERE IS A PROVIDENCE THAT SHAPES OUR ENDS.
XLII. A MOTHER'S JOY.
XLIII. A PANIC IN THE CITY.
XLIV. THE CONFESSION.
XLV. A POISONED ARROW.
XLVI. RETRIBUTION.
AARON THE JEW.
* * *
BOOK THE FIRST.
_MOTHER AND CHILD_.
CHAPTER I.
THE POOR DOCTOR.
On a bright, snowy night in December, 1871, Dr. Spenlove, having been
employed all the afternoon and evening in paying farewell visits to
his patients, walked briskly towards his home through the narrowest
and most squalid thoroughfares in Portsmouth. The animation of his
movements may be set down to the severity of the weather, and not to
any inward cheerfulness of spirits, for as he passed familiar
landmarks, he looked at them with a certain regret, which men devoid
of sentiment would have pronounced an indication of a weak nature. In
this opinion, however, they would have been wrong, for Dr. Spenlove's
intended departure early the following morning from a field which had
strong claims upon his sympathies was dictated by a law of inexorable
necessity. He was a practitioner of considerable skill, and he had
conscientiously striven to achieve a reputation in some measure
commensurate with his abilities. From a worldly point of view his
efforts had been attended with mortifying failure; he had not only
been unsuccessful in earning a bare livelihood, but he had completely
exhausted the limited resources with which he had started upon his
career; he had, moreover, endured severe privation, and an opening
presenting itself in the wider field of London, he had accepted it
with gladness and reluctance. With gladness, because he was an
ambitious man, and had desires apart from his profession; with
reluctance, because it pained him to bid farewell to patients in whom
he took a genuine interest, and whom he would have liked to continue
to befriend. He had, indeed, assisted many of them to the full extent
of his power, and in some instances had gone beyond this limit,
depriving himself of the necessaries of life to supply them with
medicines and nourishing food, and robbing his nights of rest to
minister to their woes. He bore about him distinguishing marks of the
beautiful self-sacrifice. On this last night of his residence among
them, his purse was empty, and inclement as was the weather, he wore,
on his road home, but one thin coat, which was but a feeble protection
from the freezing air, which pierced to his skin, though every button
was put to its proper use. A hacking cough, which caused him to pause
occasionally, denoted that he was running a dangerous risk in being so
insufficiently clad; but he seemed to make light of it, and smiled
when the paroxysm was over. In no profession can be found displayed a
more noble humanity and philanthropy than in that which Dr. Spenlove
practised, and, needy as he was, and narrow as had been his means from
the start, his young career already afforded a striking example of
sweet and unselfish attributes. In the Divine placing of human hosts,
the poor doctor and the poor priest shall be found marching in the van
side by side.
During the whole of the day snow had been falling, and during the
whole of the day Dr. Spenlove had had but one meal. He did not
complain; he had been accustomed to live from hand to mouth, and well
knew what it was to go to bed hungry; and there was before him the
prospect of brighter times.
But cheering as was this prospect, his walk home through the falling
snow was saddened by the scenes he had witnessed in the course of the
day; and one especially dwelt in his mind.
"Poor creature!" he mused. "What will become of her and her baby? O
pitiless world! Does it not contain a single human being who will hold
out a helping hand?"
Before one of the poorest houses in one of the poorest streets he
paused, and, admitting himself with a private latchkey, unlocked a
door on the ground floor, and entered a room which faced the street.
There was a wire blind to the window, on which was inscribed,--
CONSULTATIONS FROM 9 TILL 11 A.M.
This room, with a communicating bedroom at the back, comprised his
professional and private residence.
Dr. Spenlove groped in the dark for the matches, and, lighting a
candle, applied a match to a fire laid with scrupulous economy in the
matter of coals. As he was thus employed, his landlady knocked at the
door and entered.
"Is it you, Mrs. Radcliffe?" he asked, not turning his head.
"Yes, sir. Let me do that, please."
The paper he had lit in the grate was smouldering away without
kindling the wood; the landlady knelt down, and with a skilful touch
the flame leapt up. Dr. Spenlove, unbuttoning his thin coat, spread
out his hands to the warmth.
"Any callers, Mrs. Radcliffe?"
"A gentleman, sir, who seemed very anxious to see you. He did not
leave his name or card, but said he would call again this evening."
"Did he mention the hour?"
"Nine, sir."
Dr. Spenlove put his hand to his waistcoat pocket, and quickly
withdrew it, with a smile of humour and self-pity. The landlady
noticed the action, and dolefully shook her head.
"Very anxious to see me, you say, Mrs. Radcliffe."
"Very anxious indeed, sir. Dear, dear, you're wet through!"
"It is a bitter night," he said, coughing.
"You may well say that, sir. Bad weather for you to be out, with that
nasty cough of yours."
"There are many people worse off than I am, without either fire or
food."
"We all have our trials, sir. It's a hard world."
"Indeed, indeed!" he said, thinking of the female patient whom he had
last visited.
"Where's your overcoat, sir? I'll take it down to the kitchen; it'll
dry sooner there." She looked around in vain for it.
"Never mind my overcoat, Mrs. Radcliffe."
"But you had it on when you went out, sir?"
"Did I? Don't trouble about it. It will dry quickly enough where it
is."
He was now busily employed making a parcel of books and instruments,
which he had taken from different parts of the room, and which were
the only articles of value belonging to himself it contained. The
landlady stood for a moment or two watching his movements, and then
she hurried down to her kitchen, and presently returned with a cup of
hot tea. As she passed through the passage, with the cup in one hand
and a candle in the other, she glanced at the empty umbrella stand.
"His umbrella, too, as well as his overcoat," she muttered. "The man's
heart's too big for his body!"
She re-entered the room.
"I've brought you a cup of tea, sir, if you don't mind taking it."
"Not at all, Mrs. Radcliffe. It is very kind of you."
He drank the tea, which warmed him through and through.
"We're all sorry at your leaving us, sir," said the landlady. "There's
plenty that'll miss you."
"I am sorry, too," he replied; "but when needs must, you know. I can
do no good to myself or others by remaining. If the gentleman calls
again, ask him to wait, if his business is of importance. You had
better tell him I am leaving Portsmouth to-morrow morning."
With his parcel under his arm he left the house, and trudging through
the snow again, halted at a pawnbroker's shop, lingering awhile before
he entered, as sensitive men do before putting the finishing touch to
a humiliating act. Then, shrugging his shoulders, and muttering, "I
ought to be used to it by this time," he plunged into the shop, where
he obtained upon his few last treasures as much as would pay his
third-class fare to London and the two weeks' rent he owed his
landlady. Thus safe-guarded for a few hours at least, he left the
shop, but instead of immediately retracing his steps to his lodgings
he lingered once more irresolutely, with the air of a man who was at
war with himself upon a momentous question. The sixteen shillings due
to his landlady was in his pocket, and undoubtedly it was but simple
honesty that it should be handed over to her without hesitation. But
the hapless female patient who had occupied his thoughts during the
last hour was at this moment in the throes of a desperate human
crisis, and dark as was the present to her suffering soul, the terrors
which the future held in store for her were still more agonising. She
had a young baby at her breast; she had no food in her cupboard, not a
loaf of bread, not a cup of milk; she had not a friend in the world to
whom she could appeal for help. She, too, was in debt to her landlord,
a hard man who was waiting for another sun to rise to thrust her and
her infant into the white and pitiless streets. It would have been
done to-day but for the intervention of Dr. Spenlove, who had pawned
his overcoat and umbrella to buy of the poor creature's landlord a
respite of twenty-four hours. The sixteen shillings due to Mrs.
Radcliffe would buy her another respite for a longer term, but when
this was expired there was still the hopeless future to face. Dr.
Spenlove thrust aside this latter consideration, and thought only of
the ineffable relief it was in his power to bring to a heart racked
with anguish and despair. He lost sight of the fact that the wretched
woman would still be without food, and that she was too weak to work
for it. Even when she was strong, and able to ply her needle
throughout the whole of the day and the greater part of the night, her
earnings had never exceeded six shillings a week; she had confessed as
much to the good doctor, but for whose timely aid the workhouse would
have been her only refuge. As he stood debating with himself the
sentiment of pity was strong within him, but he could not banish the
voice of justice which whispered that the money was not his to dispose
of. All the people with whom he was acquainted were poor, and his
landlady was as poor as the rest; he knew that she often depended upon
the payment of his rent to pay her own. It might be that just now she
could afford to wait awhile for what was due to her; if so, he would
dispose of the sixteen shillings as his benevolent instincts impelled
him to do; he must, however, ascertain how the land lay before he
acted. It may appear strange to many fortunate persons that issues so
grave and vital should hang upon a sum of money which to them would
not be worth a thought; but it would be a good lesson for them to
learn that opportunities are not scarce for bringing Heaven's
brightest sunshine to overcharged hearts by the judicious bestowal of
a few small coins out of the wealth which yields them all the material
comforts of life.
Having made up his mind upon the important matter, Dr. Spenlove turned
homewards, and as he walked he recalled the incidents in connection
with the unhappy woman in which he had played a part. She was a
stranger in the neighbourhood, and had lived her lonely life in a
garret for five months. No person with whom she came in contact knew
anything of her or of her antecedents, and it was by chance that he
became acquainted with her. Attending to his poor patients in the
street in which she resided, he passed her one afternoon, and was
attracted as much by her modest and ladylike appearance as by the
evidence of extreme weakness, which could hardly escape the
observation of a man so kindly-hearted as himself. He perceived at
once that she was of a superior class to those among whom she moved,
and he was impressed by a peculiar expression on her face when his
eyes rested on her. It was the expression of a hunted woman, of one
who was in hiding and dreaded being recognised. He made inquiries
about her, but no one could give him any information concerning her,
and in the press of onerous cares and duties she passed out of his
mind. Some weeks later he met her again, and his first impressions
were renewed and strengthened; and pity stirred his heart as he
observed from her garments that she was on the downward path of
poverty. It was clear that she was frightened by his observance of
her, for she hurried quickly on; but physical weakness frustrated her
desire to avoid him; she staggered and would have fallen had he not
ran forward and caught her. Weak as she was she struggled to release
herself; he kept firm hold of her, however, animated by compassion and
fortified by honest intention.
"You have nothing to fear from me," he said. "Allow me to assist you.
I am Dr. Spenlove."
It was the first time he had addressed her, but his name was familiar
to her as that of a gentleman to whom the whole neighbourhood was
under a debt of gratitude for numberless acts of goodness. She glanced
timidly at his face, and a vague hope stirred her heart; she knew that
the time was approaching when she would need such a friend. But the
hope did not live long; it was crushed by a sudden fear.
"Do you know me, sir?"
"No," replied Dr. Spenlove, in a cheerful tone. "You are a stranger to
me, as I have no doubt I am to you."
"You are not quite a stranger, sir," she said, timidly. "I have heard
of your kindness to many suffering people."
"Tush, tush!" he exclaimed. "A man deserves no credit for doing his
duty. You feel stronger now, do you not? If you have no doctor you
must allow me to come and see you. Do not hesitate; you need such
advice as I can give you; and," he added gently, "I will send in my
account when you are rich. Not till then, upon my honour; and
meanwhile I promise to ask no questions."
"I am deeply grateful to you, sir."
And, indeed, when they parted the world was a little brighter to the
poor soul.
From that day he attended her regularly, and she was strengthened and
comforted by his considerate conduct towards her. She was known as
Mrs. Turner; but it was strange, if she were wife or widow, that she
should wear no wedding-ring. As their intimacy ripened his first
impression that she was a lady was confirmed, and although he was
naturally curious about her history, he kept his promise by not asking
her any questions which he instinctively felt it would be painful to
her to answer. Even when he discovered that she was about to become a
mother he made no inquiries concerning the father of her unborn child.
On the day he bade her farewell, her baby, a girl, was two weeks old,
and a dark and terrible future lay before the hapless woman. His heart
bled for her, but he was powerless to help her further. Weak and
despairing, she sat in her chair with her child at her wasted breast;
her dark and deep-sunken eyes seemed to be contemplating this future
in hopeless terror.
"I am grieved to leave you so," he said, gazing sadly at her; "but it
is out of my power to do what I would wish. Unhappily, I am almost as
poor as yourself. You will try to get strong, will you not?"
"I don't know," she murmured.
"Remember," he said, taking her hand, "you have a duty to perform.
What will you do when you are strong?"
"I don't know."
"Nay, nay," he gently urged, "you must not speak so despondently.
Believe me, I do not wish to force your confidence, but I have
gathered from chance words you have let drop that you lived in London.
I am going there to-morrow. Can I call upon any person who would be
likely to assist you?"
"There is no one."
"But surely you must have some friends or relations----"
"I have none. When you leave me I shall be without a friend in the
world."
"God help you!" he sighed.
"Will He?"
The question was asked in the voice of one who had abandoned hope, who
had lost faith in human goodness and eternal justice, and who was
tasting the bitterness of death.
Dr. Spenlove remained with her an hour, striving to cheer her, to
instil hope into her heart, but his words had no effect upon her; and,
indeed, he felt at times that the platitudes to which he was giving
utterance were little better than mockery. Was not this woman face to
face with the practical issues of life and death in their most awful
aspect, and was it not a stern fact that there was but one practical
remedy for them? She asked for bread, and he was offering her a stone.
It was then he went from her room and learned the full truth from her
landlord, who was only waiting till he was gone to turn her into the
streets. We know by what means he bought a day's respite for her.
Finally he left her, and bore away with him the darkest picture of
human misery of which he had ever had experience.