Daniel Deronda
乔治.艾略特 George Eliot
CHAPTER XVII.
"This is truth the poet sings,That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things."--TENNYSON: _Locksley Hall_.
On a fine evening near the end of July, Deronda was rowing himself on theThames. It was already a year or more since he had come back to England,with the understanding that his education was finished, and that he wassomehow to take his place in English society; but though, in deference toSir Hugo's wish, and to fence off idleness, he had began to read law, thisapparent decision had been without other result than to deepen the rootsof indecision. His old love of boating had revived with the more force nowthat he was in town with the Mallingers, because he could nowhere else getthe same still seclusion which the river gave him. He had a boat of hisown at Putney, and whenever Sir Hugo did not want him, it was his chiefholiday to row till past sunset and come in again with the stars. Not thathe was in a sentimental stage; but he was in another sort of contemplativemood perhaps more common in the young men of our day--that of questioningwhether it were worth while to take part in the battle of the world: Imean, of course, the young men in whom the unproductive labor ofquestioning is sustained by three or five per cent, on capital whichsomebody else has battled for. It puzzled Sir Hugo that one who made asplendid contrast with all that was sickly and puling should be hamperedwith ideas which, since they left an accomplished Whig like himselfunobstructed, could be no better than spectral illusions; especially asDeronda set himself against authorship--a vocation which is understood toturn foolish thinking into funds.
Rowing in his dark-blue shirt and skull-cap, his curls closely clipped,his mouth beset with abundant soft waves of beard, he bore only disguisedtraces of the seraphic boy "trailing clouds of glory." Still, even one whohad never seen him since his boyhood might have looked at him with slowrecognition, due perhaps to the peculiarity of the gaze which Gwendolenchose to call "dreadful," though it had really a very mild sort ofscrutiny. The voice, sometimes audible in subdued snatches of song, hadturned out merely a high baritone; indeed, only to look at his lithe,powerful frame and the firm gravity of his face would have been enough foran experienced guess that he had no rare and ravishing tenor such asnature reluctantly makes at some sacrifice. Look at his hands: they arenot small and dimpled, with tapering fingers that seem to have only adeprecating touch: they are long, flexible, firmly-grasping hands, such asTitian has painted in a picture where he wanted to show the combination ofrefinement with force. And there is something of a likeness, too, betweenthe faces belonging to the hands--in both the uniform pale-brown skin, theperpendicular brow, the calmly penetrating eyes. Not seraphic any longer:thoroughly terrestrial and manly; but still of a kind to raise belief in ahuman dignity which can afford to recognize poor relations.
Such types meet us here and there among average conditions; in a workman,for example, whistling over a bit of measurement and lifting his eyes toanswer our question about the road. And often the grand meanings of facesas well as of written words may lie chiefly in the impressions that happenjust now to be of importance in relation to Deronda, rowing on the Thamesin a very ordinary equipment for a young Englishman at leisure, andpassing under Kew Bridge with no thought of an adventure in which hisappearance was likely to play any part. In fact, he objected very stronglyto the notion, which others had not allowed him to escape, that hisappearance was of a kind to draw attention; and hints of this, intended tobe complimentary, found an angry resonance in him, coming from mingledexperiences, to which a clue has already been given. His own face in theglass had during many years associated for him with thoughts of some onewhom he must be like--one about whose character and lot he continuallywondered, and never dared to ask.
In the neighborhood of Kew Bridge, between six and seven o'clock, theriver was no solitude. Several persons were sauntering on the towing-path,and here and there a boat was plying. Deronda had been rowing fast to getover this spot, when, becoming aware of a great barge advancing towardhim, he guided his boat aside, and rested on his oar within a couple ofyards of the river-brink. He was all the while unconsciously continuingthe low-toned chant which had haunted his throat all the way up the river--the gondolier's song in the "Otello," where Rossini has worthily set tomusic the immortal words of Dante--
"Nessun maggior doloreChe ricordarsi del tempo feliceNella miseria":(Footnote: Dante's words are best rendered by our own poet in the lines atthe head of the chapter.)
and, as he rested on his oar, the pianissimo fall of the melodic wail"nella miseria" was distinctly audible on the brink of the water. Three orfour persons had paused at various spots to watch the barge passing thebridge, and doubtless included in their notice the young gentleman in theboat; but probably it was only to one ear that the low vocal sounds camewith more significance than if they had been an insect-murmur amidst thesum of current noises. Deronda, awaiting the barge, now turning his headto the river-side, and saw at a few yards' distant from him a figure whichmight have been an impersonation of the misery he was unconsciously givingvoice to: a girl hardly more than eighteen, of low slim figure, with mostdelicate little face, her dark curls pushed behind her ears under a largeblack hat, a long woolen cloak over her shoulders. Her hands were hangingdown clasped before her, and her eyes were fixed on the river with a lookof immovable, statue-like despair. This strong arrest of his attentionmade him cease singing: apparently his voice had entered her inner worldwithout her taking any note of whence it came, for when it suddenly ceasedshe changed her attitude slightly, and, looking round with a frightenedglance, met Deronda's face. It was but a couple of moments, but thatseemed a long while for two people to look straight at each other. Herlook was something like that of a fawn or other gentle animal before itturns to run away: no blush, no special alarm, but only some timiditywhich yet could not hinder her from a long look before she turned. Infact, it seemed to Deronda that she was only half conscious of hersurroundings: was she hungry, or was there some other cause ofbewilderment? He felt an outleap of interest and compassion toward her;but the next instant she had turned and walked away to a neighboring benchunder a tree. He had no right to linger and watch her: poorly-dressed,melancholy women are common sights; it was only the delicate beauty,picturesque lines and color of the image that was exceptional, and theseconditions made it more markedly impossible that he should obtrude hisinterest upon her. He began to row away and was soon far up the river; butno other thoughts were busy enough quite to expel that pale image ofunhappy girlhood. He fell again and again to speculating on the probableromance that lay behind that loneliness and look of desolation; then tosmile at his own share in the prejudice that interesting faces must haveinteresting adventures; then to justify himself for feeling that sorrowwas the more tragic when it befell delicate, childlike beauty.
"I should not have forgotten the look of misery if she had been ugly andvulgar," he said to himself. But there was no denying that theattractiveness of the image made it likelier to last. It was clear to himas an onyx cameo; the brown-black drapery, the white face with small,small features and dark, long-lashed eyes. His mind glanced over the girl-tragedies that are going on in the world, hidden, unheeded, as if theywere but tragedies of the copse or hedgerow, where the helpless dragwounded wings forsakenly, and streak the shadowed moss with the redmoment-hand of their own death. Deronda of late, in his solitaryexcursions, had been occupied chiefly with uncertainties about his owncourse; but those uncertainties, being much at their leisure, were wont tohave such wide-sweeping connections with all life and history that the newimage of helpless sorrow easily blent itself with what seemed to him thestrong array of reasons why he should shrink from getting into thatroutine of the world which makes men apologize for all its wrong-doing,and take opinions as mere professional equipment--why he should not drawstrongly at any thread in the hopelessly-entangled scheme of things.
"Don't be afraid. You are unhappy. Pray, trust me. Tell me what I can doto help you."
She raised her head and looked up at him. His face now was toward thelight, and she knew it again. But she did not speak for a few momentswhich were a renewal of their former gaze at each other. At last she saidin a low sweet voice, with an accent so distinct that it suggestedforeignness and yet was not foreign, "I saw you before," and then addeddreamily, after a like pause, "nella miseria."
Deronda, not understanding the connection of her thoughts, supposed thather mind was weakened by distress and hunger.
"It was you, singing?" she went on, hesitatingly--"Nessun maggior dolore."The mere words themselves uttered in her sweet undertones seemed to givethe melody to Deronda's ear.
"Ah, yes," he said, understanding now, "I am often singing them. But Ifear you will injure yourself staying here. Pray let me take you in myboat to some place of safety. And that wet cloak--let me take it."
He would not attempt to take it without her leave, dreading lest he shouldscare her. Even at his words, he fancied that she shrank and clutched thecloak more tenaciously. But her eyes were fixed on him with a question inthem as she said, "You look good. Perhaps it is God's command."
"Do trust me. Let me help you. I will die before I will let any harm cometo you."
She rose from her sitting posture, first dragging the saturated cloak andthen letting it fall on the ground--it was too heavy for her tired arms.Her little woman's figure as she laid her delicate chilled hands togetherone over the other against her waist, and went a step backward while sheleaned her head forward as if not to lose sight of his face, wasunspeakably touching.
"Great God!" the words escaped Deronda in a tone so low and solemn thatthey seemed like a prayer become unconsciously vocal. The agitatingimpression this forsaken girl was making on him stirred a fibre that layclose to his deepest interest in the fates of women--"perhaps my motherwas like this one." The old thought had come now with a new impetus ofmingled feeling, and urged that exclamation in which both East and Westhave for ages concentrated their awe in the presence of inexorablecalamity.
The low-toned words seemed to have some reassurance in them for thehearer: she stepped forward close to the boat's side, and Deronda put outhis hand, hoping now that she would let him help her in. She had alreadyput her tiny hand into his which closed around it, when some new thoughtstruck her, and drawing back she said--
"I have nowhere to go--nobody belonging to me in all this land."
"I will take you to a lady who has daughters," said Deronda, immediately.He felt a sort of relief in gathering that the wretched home and cruelfriends he imagined her to be fleeing from were not in the nearbackground. Still she hesitated, and said more timidly than ever--
"No; I have nothing to do with the theatre," said Deronda, in a decidedtone. Then beseechingly, "I will put you in perfect safety at once; with alady, a good woman; I am sure she will be kind. Let us lose no time: youwill make yourself ill. Life may still become sweet to you. There are goodpeople--there are good women who will take care of you."
She drew backward no more, but stepped in easily, as if she were used tosuch action, and sat down on the cushions.
"You had a covering for your head," said Deronda.
"My hat?" (She lifted up her hands to her head.) "It is quite hidden inthe bush."
"I will find it," said Deronda, putting out his hand deprecatingly as sheattempted to rise. "The boat is fixed."
He jumped out, found the hat, and lifted up the saturated cloak, wringingit and throwing it into the bottom of the boat.
"We must carry the cloak away, to prevent any one who may have noticed youfrom thinking you have been drowned," he said, cheerfully, as he got inagain and presented the old hat to her. "I wish I had any other garmentthan my coat to offer you. But shall you mind throwing it over yourshoulders while we are on the water? It is quite an ordinary thing to do,when people return late and are not enough provided with wraps." He heldout the coat toward her with a smile, and there came a faint melancholysmile in answer, as she took it and put it on very cleverly.
"I have some biscuits--should you like them?" said Deronda.
posture, first dragging the saturated cloak andthen letting it fall on.
"No; I cannot eat. I had still some money left to buy bread."
He began to ply his oar without further remark, and they went alongswiftly for many minutes without speaking. She did not look at him, butwas watching the oar, leaning forward in an attitude of repose, as if shewere beginning to feel the comfort of returning warmth and the prospect oflife instead of death. The twilight was deepening; the red flush was allgone and the little stars were giving their answer one after another. Themoon was rising, but was still entangled among the trees and buildings.The light was not such that he could distinctly discern the expression ofher features or her glance, but they were distinctly before himnevertheless--features and a glance which seemed to have given a fullermeaning for him to the human face. Among his anxieties one was dominant:his first impression about her, that her mind might be disordered, had notbeen quite dissipated: the project of suicide was unmistakable, and givena deeper color to every other suspicious sign. He longed to begin aconversation, but abstained, wishing to encourage the confidence thatmight induce her to speak first. At last she did speak.
"I like to listen to the oar."
"So do I."
"If you had not come, I should have been dead now."
"I cannot bear you to speak of that. I hope you will never be sorry that Icame."
"I cannot see how I shall be glad to live. The _maggior dolore_ and the_miseria_ have lasted longer than the _tempo felice_." She paused and thenwent on dreamily,--"_Dolore--miseria_--I think those words are alive."
Deronda was mute: to question her seemed an unwarrantable freedom; heshrank from appearing to claim the authority of a benefactor, or to treather with the less reverence because she was in distress. She went onmusingly--
"I thought it was not wicked. Death and life are one before the Eternal. Iknow our fathers slew their children and then slew themselves, to keeptheir souls pure. I meant it so. But now I am commanded to live. I cannotsee how I shall live."
"You will find friends. I will find them for you."
She shook her head and said mournfully, "Not my mother and brother. Icannot find them."
"You are English? You must be--speaking English so perfectly."
She did not answer immediately, but looked at Deronda again, straining tosee him in the double light. Until now she had been watching the oar. Itseemed as if she were half roused, and wondered which part of herimpression was dreaming and which waking. Sorrowful isolation had benumbedher sense of reality, and the power of distinguishing outward and inwardwas continually slipping away from her. Her look was full of wonderingtimidity such as the forsaken one in the desert might have lifted to theangelic vision before she knew whether his message was in anger or inpity.
"You want to know if I am English?" she said at last, while Deronda wasreddening nervously under a gaze which he felt more fully than he saw.
"I want to know nothing except what you like to tell me," he said, stilluneasy in the fear that her mind was wandering. "Perhaps it is not goodfor you to talk."
"Yes, I will tell you. I am English-born. But I am a Jewess."
Deronda was silent, inwardly wondering that he had not said this tohimself before, though any one who had seen delicate-faced Spanish girlsmight simply have guessed her to be Spanish.
"Do you despise me for it?" she said presently in low tones, which had asadness that pierced like a cry from a small dumb creature in fear.
"Why should I?" said Deronda. "I am not so foolish."
"I know many Jews are bad."
"So are many Christians. But I should not think it fair for you to despiseme because of that."
"My mother and brother were good. But I shall never find them. I am come along way--from abroad. I ran away; but I cannot tell you--I cannot speakof it. I thought I might find my mother again--God would guide me. Butthen I despaired. This morning when the light came, I felt as if one wordkept sounding within me--Never! never! But now--I begin--to think--" herwords were broken by rising sobs--"I am commanded to live--perhaps we aregoing to her."
With an outburst of weeping she buried her head on her knees. He hopedthat this passionate weeping might relieve her excitement. Meanwhile hewas inwardly picturing in much embarrassment how he should present himselfwith her in Park Lane--the course which he had at first unreflectinglydetermined on. No one kinder and more gentle than Lady Mallinger; but itwas hardly probable that she would be at home; and he had a shudderingsense of a lackey staring at this delicate, sorrowful image of womanhood--of glaring lights and fine staircases, and perhaps chilling suspiciousmanners from lady's maid and housekeeper, that might scare the mindalready in a state of dangerous susceptibility. But to take her to anyother shelter than a home already known to him was not to be contemplated:he was full of fears about the issue of the adventure which had brought onhim a responsibility all the heavier for the strong and agitatingimpression this childlike creature had made on him. But another resourcecame to mind: he could venture to take her to Mrs. Meyrick's--to the smallhouse at Chelsea--where he had been often enough since his return fromabroad to feel sure that he could appeal there to generous hearts, whichhad a romantic readiness to believe in innocent need and to help it. HansMeyrick was safe away in Italy, and Deronda felt the comfort of presentinghimself with his charge at a house where he would be met by a motherlyfigure of quakerish neatness, and three girls who hardly knew of any evilcloser to them than what lay in history-books, and dramas, and would atonce associate a lovely Jewess with Rebecca in "Ivanhoe," besides thinkingthat everything they did at Deronda's request would be done for theiridol, Hans. The vision of the Chelsea home once raised, Deronda no longerhesitated.
The rumbling thither in the cab after the stillness of the water seemedlong. Happily his charge had been quiet since her fit of weeping, andsubmitted like a tired child. When they were in the cab, she laid down herhat and tried to rest her head, but the jolting movement would not let itrest. Still she dozed, and her sweet head hung helpless, first on oneside, then on the other.
"They are too good to have any fear about taking her in," thought Deronda.Her person, her voice, her exquisite utterance, were one strong appeal tobelief and tenderness. Yet what had been the history which had brought herto this desolation? He was going on a strange errand--to ask shelter forthis waif. Then there occurred to him the beautiful story Plutarchsomewhere tells of the Delphic women: how when the Maenads, outworn withtheir torch-lit wanderings, lay down to sleep in the market-place, thematrons came and stood silently round them to keep guard over theirslumbers; then, when they waked, ministered to them tenderly and saw themsafely to their own borders. He could trust the women he was going to forhaving hearts as good.
Deronda felt himself growing older this evening and entering on a newphase in finding a life to which his own had come--perhaps as a rescue;but how to make sure that snatching from death was rescue? The moment offinding a fellow-creature is often as full of mingled doubt and exultationas the moment of finding an idea.