Daniel Deronda
乔治.艾略特 George Eliot
CHAPTER XX. Page 2
"But soon there came the dreadful time. We had been at Pesth and we cameback to Vienna. In spite of what my master Leo had said, my father got mean engagement, not at the opera, but to take singing parts at a suburbtheatre in Vienna. He had nothing to do with the theatre then; I did notunderstand what he did, but I think he was continually at a gamblinghouse, though he was careful always about taking me to the theatre. I wasvery miserable. The plays I acted in were detestable to me. Men came aboutus and wanted to talk to me: women and men seemed to look at me with asneering smile; it was no better than a fiery furnace. Perhaps I make itworse than it was--you don't know that life: but the glare and the faces,and my having to go on and act and sing what I hated, and then see peoplewho came to stare at me behind the scenes--it was all so much worse thanwhen I was a little girl. I went through with it; I did it; I had set mymind to obey my father and work, for I saw nothing better that I could do.But I felt that my voice was getting weaker, and I knew that my acting wasnot good except when it was not really acting, but the part was one that Icould be myself in, and some feeling within me carried me along. That wasseldom.
"Then, in the midst of all this, the news came to me one morning that myfather had been taken to prison, and he had sent for me. He did not tellme the reason why he was there, but he ordered me to go to an address hegave me, to see a Count who would be able to get him released. The addresswas to some public rooms where I was to ask for the Count, and beg him tocome to my father. I found him, and recognized him as a gentleman whom Ihad seen the other night for the first time behind the scenes. Thatagitated me, for I remembered his way of looking at me and kissing myhand--I thought it was in mockery. But I delivered my errand, and hepromised to go immediately to my father, who came home again that veryevening, bringing the Count with him. I now began to feel a horrible dreadof this man, for he worried me with his attentions, his eyes were alwayson me: I felt sure that whatever else there might be in his mind towardme, below it all there was scorn for the Jewess and the actress. And whenhe came to me the next day in the theatre and would put my shawl aroundme, a terror took hold of me; I saw that my father wanted me to lookpleased. The Count was neither very young nor very old; his hair and eyeswere pale; he was tall and walked heavily, and his face was heavy andgrave except when he looked at me. He smiled at me, and his smile wentthrough me with horror: I could not tell why he was so much worse to methan other men. Some feelings are like our hearing: they come as soundsdo, before we know their reason. My father talked to me about him when wewere alone, and praised him--said what a good friend he had been. I saidnothing, because I supposed he had got my father out of prison. When theCount came again, my father left the room. He asked me if I liked being onthe stage. I said No, I only acted in obedience to my father. He alwaysspoke French, and called me 'petite ange' and such things, which I feltinsulting. I knew he meant to make love to me, and I had it firmly in mymind that a nobleman and one who was not a Jew could have no love for methat was not half contempt. But then he told me that I need not act anylonger; he wished me to visit him at his beautiful place, where I might bequeen of everything. It was difficult to me to speak, I felt so shakenwith anger: I could only say, 'I would rather stay on the stage forever,'and I left him there. Hurrying out of the room I saw my father saunteringin the passage. My heart was crushed. I went past him and locked myselfup. It had sunk into me that my father was in a conspiracy with that managainst me. But the next day he persuaded me to come out: he said that Ihad mistaken everything, and he would explain: if I did not come out andact and fulfill my engagement, we should be ruined and he must starve. SoI went on acting, and for a week or more the Count never came near me. Myfather changed our lodgings, and kept at home except when he went to thetheatre with me. He began one day to speak discouragingly of my acting,and say, I could never go on singing in public--I should lose my voice--Iought to think of my future, and not put my nonsensical feelings betweenme and my fortune. He said, 'What will you do? You will be brought down tosing and beg at people's doors. You have had a splendid offer and ought toaccept it.' I could not speak: a horror took possession of me when Ithought of my mother and of him. I felt for the first time that I shouldnot do wrong to leave him. But the next day he told me that he had put anend to my engagement at the theatre, and that we were to go to Prague. Iwas getting suspicious of everything, and my will was hardening to actagainst him. It took us two days to pack and get ready; and I had it in mymind that I might be obliged to run away from my father, and then I wouldcome to London and try if it were possible to find my mother. I had alittle money, and I sold some things to get more. I packed a few clothesin a little bag that I could carry with me, and I kept my mind on thewatch. My father's silence--his letting drop that subject of the Count'soffer--made me feel sure that there was a plan against me. I felt as if ithad been a plan to take me to a madhouse. I once saw a picture of amadhouse, that I could never forget; it seemed to me very much like someof the life I had seen--the people strutting, quarreling, leering--thefaces with cunning and malice in them. It was my will to keep myself fromwickedness; and I prayed for help. I had seen what despised women were:and my heart turned against my father, for I saw always behind him thatman who made me shudder. You will think I had not enough reason for mysuspicions, and perhaps I had not, outside my own feeling; but it seemedto me that my mind had been lit up, and all that might be stood out clearand sharp. If I slept, it was only to see the same sort of things, and Icould hardly sleep at all. Through our journey I was everywhere on thewatch. I don't know why, but it came before me like a real event, that myfather would suddenly leave me and I should find myself with the Countwhere I could not get away from him. I thought God was warning me: mymother's voice was in my soul. It was dark when we reached Prague, andthough the strange bunches of lamps were lit it was difficult todistinguish faces as we drove along the street. My father chose to sitoutside--he was always smoking now--and I watched everything in spite ofthe darkness. I do believe I could see better then than I ever did before:the strange clearness within seemed to have got outside me. It was not myhabit to notice faces and figures much in the street; but this night I sawevery one; and when we passed before a great hotel I caught sight only ofa back that was passing in--the light of the great bunch of lamps a goodway off fell on it. I knew it--before the face was turned, as it fell intoshadow, I knew who it was. Help came to me. I feel sure help came. I didnot sleep that night. I put on my plainest things--the cloak and hat Ihave worn ever since; and I sat watching for the light and the sound ofthe doors being unbarred. Some one rose early--at four o'clock, to go tothe railway. That gave me courage. I slipped out, with my little bag undermy cloak, and none noticed me. I had been a long while attending to therailway guide that I might learn the way to England; and before the sunhad risen I was in the train for Dresden. Then I cried for joy. I did notknow whether my money would last out, but I trusted. I could sell thethings in my bag, and the little rings in my ears, and I could live onbread only. My only terror was lest my father should follow me. But Inever paused. I came on, and on, and on, only eating bread now and then.When I got to Brussels I saw that I should not have enough money, and Isold all that I could sell; but here a strange thing happened. Putting myhand into the pocket of my cloak, I found a half-napoleon. Wondering andwondering how it came there, I remembered that on the way from Colognethere was a young workman sitting against me. I was frightened at everyone, and did not like to be spoken to. At first he tried to talk, but whenhe saw that I did not like it, he left off. It was a long journey; I atenothing but a bit of bread, and he once offered me some of the food hebrought in, but I refused it. I do believe it was he who put that bit ofgold in my pocket. Without it I could hardly have got to Dover, and I didwalk a good deal of the way from Dover to London. I knew I should looklike a miserable beggar-girl. I wanted not to look very miserable, becauseif I found my mother it would grieve her to see me so. But oh, how vain myhope was that she would be there to see me come! As soon as I set foot inLondon, I began to ask for Lambeth and Blackfriars Bridge, but they were along way off, and I went wrong. At last I got to Blackfriars Bridge andasked for Colman Street. People shook their heads. None knew it. I saw itin my mind--our doorsteps, and the white tiles hung in the windows, andthe large brick building opposite with wide doors. But there was nothinglike it. At last when I asked a tradesman where the Coburg Theatre andColman Street were, he said, 'Oh, my little woman, that's all done awaywith. The old streets have been pulled down; everything is new.' I turnedaway and felt as if death had laid a hand on me. He said: 'Stop, stop!young woman; what is it you're wanting with Colman Street, eh?' meaningwell, perhaps. But his tone was what I could not bear; and how could Itell him what I wanted? I felt blinded and bewildered with a sudden shock.I suddenly felt that I was very weak and weary, and yet where could I go?for I looked so poor and dusty, and had nothing with me--I looked like astreet-beggar. And I was afraid of all places where I could enter. I lostmy trust. I thought I was forsaken. It seemed that I had been in a feverof hope--delirious--all the way from Prague: I thought that I was helped,and I did nothing but strain my mind forward and think of finding mymother; and now--there I stood in a strange world. All who saw me wouldthink ill of me, and I must herd with beggars. I stood on the bridge andlooked along the river. People were going on to a steamboat. Many of themseemed poor, and I felt as if it would be a refuge to get away from thestreets; perhaps the boat would take me where I could soon get into asolitude. I had still some pence left, and I bought a loaf when I went onthe boat. I wanted to have a little time and strength to think of life anddeath. How could I live? And now again it seemed that if ever I were tofind my mother again, death was the way to her. I ate, that I might havestrength to think. The boat set me down at a place along the river--Idon't know where--and it was late in the evening. I found some large treesapart from the road, and I sat down under them that I might rest throughthe night. Sleep must have soon come to me, and when I awoke it wasmorning. The birds were singing, and the dew was white about me, I feltchill and oh, so lonely! I got up and walked and followed the river a longway and then turned back again. There was no reason why I should goanywhere. The world about me seemed like a vision that was hurrying bywhile I stood still with my pain. My thoughts were stronger than I was;they rushed in and forced me to see all my life from the beginning; eversince I was carried away from my mother I had felt myself a lost childtaken up and used by strangers, who did not care what my life was to me,but only what I could do for them. It seemed all a weary wandering andheart-loneliness--as if I had been forced to go to merrymakings withoutthe expectation of joy. And now it was worse. I was lost again, and Idreaded lest any stranger should notice me and speak to me. I had a terrorof the world. None knew me; all would mistake me. I had seen so many in mylife who made themselves glad with scorning, and laughed at another'sshame. What could I do? This life seemed to be closing in upon me with awall of fire--everywhere there was scorching that made me shrink. The highsunlight made me shrink. And I began to think that my despair was thevoice of God telling me to die. But it would take me long to die ofhunger. Then I thought of my people, how they had been driven from land toland and been afflicted, and multitudes had died of misery in theirwandering--was I the first? And in the wars and troubles when Christianswere cruelest, our fathers had sometimes slain their children andafterward themselves: it was to save them from being false apostates. Thatseemed to make it right for me to put an end to my life; for calamity hadclosed me in too, and I saw no pathway but to evil. But my mind got intowar with itself, for there were contrary things in it. I knew that somehad held it wrong to hasten their own death, though they were in the midstof flames; and while I had some strength left it was a longing to bear ifI ought to bear--else where was the good of all my life? It had not beenhappy since the first years: when the light came every morning I used tothink, 'I will bear it.' But always before I had some hope; now it wasgone. With these thoughts I wandered and wandered, inwardly crying to theMost High, from whom I should not flee in death more than in life--thoughI had no strong faith that He cared for me. The strength seemed departingfrom my soul; deep below all my cries was the feeling that I was alone andforsaken. The more I thought the wearier I got, till it seemed I was notthinking at all, but only the sky and the river and the Eternal God werein my soul. And what was it whether I died or lived? If I lay down to diein the river, was it more than lying down to sleep?--for there too Icommitted my soul--I gave myself up. I could not bear memories any more; Icould only feel what was present in me--it was all one longing to ceasefrom my weary life, which seemed only a pain outside the great peace thatI might enter into. That was how it was. When the evening came and the sunwas gone, it seemed as if that was all I had to wait for. And a newstrength came into me to will what I would do. You know what I did. I wasgoing to die. You know what happened--did he not tell you? Faith came tome again; I was not forsaken. He told you how he found me?"
Mrs. Meyrick gave no audible answer, but pressed her lips against Mirah'sforehead.
* * * * *
"She's just a pearl; the mud has only washed her," was the fervid littlewoman's closing commentary when, _tete-à-tete_ with Deronda in the backparlor that evening, she had conveyed Mirah's story to him with muchvividness.
"What is your feeling about a search for this mother?" said Deronda. "Haveyou no fears? I have, I confess."
"Oh, I believe the mother's good," said Mrs. Meyrick, with rapiddecisiveness; "or _was_ good. She may be dead--that's my fear. A goodwoman, you may depend: you may know it by the scoundrel the father is.Where did the child get her goodness from? Wheaten flour has to beaccounted for."
Deronda was rather disappointed at this answer; he had wanted aconfirmation of his own judgment, and he began to put in demurrers. Theargument about the mother would not apply to the brother; and Mrs. Meyrickadmitted that the brother might be an ugly likeness of the father. Then,as to advertising, if the name was Cohen, you might as well advertise fortwo undescribed terriers; and here Mrs. Meyrick helped him, for the ideaof an advertisement, already mentioned to Mirah, had roused the poorchild's terror; she was convinced that her father would see it--he saweverything in the papers. Certainly there were safer means thanadvertising; men might be set to work whose business it was to findmissing persons; but Deronda wished Mrs. Meyrick to feel with him that itwould be wiser to wait, before seeking a dubious--perhaps a deplorableresult; especially as he was engaged to go abroad the next week for acouple of months. If a search were made, he would like to be at hand, sothat Mrs. Meyrick might not be unaided in meeting any consequences--supposing that she would generously continue to watch over Mirah.
"We should be very jealous of any one who took the task from us," saidMrs. Meyrick. "She will stay under my roof; there is Hans's old room forher."
"Will she be content to wait?" said Deronda, anxiously.
"No trouble there. It is not her nature to run into planning and devising:only to submit. See how she submitted to that father! It was a wonder toherself how she found the will and contrivance to run away from him. Aboutfinding her mother, her only notion now is to trust; since you were sentto save her and we are good to her, she trusts that her mother will befound in the same unsought way. And when she is talking I catch herfeeling like a child."
Mrs. Meyrick hoped that the sum Deronda put into her hands as a provisionfor Mirah's wants was more than would be needed; after a little whileMirah would perhaps like to occupy herself as the other girls did, andmake herself independent. Deronda pleaded that she must need a long rest."Oh, yes; we will hurry nothing," said Mrs. Meyrick.
"Rely upon it, she shall be taken tender care of. If you like to give meyour address abroad, I will write to let you know how we get on. It is notfair that we should have all the pleasure of her salvation to ourselves.And besides, I want to make believe that I am doing something for you aswell as for Mirah."
"That is no make-believe. What should I have done without you last night?Everything would have gone wrong. I shall tell Hans that the best ofhaving him for a friend is, knowing his mother."
After that they joined the girls in the other room, where Mirah was seatedplacidly, while the others were telling her what they knew about Mr.Deronda--his goodness to Hans, and all the virtues that Hans had reportedof him.
"Kate burns a pastille before his portrait every day," said Mab. "And Icarry his signature in a little black-silk bag round my neck to keep offthe cramp. And Amy says the multiplication-table in his name. We must alldo something extra in honor of him, now he has brought you to us."
"I suppose he is too great a person to want anything," said Mirah, smilingat Mab, and appealing to the graver Amy. "He is perhaps very high in theworld?"
"He is very much above us in rank," said Amy. "He is related to grandpeople. I dare say he leans on some of the satin cushions we prick ourfingers over."
"I am glad he is of high rank," said Mirah, with her usual quietness.
"Now, why are you glad of that?" said Amy, rather suspicious of thissentiment, and on the watch for Jewish peculiarities which had notappeared.
"Because I have always disliked men of high rank before."
"Oh, Mr. Deronda is not so very high," said Kate, "He need not hinder usfrom thinking ill of the whole peerage and baronetage if we like."
When he entered, Mirah rose with the same look of grateful reverence thatshe had lifted to him the evening before: impossible to see a creaturefreer at once from embarrassment and boldness. Her theatrical training hadleft no recognizable trace; probably her manners had not much changedsince she played the forsaken child at nine years of age; and she hadgrown up in her simplicity and truthfulness like a little flower-seed thatabsorbs the chance confusion of its surrounding into its own definitemould of beauty. Deronda felt that he was making acquaintance withsomething quite new to him in the form of womanhood. For Mirah was notchildlike from ignorance: her experience of evil and trouble was deeperand stranger than his own. He felt inclined to watch her and listen to heras if she had come from a far off shore inhabited by a race different fromour own.
But for that very reason he made his visit brief with his usual activityof imagination as to how his conduct might affect others, he shrank fromwhat might seem like curiosity or the assumption of a right to know asmuch as he pleased of one to whom he had done a service. For example, hewould have liked to hear her sing, but he would have felt the expressionof such a wish to be rudeness in him--since she could not refuse, and hewould all the while have a sense that she was being treated like one whoseaccomplishments were to be ready on demand. And whatever reverence couldbe shown to woman, he was bent on showing to this girl. Why? He gavehimself several good reasons; but whatever one does with a strongunhesitating outflow of will has a store of motive that it would be hardto put into words. Some deeds seem little more than interjections whichgive vent to the long passion of a life.
So Deronda soon took his farewell for the two months during which heexpected to be absent from London, and in a few days he was on his waywith Sir Hugo and Lady Mallinger to Leubronn.
He had fulfilled his intention of telling them about Mirah. The baronetwas decidedly of opinion that the search for the mother and brother hadbetter be let alone. Lady Mallinger was much interested in the poor girl,observing that there was a society for the conversion of the Jews, andthat it was to be hoped Mirah would embrace Christianity; but perceivingthat Sir Hugo looked at her with amusement, she concluded that she hadsaid something foolish. Lady Mallinger felt apologetically about herselfas a woman who had produced nothing but daughters in a case where sonswere required, and hence regarded the apparent contradictions of the worldas probably due to the weakness of her own understanding. But when she wasmuch puzzled, it was her habit to say to herself, "I will ask Daniel."Deronda was altogether a convenience in the family; and Sir Hugo too,after intending to do the best for him, had begun to feel that thepleasantest result would be to have this substitute for a son always readyat his elbow.
This was the history of Deronda, so far as he knew it, up to the time ofthat visit to Leubronn in which he saw Gwendolen Harleth at the gaming-table.