Daniel Deronda
乔治.艾略特 George Eliot
CHAPTER XX. Page 1
"It will hardly be denied that even in this frail and corrupted world,we sometimes meet persons who, in their very mien and aspect, as wellas in the whole habit of life, manifest such a signature and stamp ofvirtue, as to make our judgment of them a matter of intuition ratherthan the result of continued examination."--ALEXANDER KNOX: quoted inSouthey's Life of Wesley.
Mirah said that she had slept well that night; and when she came down inMab's black dress, her dark hair curling in fresh fibrils as it graduallydried from its plenteous bath, she looked like one who was beginning totake comfort after the long sorrow and watching which had paled her cheekand made blue semicircles under her eyes. It was Mab who carried herbreakfast and ushered her down--with some pride in the effect produced bya pair of tiny felt slippers which she had rushed out to buy because therewere no shoes in the house small enough for Mirah, whose borrowed dressceased about her ankles and displayed the cheap clothing that, mouldingitself on her feet, seemed an adornment as choice as the sheaths of buds.The farthing buckles were bijoux.
"Oh, if you please, mamma?" cried Mab, clasping her hands and stoopingtoward Mirah's feet, as she entered the parlor; "look at the slippers, howbeautiful they fit! I declare she is like the Queen Budoor--' two delicatefeet, the work of the protecting and all-recompensing Creator, supporther; and I wonder how they can sustain what is above them.'"
Mirah looked down at her own feet in a childlike way and then smiled atMrs. Meyrick, who was saying inwardly, "One could hardly imagine thiscreature having an evil thought. But wise people would tell me to becautious." She returned Mirah's smile and said, "I fear the feet have hadto sustain their burden a little too often lately. But to-day she willrest and be my companion."
"And she will tell you so many things and I shall not hear them," grumbledMab, who felt herself in the first volume of a delightful romance andobliged to miss some chapters because she had to go to pupils.
Kate was already gone to make sketches along the river, and Amy was awayon business errands. It was what the mother wished, to be alone with thisstranger, whose story must be a sorrowful one, yet was needful to be told.
The small front parlor was as good as a temple that morning. The sunlightwas on the river and soft air came in through the open window; the wallsshowed a glorious silent cloud of witnesses--the Virgin soaring amid hercherubic escort; grand Melancholia with her solemn universe; the Prophetsand Sibyls; the School of Athens; the Last Supper; mystic groups wherefar-off ages made one moment; grave Holbein and Rembrandt heads; theTragic Muse; last-century children at their musings or their play; Italianpoets--all were there through the medium of a little black and white. Theneat mother who had weathered her troubles, and come out of them with aface still cheerful, was sorting colored wools for her embroidery. Hafizpurred on the window-ledge, the clock on the mantle-piece ticked withouthurry, and the occasional sound of wheels seemed to lie outside the moremassive central quiet. Mrs. Meyrick thought that this quiet might be thebest invitation to speech on the part of her companion, and chose not todisturb it by remark. Mirah sat opposite in her former attitude, her handsclasped on her lap, her ankles crossed, her eyes at first traveling slowlyover the objects around her, but finally resting with a sort of placidreverence on Mrs. Meyrick. At length she began to speak softly.
"I remember my mother's face better than anything; yet I was not sevenwhen I was taken away, and I am nineteen now."
"I can understand that," said Mrs. Meyrick. "There are some earliestthings that last the longest."
"Oh, yes, it was the earliest. I think my life began with waking up andloving my mother's face: it was so near to me, and her arms were round me,and she sang to me. One hymn she sang so often, so often: and then shetaught me to sing it with her: it was the first I ever sang. They werealways Hebrew hymns she sang; and because I never knew the meaning of thewords they seemed full of nothing but our love and happiness. When I layin my little bed and it was all white above me, she used to bend over me,between me and the white, and sing in a sweet, low voice. I can dreammyself back into that time when I am awake, and it often comes back to mein my sleep--my hand is very little, I put it up to her face and shekisses it. Sometimes in my dreams I begin to tremble and think that we areboth dead; but then I wake up and my hand lies like this, and for a momentI hardly know myself. But if I could see my mother again I should knowher."
"You must expect some change after twelve years," said Mrs. Meyrick,gently. "See my grey hair: ten years ago it was bright brown. The days andmonths pace over us like restless little birds, and leave the marks oftheir feet backward and forward; especially when they are like birds withheavy hearts-then they tread heavily."
"Ah, I am sure her heart has been heavy for want of me. But to feel herjoy if we could meet again, and I could make her know I love her and giveher deep comfort after all her mourning! If that could be, I should mindnothing; I should be glad that I have lived through my trouble. I diddespair. The world seemed miserable and wicked; none helped me so that Icould bear their looks and words; I felt that my mother was dead, anddeath was the only way to her. But then in the last moment--yesterday,when I longed for the water to close over me--and I thought that death wasthe best image of mercy--then goodness came to me living, and I felt trustin the living. And--it is strange--but I began to hope that she was livingtoo. And now I with you--here--this morning, peace and hope have come intome like a flood. I want nothing; I can wait; because I hope and believeand am grateful--oh, so grateful! You have not thought evil of me--youhave not despised me."
Mirah spoke with low-toned fervor, and sat as still as a picture all thewhile.
"Many others would have felt as we do, my dear," said Mrs. Meyrick,feeling a mist come over her eyes as she looked at her work.
"But I did not meet them--they did not come to me."
"How was it that you were taken from your mother?"
"Ah, I am a long while coming to that. It is dreadful to speak of, yet Imust tell you--I must tell you everything. My father--it was he that tookme away. I thought we were only going on a little journey; and I waspleased. There was a box with all my little things in. But we went onboard a ship, and got farther and farther away from the land. Then I wasill; and I thought it would never end--it was the first misery, and itseemed endless. But at last we landed. I knew nothing then, and believedwhat my father said. He comforted me, and told me I should go back to mymother. But it was America we had reached, and it was long years before wecame back to Europe. At first I often asked my father when we were goingback; and I tried to learn writing fast, because I wanted to write to mymother; but one day when he found me trying to write a letter, he took meon his knee and told me that my mother and brother were dead; that was whywe did not go back. I remember my brother a little; he carried me once;but he was not always at home. I believed my father when he said that theywere dead. I saw them under the earth when he said they were there, withtheir eyes forever closed. I never thought of its not being true; and Iused to cry every night in my bed for a long while. Then when she came sooften to me, in my sleep, I thought she must be living about me though Icould not always see her, and that comforted me. I was never afraid in thedark, because of that; and very often in the day I used to shut my eyesand bury my face and try to see her and to hear her singing. I came to dothat at last without shutting my eyes."
Mirah paused with a sweet content in her face, as if she were having herhappy vision, while she looked out toward the river.
"Still your father was not unkind to you, I hope," said Mrs. Meyrick,after a minute, anxious to recall her.
"No; he petted me, and took pains to teach me. He was an actor; and Ifound out, after, that the 'Coburg' I used to hear of his going to at homewas a theatre. But he had more to do with the theatre than acting. He hadnot always been an actor; he had been a teacher, and knew many languages.His acting was not very good; I think, but he managed the stage, and wroteand translated plays. An Italian lady, a singer, lived with us a longtime. They both taught me, and I had a master besides, who made me learnby heart and recite. I worked quite hard, though I was so little; and Iwas not nine when I first went on the stage. I could easily learn things,and I was not afraid. But then and ever since I hated our way of life. Myfather had money, and we had finery about us in a disorderly way; alwaysthere were men and women coming and going; there was loud laughing anddisputing, strutting, snapping of fingers, jeering, faces I did not liketo look at--though many petted and caressed me. But then I remembered mymother. Even at first when I understood nothing, I shrank away from allthose things outside me into companionship with thoughts that were notlike them; and I gathered thoughts very fast, because I read many things--plays and poetry, Shakespeare and Schiller, and learned evil and good. Myfather began to believe that I might be a great singer: my voice wasconsidered wonderful for a child; and he had the best teaching for me. Butit was painful that he boasted of me, and set me to sing for show at anyminute, as if I had been a musical box. Once when I was nine years old, Iplayed the part of a little girl who had been forsaken and did not knowit, and sat singing to herself while she played with flowers. I did itwithout any trouble; but the clapping and all the sounds of the theatrewere hateful to me; and I never liked the praise I had, because it allseemed very hard and unloving: I missed the love and trust I had been borninto. I made a life in my own thoughts quite different from everythingabout me: I chose what seemed to me beautiful out of the plays andeverything, and made my world out of it; and it was like a sharp knifealways grazing me that we had two sorts of life which jarred so with eachother--women looking good and gentle on the stage, and saying good thingsas if they felt them, and directly after I saw them with coarse, uglymanners. My father sometimes noticed my shrinking ways; and Signora saidone day, when I had been rehearsing, 'She will never be an artist: she hasno notion of being anybody but herself. That does very well now, but by-and-by you will see--she will have no more face and action than a singing-bird.' My father was angry, and they quarreled. I sat alone and cried,because what she had said was like a long unhappy future unrolled beforeme. I did not want to be an artist; but this was what my father expectedof me. After a while Signora left us, and a governess used to come andgive me lessons in different things, because my father began to be afraidof my singing too much; but I still acted from time to time. Rebelliousfeelings grew stronger in me, and I wished to get away from this life; butI could not tell where to go, and I dreaded the world. Besides, I felt itwould be wrong to leave my father: I dreaded doing wrong, for I thought Imight get wicked and hateful to myself, in the same way that many othersseemed hateful to me. For so long, so long I had never felt my outsideworld happy; and if I got wicked I should lose my world of happy thoughtswhere my mother lived with me. That was my childish notion all throughthose years. Oh how long they were!"
Mirah fell to musing again.
"Had you no teaching about what was your duty?" said Mrs. Meyrick. She didnot like to say "religion"--finding herself on inspection rather dim as towhat the Hebrew religion might have turned into at this date.
"No--only that I ought to do what my father wished. He did not follow ourreligion at New York, and I think he wanted me not to know much about it.But because my mother used to take me to the synagogue, and I rememberedsitting on her knee and looking through the railing and hearing thechanting and singing, I longed to go. One day when I was quite small Islipped out and tried to find the synagogue, but I lost myself a longwhile till a peddler questioned me and took me home. My father, missingme, had been much in fear, and was very angry. I too had been sofrightened at losing myself that it was long before I thought of venturingout again. But after Signora left us we went to rooms where our landladywas a Jewess and observed her religion. I asked her to take me with her tothe synagogue; and I read in her prayer-books and Bible, and when I hadmoney enough I asked her to buy me books of my own, for these books seemeda closer companionship with my mother: I knew that she must have looked atthe very words and said them. In that way I have come to know a little ofour religion, and the history of our people, besides piecing together whatI read in plays and other books about Jews and Jewesses; because I wassure my mother obeyed her religion. I had left off asking my father abouther. It is very dreadful to say it, but I began to disbelieve him. I hadfound that he did not always tell the truth, and made promises withoutmeaning to keep them; and that raised my suspicion that my mother andbrother were still alive though he had told me they were dead. For ingoing over the past again as I got older and knew more, I felt sure thatmy mother had been deceived, and had expected to see us back again after avery little while; and my father taking me on his knee and telling me thatmy mother and brother were both dead seemed to me now but a bit of acting,to set my mind at rest. The cruelty of that falsehood sank into me, and Ihated all untruth because of it. I wrote to my mother secretly: I knew thestreet, Colman Street, where we lived, and that it was not BlackfriarsBridge and the Coburg, and that our name was Cohen then, though my fathercalled us Lapidoth, because, he said, it was a name of his forefathers inPoland. I sent my letter secretly; but no answer came, and I thought therewas no hope for me. Our life in America did not last much longer. Myfather suddenly told me we were to pack up and go to Hamburg, and I wasrather glad. I hoped we might get among a different sort of people, and Iknew German quite well--some German plays almost all by heart. My fatherspoke it better than he spoke English. I was thirteen then, and I seemedto myself quite old--I knew so much, and yet so little. I think otherchildren cannot feel as I did. I had often wished that I had been drownedwhen I was going away from my mother. But I set myself to obey and suffer:what else could I do? One day when we were on our voyage, a new thoughtcame into my mind. I was not very ill that time, and I kept on deck a gooddeal. My father acted and sang and joked to amuse people on board, and Iused often to hear remarks about him. One day, when I was looking at thesea and nobody took notice of me, I overheard a gentleman say, 'Oh, he isone of those clever Jews--a rascal, I shouldn't wonder. There's no racelike them for cunning in the men and beauty in the women. I wonder whatmarket he means that daughter for.' When I heard this it darted into mymind that the unhappiness in my life came from my being a Jewess, and thatalways to the end the world would think slightly of me and that I mustbear it, for I should be judged by that name; and it comforted me tobelieve that my suffering was part of the affliction of my people, my partin the long song of mourning that has been going on through ages and ages.For if many of our race were wicked and made merry in their wickedness--what was that but part of the affliction borne by the just among them, whowere despised for the sins of their brethren?--But you have not rejectedme."
Mirah had changed her tone in this last sentence, having suddenlyreflected that at this moment she had reason not for complaint but forgratitude.
"And we will try to save you from being judged unjustly by others, my poorchild," said Mrs. Meyrick, who had now given up all attempt at going onwith her work, and sat listening with folded hands and a face hardly lesseager than Mab's would have been. "Go on, go on: tell me all."
"After that we lived in different towns--Hamburg and Vienna, the longest.I began to study singing again: and my father always got money about thetheatres. I think he brought a good deal of money from America, I neverknew why we left. For some time he was in great spirits about my singing,and he made me rehearse parts and act continually. He looked forward to mycoming out in the opera. But by-and-by it seemed that my voice would neverbe strong enough--it did not fulfill its promise. My master at Viennasaid, 'Don't strain it further: it will never do for the public:--it isgold, but a thread of gold dust.' My father was bitterly disappointed: wewere not so well off at that time. I think I have not quite told you whatI felt about my father. I knew he was fond of me and meant to indulge me,and that made me afraid of hurting him; but he always mistook what wouldplease me and give me happiness. It was his nature to take everythinglightly; and I soon left off asking him any questions about things that Icared for much, because he always turned them off with a joke. He wouldeven ridicule our own people; and once when he had been imitating theirmovements and their tones in praying, only to make others laugh, I couldnot restrain myself--for I always had an anger in my heart about mymother--and when we were alone, I said, 'Father, you ought not to mimicour own people before Christians who mock them: would it not be bad if Imimicked you, that they might mock you?' But he only shrugged hisshoulders and laughed and pinched my chin, and said, 'You couldn't do it,my dear." It was this way of turning off everything, that made a greatwall between me and my father, and whatever I felt most I took the mostcare to hide from him. For there were some things--when they were laughedat I could not bear it: the world seemed like a hell to me. Is this worldand all the life upon it only like a farce or a vaudeville, where you findno great meanings? Why then are there tragedies and grand operas, wheremen do difficult things and choose to suffer? I think it is silly to speakof all things as a joke. And I saw that his wishing me to sing thegreatest music, and parts in grand operas, was only wishing for what wouldfetch the greatest price. That hemmed in my gratitude for hisaffectionateness, and the tenderest feeling I had toward him was pity.Yes, I did sometimes pity him. He had aged and changed. Now he was nolonger so lively. I thought he seemed worse--less good to others than tome. Every now and then in the latter years his gaiety went away suddenly,and he would sit at home silent and gloomy; or he would come in and flinghimself down and sob, just as I have done myself when I have been introuble. If I put my hand on his knee and say, 'What is the matter,father?' he would make no answer, but would draw my arm round his neck andput his arm round me and go on crying. There never came any confidencebetween us; but oh, I was sorry for him. At those moments I knew he mustfeel his life bitter, and I pressed my cheek against his head and prayed.Those moments were what most bound me to him; and I used to think how muchmy mother once loved him, else she would not have married him.