Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (442 page)

After taking the book and examining the fly-leaves without rising, 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 held the book close on his lap with his hand on it and looked examiningly at Deronda, over whom there came the disagreeable idea, that possibly this striking personage wanted to see how much could be got out of a customer’s ignorance of prices. But without further reflection 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 sort of inspection as well as questioning he was under.

But immediately the strange Jew rose from his sitting posture, and Deronda felt a thin hand pressing his arm tightly, while a hoarse, excited voice, not much above a loud whisper, said —

“You are perhaps of our race?”

Deronda colored deeply, not liking the grasp, and then answered with a slight shake of the head, “No.” The grasp was relaxed, the hand withdrawn, the eagerness of the face collapsed into uninterested melancholy, as if some possessing spirit which had leaped into the eyes and gestures had sunk back again to the inmost recesses of the frame; and moving further off as he held out the little book, the stranger said in a tone of distant civility, “I believe Mr. Ram will be satisfied with half-a-crown, sir.”

The effect of this change on Deronda — he afterward smiled when he recalled it — was oddly embarrassing and humiliating, as if some high dignitary had found him deficient and given him his
congé
. There was nothing further to be said, however: he paid his half-crown and carried off his
Salomon Maimon’s Lebensgeschichte
with a mere “good-morning.”

He felt some vexation at the sudden arrest of the interview, and the apparent prohibition that he should know more of this man, who was certainly something out of the common way — as different probably as a Jew could well be from Ezra Cohen, through whose door Deronda was presently entering, and whose flourishing face glistening on the way to fatness was hanging over the counter in negotiation with some one on the other side of the partition, concerning two plated stoppers and three teaspoons, which lay spread before him. Seeing Deronda enter, he called out “Mother! Mother!” and then with a familiar nod and smile, said, “Coming, sir — coming directly.”

Deronda could not help looking toward the door from the back with some anxiety, which was not soothed when he saw a vigorous woman beyond fifty enter and approach to serve him. Not that there was anything very repulsive about her: the worst that could be said was that she had that look of having made her toilet with little water, and by twilight, which is common to unyouthful people of her class, and of having presumably slept in her large earrings, if not in her rings and necklace. In fact, what caused a sinking of heart in Deronda was, her not being so coarse and ugly as to exclude the idea of her being Mirah’s mother. Any one who has looked at a face to try and discern signs of known kinship in it will understand his process of conjecture — how he tried to think away the fat which had gradually disguised the outlines of youth, and to discern what one may call the elementary expressions of the face. He was sorry to see no absolute negative to his fears. Just as it was conceivable that this Ezra, brought up to trade, might resemble the scapegrace father in everything but his knowledge and talent, so it was not impossible that this mother might have had a lovely refined daughter whose type of feature and expression was like Mirah’s. The eyebrows had a vexatious similarity of line; and who shall decide how far a face may be masked when the uncherishing years have thrust it far onward in the ever-new procession of youth and age? The good-humor of the glance remained and 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,” said
Deronda; “the larger ones, please, in the corner there.”

They were not quite easy to get at from the mother’s station, and the son seeing this called out, “I’ll reach ‘em, mother; I’ll reach ‘em,” running forward with alacrity, and then handing 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. When there’s a particular gentleman customer, sir, I daren’t do any other than call her. But I can’t let her do herself mischief with stretching.”

Here Mr. Cohen made way again for his parent, who gave a little guttural, amiable laugh while she looked at Deronda, as much as to say, “This boy will be at his jokes, but you see he’s the best son in the world,” and evidently the son enjoyed pleasing her, though he also wished to convey an apology to his distinguished customer for not giving him the advantage of his own exclusive attention.

Deronda began to examine the clasps as if he had many points to observe before he could come to a decision.

“They are only three guineas, sir,” said the mother, encouragingly.

“First-rate workmanship, sir — worth twice the money; only I get ‘em a bargain from Cologne,” said the son, parenthetically, 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 black-eyed little one, its head already covered with black curls, and deposited it on the counter, from which station 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, as the puppy lions show the spots of far-off progenitors. The young woman answering to “Addy” — a sort of paroquet in a bright blue dress, with coral necklace and earrings, her hair set up in a huge bush — looked as complacently lively and unrefined as her husband; and by a certain 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 the mother of Mirah. While that thought was glancing through his mind, the boy had run forward into the shop with an energetic stamp, and setting himself about four feet from Deronda, with his hands in the pockets of his miniature knickerbockers, looked at him with a precocious air of survey. Perhaps it was chiefly with a diplomatic design to linger and ingratiate himself that Deronda patted the boy’s head, saying —

“What is your name, sirrah?”

“Jacob Alexander Cohen,” said the small man, with much ease and distinctness.

“You are not named after your father, then?”

“No, after my grandfather; he sells knives and razors and scissors — my grandfather does,” 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, both naturally and artificially dark, 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 and retreated a little, holding the two knives in his palms and bending over them in meditative comparison. By this time the other clients were gone, and the whole family had gathered to the spot, centering their attention on the marvelous Jacob: the father, mother, and grandmother behind the counter, with baby held staggering thereon, and the little girl in front leaning at her brother’s elbow to assist him in looking at the knives.

“Mine’s the best,” said Jacob, at last, returning Deronda’s knife as if he had been entertaining 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, with much confidence in the customer’s admiration. Deronda, looking at the grandmother, who had only an inward silent laugh, said —

“Are these the only grandchildren you have?”

“All. This is my only son,” she answered in a communicative tone,
Deronda’s glance and manner as usual conveying the impression of
sympathetic interest — which on this occasion answered his purpose well.
It seemed to come naturally enough that he should say —

“And you have no daughter?”

There was an instantaneous change in the mother’s face. Her lips closed more firmly, she looked down, swept her hands outward on the counter, and finally turned her back on Deronda to examine some Indian handkerchiefs that hung in pawn behind her. Her son gave a significant glance, set up his shoulders an instant and just 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, with a preoccupied air, “I have nothing to do with the city.”

“That’s a bad job. I thought you might be the young principal of a first-rate firm,” said Mr. Cohen, wishing to make amends for the check on his customer’s natural desire to know more of him and his. “But you understand silver-work, I see.”

“A little,” said Deronda, taking up the clasps a moment and laying them down again. That unwelcome bit of circumstantial evidence had made his mind busy with a plan which was certainly more like acting than anything he had been aware of in his own conduct before. But the bare possibility that more knowledge might nullify the evidence now overpowered the inclination to rest in uncertainty.

“To tell you the truth,” he went on, “my errand is not so much to buy as to borrow. I dare say you go into rather heavy transactions occasionally.”

“Well, sir, I’ve accommodated gentlemen of distinction — I’m proud to say it. I wouldn’t exchange my business with any in the world. There’s none more honorable, 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, I like my street, and I like my shop. I wouldn’t have it a door further down. And I wouldn’t be without a pawn-shop, sir, to be the Lord Mayor. It puts you in connection with the world at large. I say it’s like the government revenue — it embraces the brass as well as the gold of the country. And a man who doesn’t get money, sir, can’t accommodate. Now, what can I do for
you
, sir?”

If an amiable self-satisfaction is the mark of earthly bliss, Solomon in all his glory was a pitiable mortal compared with Mr. Cohen — clearly one of those persons, who, being in excellent spirits about themselves, are willing to cheer strangers by letting them know it. While he was delivering himself with lively rapidity, he took the baby from his wife and holding it on his arm presented his features to be explored by its small fists. Deronda, not in a cheerful mood, was rashly pronouncing this Ezra Cohen to be the most unpoetic Jew he had ever met with in books or life: his phraseology was as little as possible like that of the Old Testament: and 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. It is naturally a Christian feeling that a Jew ought not to be conceited. However, this was no reason for not persevering in his project, and he answered at once in adventurous ignorance of technicalities —

“I have a fine diamond ring to offer as security — not with me at this moment, unfortunately, for I am not in the habit of wearing it. But I will come again this evening and bring it with me. 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 accommodation is a work of charity; 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?”