Chapter Forty-six
The time had come to prepare Mordecai for the revelation of the restored sister and for the change of abode which was desirable before Mirah’s meeting with her brother. Mrs. Meyrick had helped Deronda to find a suitable lodging in Brompton, not far from her own house, so that the brother and sister would be within reach of her motherly care. She had kept the secret from the girls as well as from Hans, as any betrayal to them might reach Mirah and cause her agitation that would spoil the important opening of the work which was to secure her independence.
And both Mrs. Meyrick and Deronda had private reasons for desiring that Mirah should be able to maintain herself. “The little mother” felt some dubiousness about the remarkable brother described to her; and certainly if she felt any joy, it was due to her faith in Deronda’s judgment. Mordecai’s consumption was a sorrowful fact that appealed to her tenderness; but how was she to be glad of his antique brand of Jewish zeal? She was anything but prosaic, and had her share of Mab’s delight in the romance of Mirah’s story; but the romantic in real life requires some adaptation. We sit up at night to read about St. Francis, or Oliver Cromwell; but whether we should be glad for them to call on us the next morning, is quite another matter.
Besides, Mrs. Meyrick had hoped, as her children did, that the intensity of Mirah’s feeling about Judaism would slowly subside in the loving interchange with her new friends. In fact, her secret hope had been no discovery of Jewish relations, but concerned the feelings she perceived in Hans. And now, here was a brother who would dip Mirah’s mind again in the deepest dye of Jewish sentiment. She could not help saying to Deronda–
“I am glad that the pawnbroker is not her brother: it is a comfort to think that all Jews are not like those shopkeepers who will not let you get out of their shops: and besides, what the brother said to you about his mother and sister makes me bless him. I am sure he’s good. But I never did like anything fanatical. I suppose I heard a little too much preaching in my youth and lost my taste for it.”
“I don’t think you will find that Mordecai preaches,” said Deronda. “He is not what I should call fanatical. I call a man fanatical when his enthusiasm is narrow and hoodwinked, so that he has no sense of proportion, and becomes unsympathetic to men who are out of his own track. Mordecai is an enthusiast; one of those who care supremely for general benefits to mankind. He is not a strictly orthodox Jew, and is full of allowances for others. The people he lives with are as fond of him as possible, though they can’t in the least understand his ideas.”
“Well, I will take your word for it. At least Mirah’s brother will have good bedding – that I have taken care of; and I shall have this extra window pasted up to prevent draughts.” (The conversation was taking place in the destined lodging.) “When the children know, we shall be able to make the rooms much prettier.”
“The next stage is to tell all to Mordecai, and get him to move – which may be difficult,” said Deronda.
“Let me tell Hans and the girls the evening before, and they will be away the next morning. I shall persuade them so hard to be glad, that I shall convert myself.”
Deronda was anxiously preoccupied with the question of how to move Mordecai without wounding the Cohens. Mordecai had made it evident that he would be keenly alive to any injury to their feelings. After due reflection, Deronda wrote to him asking to see him in his own home the next evening for a particular purpose, if the Cohens would not regard it as an intrusion. He would call with the understanding that if there were any objection, Mordecai would accompany him elsewhere. Deronda hoped in this way to create a little preparatory expectation.
He was received with the usual friendliness, and a slight air of wondering which the Cohens did not allow to pass the bounds of silence. But when Deronda said, “I suppose Mordecai is expecting me,” Jacob said, “What do you want to talk to him about?”
“Something that is very interesting to him,” said Deronda, pinching the lad’s ear, “but that you can’t understand.”
“Can you say this?” said Jacob, immediately reciting a string of his rote-learned Hebrew verses, with a sense of giving formidable evidence which might alter their mutual position.
“No,” said Deronda, keeping grave; “I can’t say anything like it.”
“I thought not,” said Jacob, performing a dance of triumph, while he took various objects out of his pockets as a hint of his resources; after which, running to the door of the workroom, he opened it wide, and said, “Mordecai, here’s the young swell” – copying his father’s phrase.
He was called back with hushes, and Deronda, entering and closing the door behind him, saw that a bit of carpet had been laid down, a chair placed, and the fire and lights attended to, in sign of the Cohens’ respect. As Mordecai rose to greet him, Deronda was struck with the air of solemn expectation in his face. Neither of them spoke, till Deronda had drawn the vacant chair to seat himself near to Mordecai, who then said, in a tone of fervid certainty–
“You are coming to tell me something that my soul longs for.”
“It is true I have something very weighty to tell you – something I trust that you will rejoice in,” said Deronda, on his guard against the probability that Mordecai expected something quite different from the fact.
“It is all revealed – it is made clear to you,” said Mordecai eagerly, clasping his hands. “You are as my brother – the heritage is yours – there is no doubt to divide us.”
“I have learned nothing new about myself,” said Deronda. The disappointment was inevitable: better not to delay it.
Mordecai sank back in his chair, unable for the moment to care what was really coming. All day his mind had been in a state of tension toward one fulfilment. The reaction was sickening and he closed his eyes.
“Except,” Deronda went on gently,– “except that I had some time ago come into another hidden connection with you, besides the one in your own feeling.”
The eyes were not opened, but there was a fluttering in the lids.
“I met one in whom you are interested.”
Mordecai opened his eyes and fixed them quietly on Deronda.
“One who is closely related to your departed mother,” Deronda went on, wishing to make the disclosure gradual; but noticing a shrinking movement in Mordecai, he added – “whom she and you held dear above all others.”
Mordecai, with a sudden start, laid a spasmodic grasp on Deronda’s wrist; there was a great terror in him. And Deronda divined it. With a tremor in his clear tones he said–
“What was prayed for has come to pass: Mirah has been delivered from evil.”
Mordecai’s grasp relaxed, but he was panting with a tearless sob.
Deronda went on: “Your sister is worthy of the mother you honoured.” He waited, and Mordecai again closed his eyes, murmuring for some minutes in Hebrew, and then subsiding into a happy-looking silence. Deronda could have imagined that he was speaking with some beloved object: his face held a new sweetness, and for the first time Deronda thought he discerned a family resemblance to Mirah.
When Mordecai was ready to listen, the rest was told. But in describing Mirah’s flight he made the statement about the father’s conduct as vague as he could, and emphasised her yearning to come to England to find her mother. Also he kept back Mirah’s intention to drown herself, and his rescue of her, merely describing the home she had found with friends of his. What he dwelt on was Mirah’s feeling about her mother and brother; and about this he tried to give every detail.
“It was in search of them,” said Deronda, smiling, “that I turned into this house: the name Ezra Cohen was just then the most interesting in the world to me. Perhaps you will forgive me now for having asked you that question about the elder Mrs. Cohen’s daughter. I cared very much what I should find Mirah’s friends to be. But I found a brother worthy of her disguised under the name of Mordecai.”
“Mordecai is really my name – Ezra Mordecai Cohen.”
> “Is there any kinship between this family and yours?” said Deronda.
“Only the kinship of Israel. My soul clings to these people, who have sheltered me out of the affection that abides in Jewish hearts. It is good for me to bear with their ignorance and be bound to them in gratitude, that I may keep in mind the spiritual poverty of the Jewish millions, and not put impatient knowledge in the stead of loving wisdom.”
“But you don’t feel bound to continue with them now there is a closer tie to draw you?” said Deronda, fearing he might find an obstacle to overcome. “It seems to me right that you should live with your sister; and I have prepared a home for you near her friends, that she may join you there. Pray grant me this wish. It will enable me to be with you often in the hours when Mirah is obliged to leave you. That is my selfish reason. But the chief reason is, that Mirah will desire to watch over you, and you ought to give her the guardianship of a brother’s presence. You shall have books, and I shall want to learn from you, and take you out to see the river and trees. And you will have the rest and comfort that you will be more and more in need of. This is the claim I make on you, now that we have found each other.”
Deronda spoke in a tone of earnest, affectionate pleading, such as he might have used to a venerated elder brother. Mordecai’s eyes were fixed on him, and he was silent for a little while. Then he said, almost reproachfully–
“And you would have me doubt whether you were born a Jew! Have we not from the first touched each other like the leaves from a common stem? I am stricken, I am dying. But our souls know each other. They gazed in silence as those who have long been parted and meet again, but when they found voice they were assured, and all their speech is understanding. The life of Israel is in your veins.”
Deronda sat perfectly still, but felt his face tingling. He waited, hoping for a more direct answer; and eventually Mordecai said–
“What you wish of me I will do. Our blessed mother would have wished it. I will accept what your loving kindness has prepared, and Mirah’s home shall be mine.” He added in a more melancholy tone, “But I shall grieve to part from this family. You must tell them, for my heart would fail me.”
“I felt that you would want me to tell them. Shall we go now?” said Deronda, much relieved.
“Yes; let us not defer it,” said Mordecai, rising with the air of a man who must perform a painful duty. “But do not dwell on my sister more than is needful.”
When they entered the parlour he said to the alert Jacob, “Ask your father to come. My friend has something to say,” he continued, turning to the elder Mrs. Cohen. The two women politely begged Deronda to seat himself in the best place, while Cohen said with satisfaction, “Well, sir! I’m glad you’re doing us the honour to join our family party again.”
And when all were seated on the hearth the scene was worth peeping in upon: on one side Baby being rocked by the young mother, and Adelaide Rebekah seated on the grandmother’s knee; on the other, Jacob between his father’s legs; while the two markedly different figures of Deronda and Mordecai were in the middle – Mordecai shaded from the firelight, anxious to conceal his agitation.
“I have just been telling Mordecai of an event that makes a great change in his life,” Deronda began, “but I hope you will agree with me that it is a joyful one. Since he thinks of you as his best friends, he wishes me to tell you at once.”
“Relations with money, sir?” burst in Cohen.
“No; not exactly,” said Deronda, smiling. “But a very precious relation wishes to be reunited to him – a good and lovely young sister, who will care for his comfort in every way.”
“Married, sir?”
“No, not married.”
“But with an income?”
“With talents which will secure her an income. A home is already provided for Mordecai.”
There was silence for a moment before the grandmother wailed–
“Well! so you’re going away from us, Mordecai.”
“To where there’s no children,” said the mother, catching the wail. “No Jacob, no Adelaide, and no Eugenie!”
“Ay, Jacob’s learning will wear out of him. He must go to school. It’ll be hard times for Jacob,” said Cohen decisively.
To Jacob these words sounded like a doom. His face had shown a wondering sorrow at the notion of Mordecai’s going away: but at the mention of “hard times for Jacob” he broke forth in loud lamentation. Adelaide Rebekah always cried when her brother cried, and now began to howl with astonishing suddenness, whereupon baby awaking contributed angry screams, and required to be taken out of the cradle.
A great deal of hushing was necessary, and Mordecai, feeling the cries pierce him, put out his arms to Jacob. His father, who had been comforting him, released him, and he went to Mordecai, who laid his cheek on the little black head without speaking. But Cohen, wishing to make some apology for all this weakness, addressed Deronda:–
“We’re not people to grudge anybody’s good luck, sir. I’m not an envious man, and if anybody offered to set up Mordecai in a shop of my sort two doors lower down, I shouldn’t make wry faces about it. I’m not one of them that is frightened at anybody else getting a chance. And though, as I may say, you’re taking some of our good works from us, which is property bearing interest, I’m not saying but we can afford that, though my mother and my wife had the good will to do for Mordecai to the last. And as to the extra outlay in schooling, I’m neither poor nor greedy. But the truth is, the women and children are fond of Mordecai. A Jewish man is bound to thank God, day by day, that he was not made a woman; but a woman has to thank God that He has made her according to His will. And we all know what He has made her – a child-bearing, tender-hearted thing is the woman of our people. So you must excuse present company, sir, for not being glad all at once. We shall be glad for Mordecai’s sake by-and-by.”
Before Deronda could answer, Mordecai exclaimed–
“Friends, friends! For food and shelter I would not have sought better than you have given me; and it would be a joy to me even in my last months to go on teaching the lad. For no light matter would I have turned away from your kindness. But the reward of one duty is the power to fulfil another – so said Ben Azai. You have made your duty a joy to you and me; and your reward shall be that you will have the joy of like deeds in time to come. And may Jacob come and visit me?”
Jacob, who had been gradually calmed, now began to see some daylight on the future, the word “visit” having the lively charm of cakes. He danced away from Mordecai, and stood in the hearth with his hands in his knickerbockers.
“Well,” said the grandmother, with a sigh of resignation, “I hope there’ll be nothing in the way of your getting kosher meat, Mordecai.”
“That’s all right, you may be sure, mother,” said Cohen. “So, sir,” he added, turning a look of amused enlightenment to Deronda, “it was more than learning that you had to talk to Mordecai about! I wondered at the time.”
“Mordecai will perhaps explain to you why I was seeking him,” said Deronda, rising to go.
Mordecai begged to walk with him to the end of the street, and wrapped himself in his coat. It was a March evening, and Deronda did not mean to let him go far, but he understood the wish to be outside with him in communicative silence, after the excitement of the last hour. No word was spoken until Deronda said–
“Mirah would wish to thank the Cohens for their goodness. Should she come and see them?”
Mordecai paused before saying–
“I cannot tell. I fear not. There is a family sorrow, and the sight of my sister might re-open those wounds. There is a daughter who will never be restored as Mirah is. But who knows the pathways? We are all of us denying or fulfilling prayers. In my ears I have the prayers of generations past and to come. And I am only another prayer – which you will fulfil.”
Deronda pressed his hand, and they parted.
George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged Page 49
