Aaron the Jew: A Novel

by B. L. Farjeon

"Let me come and talk to you."

"Yes, father, come and talk to me of your poor, to whom you are so good. You do so much; I, being blind, can do so little. If you will allow me----" She offered him some gold pieces, and he accepted them.

"The Holy Mother have you in her keeping," he said; and went his way.

Dogs and horses were her friends, and were instinctively conscious of her presence. She scattered food for the birds, and they soon grew to know her; some would even pick crumbs from her hand. "I do not think," she said, "they would trust me so if I were not blind. They know I cannot see, and cannot harm them." Aaron thought differently; not a creature that drew breath could fail to trust and love this sweet woman whom God had spared to him.

Whom God had spared to him! When the thought thus expressed itself, he raised his eyes to Heaven in supplication.

She was the first to taste the sweet breath of spring. "Spring is coming," she said; "the birds are trilling the joyful news. How busy they are over their nests, the little chatterers, telling one another the news as they work! In a little while we shall see the flowers." She invariably spoke of things as if she could see them, as doubtless she did with spiritual sight, investing them with a beauty which was not of this world. It was her delight in summer to sit beneath the branches of a favourite cherry tree, and to follow with her ears the gambols of her children. For she had two now. A year after they left Gosport another child was born to them, Joseph, to whom Aaron clave with intense and passionate love. It was not that he was cold to Ruth, that he was not unremitting in showing her affection, but in his love for his son there was a finer quality, of which no one but himself was conscious. He had prayed for another child, and his prayer was answered. In the first flush of his happiness he was tempted to regard this gift of God as a token that his sin was forgiven, but he soon thrust this reflection aside, refusing to accept his own interpretation of his sin as an atonement for its committal. It was presumptuous in man to set lines and boundaries to the judgment of the Eternal. It was to Rachel that this blessing was vouchsafed, for a time might come when she would find in it a consolation for a revelation that would embitter the sweet waters of life. Both the children were pretty and engaging, and had winning and endearing ways, which, in the mother's sightless eyes, were magnified a thousandfold. In the following year a picture by a famous painter was exhibited in the Paris salon; it was entitled "A Jewish Mother," and represented a woman sitting beneath a cherry tree in flower, with two young children gambolling on the turf at her feet. In the background were two men, the curé of the village and a Jew, the latter being the woman's husband, and looking like a modern Moses. The faces of the men--one full-fleshed, with massive features and a grand beard, the other spare and lean, with thin, clear-cut features and a close-shaven face--formed a fine contrast. But although the points of this contrast were brought out in masterly fashion, and although the rustic scene was full of beauty, the supreme attraction of the picture lay in the woman. In her sightless eyes dwelt the spirit of peace and purity, and there was an angelic sweetness and resignation in her face as, with head slightly inclined, she listened to the prattle of her children. You could almost hear a sigh of happiness issue from her lips. The woman's face photographed itself upon the minds of all who beheld it, and it is not too much to say that it carried with it an influence for good. Years afterwards, when their visit to the salon was forgotten, it made itself visible to their mind's eye, and always with beneficial suggestion. So it is also with a pure poem or story; the impression it leaves is an incentive to kindly act and tolerant judgment; it softens, it ameliorates, it brings into play the higher attributes of human nature, and in its practical results a benefit is conferred equally upon the sufferer by the wayside and the Samaritan who pours oil upon his wounds. The critics were unanimous in their praises of the picture. "Who is the woman?" they asked, and no one could answer the question except the painter, and he held his tongue.

The secret was this. The famous painter, passing through the village with the subject of his next great picture in his mind, saw Rachel, and was spellbound by the purity and grace of her face and figure. Travelling under an assumed name, in order that he should not be disturbed by the trumpet blasts of fame--a proof (clear to few men) that there is pleasure in obscurity--he cast aside the subject of the great picture he had intended to paint, and determined to take his inspiration from Rachel. He was assured from what he heard of her that he was in the presence of a good woman, and he was deeply impressed by her gentleness and grace. He did not find it difficult to obtain an introduction to Aaron, who invited him home, where he made himself welcome--no difficult matter, for Aaron was ever ready to appreciate intellect. Many an evening did the painter pass with them, sometimes in company with the curé, and many a friendly argument did they have. The priest and the artist were surprised at the wide range of subjects with which Aaron was familiar, and upon which he could converse with fluent ease. Upon great themes he spoke with so much force and clearness that even when they differed from him he generally succeeded in weakening their convictions. It was not his early schooling that made him so comprehensive and clear-sighted; a man's education depends chiefly upon himself--teachers and masters play but a subsidiary part, and all the coaching in the world will not make a weak intellect strong. Superficial knowledge may be gained; but it is as transient as a shadow, and in its effect is valueless in the business of life. Aaron was not a classical scholar; he was something better--a painstaking student, who extracted from his extensive reading the essence of a subject, and took no heed of the husk and shell in which it was embedded. Firm, perhaps to some extent dogmatic, in matters of religion, he was gifted with a large-hearted toleration which led him to look with a kindly eye upon men who did not think as he did; but his final judgment was the judgment of a well-balanced mind.

The artist did not ask Rachel and Aaron to be his models, but he made innumerable sketches of them, and remained in the village long enough to accumulate all the principal points and accessories for his picture. Then he departed and painted his masterpiece elsewhere. Some time afterwards he revisited the village with the intention of making acknowledgment for the inspiration, but Aaron and his family had departed, and the painter's secret was undivulged.

As it was with Rachel in winter and spring, so was it in summer and autumn. The flowers, the butterflies, the fragrant perfume of garden and hedgerow, all appealed powerfully to her, and all were in kinship with her. The village children would follow her in the gloaming, singing their simple songs; brawlers, ashamed, would cease contending when she came in sight; women would stand at their cottage doors and gaze reverently upon her as she passed. Not a harsh thought was harboured against her and hers; her gentle spirit was an incentive to gentleness; she was a living, tender embodiment of peace on earth and goodwill to all. The whisper of the corn in the autumn, when the golden stalks bowed their heads to the passing breeze, conveyed a Divine message to her soul; and, indeed, she said seriously to Aaron that she sometimes fancied she heard voices in the air, and that they brought a sense of ineffable pleasure to her heart.

In the ordinary course of events the partnership came to an end. The engineer was invited to Russia to undertake an important work for the Government, and Aaron would not accompany him.