Daniel Deronda
乔治.艾略特 George Eliot
CHAPTER XVI. Page 1
Men, like planets, have both a visible and an invisible history. Theastronomer threads the darkness with strict deduction, accounting sofor every visible arc in the wanderer's orbit; and the narrator ofhuman actions, if he did his work with the same completeness, wouldhave to thread the hidden pathways of feeling and thought which leadup to every moment of action, and to those moments of intensesuffering which take the quality of action--like the cry ofPrometheus, whose chained anguish seems a greater energy than the seaand sky he invokes and the deity he defies.
Deronda's circumstances, indeed, had been exceptional. One moment had beenburned into his life as its chief epoch--a moment full of July sunshineand large pink roses shedding their last petals on a grassy court enclosedon three sides by a gothic cloister. Imagine him in such a scene: a boy ofthirteen, stretched prone on the grass where it was in shadow, his curlyhead propped on his arms over a book, while his tutor, also reading, saton a camp-stool under shelter. Deronda s book was Sismondi's "History ofthe Italian Republics";--the lad had a passion for history, eager to knowhow time had been filled up since the flood, and how things were carriedon in the dull periods. Suddenly he let down his left arm and looked athis tutor, saying in purest boyish tones--
"Mr. Fraser, how was it that the popes and cardinals always had so manynephews?"
The tutor, an able young Scotchman, who acted as Sir Hugo Mallinger'ssecretary, roused rather unwillingly from his political economy, answeredwith the clear-cut emphatic chant which makes a truth doubly telling inScotch utterance--
"Their own children were called nephews."
"Why?" said Deronda.
"It was just for the propriety of the thing; because, as you know verywell, priests don't marry, and the children were illegitimate."
Mr. Fraser, thrusting out his lower lip and making his chant of the lastword the more emphatic for a little impatience at being interrupted, hadalready turned his eyes on his book again, while Deronda, as if somethinghad stung him, started up in a sitting attitude with his back to thetutor.
He had always called Sir Hugo Mallinger his uncle, and when it onceoccurred to him to ask about his father and mother, the baronet hadanswered, "You lost your father and mother when you were quite a littleone; that is why I take care of you." Daniel then straining to discernsomething in that early twilight, had a dim sense of having been kissedvery much, and surrounded by thin, cloudy, scented drapery, till hisringers caught in something hard, which hurt him, and he began to cry.Every other memory he had was of the little world in which he still lived.And at that time he did not mind about learning more, for he was too fondof Sir Hugo to be sorry for the loss of unknown parents. Life was verydelightful to the lad, with an uncle who was always indulgent andcheerful--a fine man in the bright noon of life, whom Daniel thoughtabsolutely perfect, and whose place was one of the finest in England, atonce historical; romantic, and home-like: a picturesque architecturaloutgrowth from an abbey, which had still remnants of the old monastictrunk. Diplow lay in another county, and was a comparatively landlessplace which had come into the family from a rich lawyer on the female sidewho wore the perruque of the restoration; whereas the Mallingers had thegrant of Monk's Topping under Henry the Eighth, and ages before had heldthe neighboring lands of King's Topping, tracing indeed their origin to acertain Hugues le Malingre, who came in with the Conqueror--and alsoapparently with a sickly complexion which had been happily corrected inhis descendants. Two rows of these descendants, direct and collateral,females of the male line, and males of the female, looked down in thegallery over the cloisters on the nephew Daniel as he walked there: men inarmor with pointed beards and arched eyebrows, pinched ladies in hoops andruffs with no face to speak of; grave-looking men in black velvet andstuffed hips, and fair, frightened women holding little boys by the hand;smiling politicians in magnificent perruques, and ladies of the prize-animal kind, with rosebud mouths and full eyelids, according to Lely; thena generation whose faces were revised and embellished in the taste ofKneller; and so on through refined editions of the family types in thetime of Reynolds and Romney, till the line ended with Sir Hugo and hisyounger brother Henleigh. This last had married Miss Grandcourt, and takenher name along with her estates, thus making a junction between twoequally old families, impaling the three Saracens' heads proper and threebezants of the one with the tower and falcons _argent_ of the other, and,as it happened, uniting their highest advantages in the prospects of thatHenleigh Mallinger Grandcourt who is at present more of an acquaintance tous than either Sir Hugo or his nephew Daniel Deronda.
In Sir Hugo's youthful portrait with rolled collar and high cravat, SirThomas Lawrence had done justice to the agreeable alacrity of expressionand sanguine temperament still to be seen in the original, but had donesomething more than justice in slightly lengthening the nose, which was inreality shorter than might have been expected in a Mallinger. Happily theappropriate nose of the family reappeared in his younger brother, and wasto be seen in all its refined regularity in his nephew MallingerGrandcourt. But in the nephew Daniel Deronda the family faces of varioustypes, seen on the walls of the gallery; found no reflex. Still he washandsomer than any of them, and when he was thirteen might have served asmodel for any painter who wanted to image the most memorable of boys: youcould hardly have seen his face thoroughly meeting yours without believingthat human creatures had done nobly in times past, and might do more noblyin time to come. The finest childlike faces have this consecrating power,and make us shudder anew at all the grossness and basely-wrought griefs ofthe world, lest they should enter here and defile.
But at this moment on the grass among the rose-petals, Daniel Deronda wasmaking a first acquaintance with those griefs. A new idea had entered hismind, and was beginning to change the aspect of his habitual feelings ashappy careless voyagers are changed with the sky suddenly threatened andthe thought of danger arises. He sat perfectly still with his back to thetutor, while his face expressed rapid inward transition. The deep blush,which had come when he first started up, gradually subsided; but hisfeatures kept that indescribable look of subdued activity which oftenaccompanies a new mental survey of familiar facts. He had not lived withother boys, and his mind showed the same blending of child's ignorancewith surprising knowledge which is oftener seen in bright girls. Havingread Shakespeare as well as a great deal of history, he could have talkedwith the wisdom of a bookish child about men who were born out of wedlockand were held unfortunate in consequence, being under disadvantages whichrequired them to be a sort of heroes if they were to work themselves up toan equal standing with their legally born brothers. But he had neverbrought such knowledge into any association with his own lot, which hadbeen too easy for him ever to think about it--until this moment when therehad darted into his mind with the magic of quick comparison, thepossibility that here was the secret of his own birth, and that the manwhom he called uncle was really his father. Some children, even youngerthan Daniel, have known the first arrival of care, like an ominousirremovable guest in their tender lives, on the discovery that theirparents, whom they had imagined able to buy everything, were poor and inhard money troubles. Daniel felt the presence of a new guest who seemed tocome with an enigmatic veiled face, and to carry dimly-conjectured,dreaded revelations. The ardor which he had given to the imaginary worldin his books suddenly rushed toward his own history and spent itspictorial energy there, explaining what he knew, representing the unknown.The uncle whom he loved very dearly took the aspect of a father who heldsecrets about him--who had done him a wrong--yes, a wrong: and what hadbecome of his mother, for whom he must have been taken away?--Secretsabout which he, Daniel, could never inquire; for to speak or to be spokento about these new thoughts seemed like falling flakes of fire to hisimagination. Those who have known an impassioned childhood will understandthis dread of utterance about any shame connected with their parents. Theimpetuous advent of new images took possession of him with the force offact for the first time told, and left him no immediate power for thereflection that he might be trembling at a fiction of his own. Theterrible sense of collision between a strong rush of feeling and the dreadof its betrayal, found relief at length in big slow tears, which fellwithout restraint until the voice of Mr. Fraser was heard saying:
"Daniel, do you see that you are sitting on the bent pages of your book?"
Daniel immediately moved the book without turning round, and after holdingit before him for an instant, rose with it and walked away into the opengrounds, where he could dry his tears unobserved. The first shock ofsuggestion past, he could remember that he had no certainty how thingsreally had been, and that he had been making conjectures about his ownhistory, as he had often made stories about Pericles or Columbus, just tofill up the blanks before they became famous. Only there came back certainfacts which had an obstinate reality,--almost like the fragments of abridge, telling you unmistakably how the arches lay. And again there camea mood in which his conjectures seemed like a doubt of religion, to bebanished as an offense, and a mean prying after what he was not meant toknow; for there was hardly a delicacy of feeling this lad was not capableof. But the summing-up of all his fluctuating experience at this epochwas, that a secret impression had come to him which had given himsomething like a new sense in relation to all the elements of his life.And the idea that others probably knew things concerning which they didnot choose to mention, set up in him a premature reserve which helped tointensify his inward experience. His ears open now to words which beforethat July day would have passed by him unnoted; and round every trivialincident which imagination could connect with his suspicions, a newly-roused set of feelings were ready to cluster themselves.
One such incident a month later wrought itself deeply into his life.Daniel had not only one of those thrilling boy voices which seem to bringan idyllic heaven and earth before our eyes, but a fine musical instinct,and had early made out accompaniments for himself on the piano, while hesang from memory. Since then he had had some teaching, and Sir Hugo, whodelighted in the boy, used to ask for his music in the presence of guests.One morning after he had been singing "Sweet Echo" before a small party ofgentlemen whom the rain had kept in the house, the baronet, passing from asmiling remark to his next neighbor said:
"Come here, Dan!"
The boy came forward with unusual reluctance. He wore an embroideredholland blouse which set off the rich coloring of his head and throat, andthe resistant gravity about his mouth and eyes as he was being smiledupon, made their beauty the more impressive. Every one was admiring him.
"What do you say to being a great singer? Should you like to be adored bythe world and take the house by storm; like Mario and Tamberlik?"
Daniel reddened instantaneously, but there was a just perceptible intervalbefore he answered with angry decision--
"No; I should hate it!"
"Well, well, well!" said Sir Hugo, with surprised kindliness intended tobe soothing. But Daniel turned away quickly, left the room, and going tohis own chamber threw himself on the broad window-sill, which was afavorite retreat of his when he had nothing particular to do. Here hecould see the rain gradually subsiding with gleams through the partingclouds which lit up a great reach of the park, where the old oaks stoodapart from each other, and the bordering wood was pierced with a greenglade which met the eastern sky. This was a scene which had always beenpart of his home--part of the dignified ease which had been a matter ofcourse in his life. And his ardent clinging nature had appropriated it allwith affection. He knew a great deal of what it was to be a gentleman byinheritance, and without thinking much about himself--for he was a boy ofactive perceptions and easily forgot his own existence in that of RobertBruce--he had never supposed that he could be shut out from such a lot, orhave a very different part in the world from that of the uncle who pettedhim. It is possible (though not greatly believed in at present) to be fondof poverty and take it for a bride, to prefer scoured deal, red quarriesand whitewash for one's private surroundings, to delight in no splendorbut what has open doors for the whole nation, and to glory in having noprivileges except such as nature insists on; and noblemen have been knownto run away from elaborate ease and the option of idleness, that theymight bind themselves for small pay to hard-handed labor. But Daniel'stastes were altogether in keeping with his nurture: his disposition wasone in which everyday scenes and habits beget not _ennui_ or rebellion,but delight, affection, aptitudes; and now the lad had been stung to thequick by the idea that his uncle--perhaps his father--thought of a careerfor him which was totally unlike his own, and which he knew very well wasnot thought of among possible destinations for the sons of Englishgentlemen. He had often stayed in London with Sir Hugo, who to indulge theboy's ear had carried him to the opera to hear the great tenors, so thatthe image of a singer taking the house by storm was very vivid to him; butnow, spite of his musical gift, he set himself bitterly against the notionof being dressed up to sing before all those fine people, who would notcare about him except as a wonderful toy. That Sir Hugo should havethought of him in that position for a moment, seemed to Daniel anunmistakable proof that there was something about his birth which threwhim out from the class of gentlemen to which the baronet belonged. Wouldit ever be mentioned to him? Would the time come when his uncle would tellhim everything? He shrank from the prospect: in his imagination hepreferred ignorance. If his father had been wicked--Daniel inwardly usedstrong words, for he was feeling the injury done him as a maimed boy feelsthe crushed limb which for others is merely reckoned in an average ofaccidents--if his father had done any wrong, he wished it might never bespoken of to him: it was already a cutting thought that such knowledgemight be in other minds. Was it in Mr. Fraser's? probably not, else hewould not have spoken in that way about the pope's nephews. Danielfancied, as older people do, that every one else's consciousness was asactive as his own on a matter which was vital to him. Did Turvey the valetknow?--and old Mrs. French the housekeeper?--and Banks the bailiff, withwhom he had ridden about the farms on his pony?--And now there came backthe recollection of a day some years before when he was drinking Mrs.Banks's whey, and Banks said to his wife with a wink and a cunning laugh,"He features the mother, eh?" At that time little Daniel had merelythought that Banks made a silly face, as the common farming men often did,laughing at what was not laughable; and he rather resented being winked atand talked of as if he did not understand everything. But now that smallincident became information: it was to be reasoned on. How could he belike his mother and not like his father? His mother must have been aMallinger, if Sir Hugo were his uncle. But no! His father might have beenSir Hugo's brother and have changed his name, as Mr. Henleigh Mallingerdid when he married Miss Grandcourt. But then, why had he never heard SirHugo speak of his brother Deronda, as he spoke of his brother Grandcourt?Daniel had never before cared about the family tree--only about thatancestor who had killed three Saracens in one encounter. But now his mindturned to a cabinet of estate-maps in the library, where he had once seenan illuminated parchment hanging out, that Sir Hugo said was the familytree. The phrase was new and odd to him--he was a little fellow then--hardly mare than half his present age--and he gave it no precise meaning.He knew more now and wished that he could examine that parchment. Heimagined that the cabinet was always locked, and longed to try it. Buthere he checked himself. He might be seen: and he would never bringhimself near even a silent admission of the sore that had opened in him.
It is in such experiences of a boy or girlhood, while elders are debatingwhether most education lies in science or literature, that the main linesof character are often laid down. If Daniel had been of a less ardentlyaffectionate nature, the reserve about himself and the supposition thatothers had something to his disadvantage in their minds, might have turnedinto a hard, proud antagonism. But inborn lovingness was strong enough tokeep itself level with resentment. There was hardly any creature in hishabitual world that he was not fond of; teasing them occasionally, ofcourse--all except his uncle, or "Nunc," as Sir Hugo had taught him tosay; for the baronet was the reverse of a strait-laced man, and left hisdignity to take care of itself. Him Daniel loved in that deep-rootedfilial way which makes children always the happier for being in the sameroom with father or mother, though their occupations may be quite apart.Sir Hugo's watch-chain and seals, his handwriting, his mode of smoking andof talking to his dogs and horses, had all a rightness and charm aboutthem to the boy which went along with the happiness of morning andbreakfast time. That Sir Hugo had always been a Whig, made Tories andRadicals equally opponents of the truest and best; and the books he hadwritten were all seen under the same consecration of loving belief whichdifferenced what was his from what was not his, in spite of generalresemblance. Those writings were various, from volumes of travel in thebrilliant style, to articles on things in general, and pamphlets onpolitical crises; but to Daniel they were alike in having anunquestionable rightness by which other people's information could betested.
Who cannot imagine the bitterness of a first suspicion that something inthis object of complete love was _not_ quite right? Children demand thattheir heroes should be fleckless, and easily believe them so: perhaps afirst discovery to the contrary is hardly a less revolutionary shock to apassionate child than the threatened downfall of habitual beliefs whichmakes the world seem to totter for us in maturer life.
But some time after this renewal of Daniel's agitation it appeared thatSir Hugo must have been making a merely playful experiment in his questionabout the singing. He sent for Daniel into the library, and looking upfrom his writing as the boy entered threw himself sideways in hisarmchair. "Ah, Dan!" he said kindly, drawing one of the old embroideredstools close to him. "Come and sit down here."