Daniel Deronda
乔治.艾略特 George Eliot
CHAPTER XXXII. Page 2
But with the cessation of the devotional sounds and the movement of manyindifferent faces and vulgar figures before him there darted into his mindthe frigid idea that he had probably been alone in his feeling, andperhaps the only person in the congregation for whom the service was morethan a dull routine. There was just time for this chilling thought beforehe had bowed to his civil neighbor and was moving away with the rest--whenhe felt a hand on his arm, and turning with the rather unpleasantsensation which this abrupt sort of claim is apt to bring, he saw close tohim the white-bearded face of that neighbor, who said to him in German,"Excuse me, young gentleman--allow me--what is your parentage--yourmother's family--her maiden name?"
Deronda had a strongly resistant feeling: he was inclined to shake offhastily the touch on his arm; but he managed to slip it away and saidcoldly, "I am an Englishman."
The questioner looked at him dubiously still for an instant, then justlifted his hat and turned away; whether under a sense of having made amistake or of having been repulsed, Deronda was uncertain. In his walkback to the hotel he tried to still any uneasiness on the subject byreflecting that he could not have acted differently. How could he say thathe did not know the name of his mother's family to that total stranger?--who indeed had taken an unwarrantable liberty in the abruptness of hisquestion, dictated probably by some fancy of likeness such as often occurswithout real significance. The incident, he said to himself, was trivial;but whatever import it might have, his inward shrinking on the occasionwas too strong for him to be sorry that he had cut it short. It was areason, however, for his not mentioning the synagogue to the Mallingers--in addition to his usual inclination to reticence on anything that thebaronet would have been likely to call Quixotic enthusiasm. Hardly any mancould be more good-natured than Sir Hugo; indeed in his kindlinessespecially to women, he did actions which others would have calledromantic; but he never took a romantic view of them, and in general smiledat the introduction of motives on a grand scale, or of reasons that layvery far off. This was the point of strongest difference between him andDeronda, who rarely ate at breakfast without some silent discursive flightafter grounds for filling up his day according to the practice of hiscontemporaries.
This halt at Frankfort was taken on their way home, and its impressionswere kept the more actively vibrating in him by the duty of caring forMirah's welfare. That question about his parentage, which if he had notboth inwardly and outwardly shaken it off as trivial, would have seemed athreat rather than a promise of revelation, and reinforced his anxiety asto the effect of finding Mirah's relatives and his resolve to proceed withcaution. If he made any unpleasant discovery, was he bound to a disclosurethat might cast a new net of trouble around her? He had written to Mrs.Meyrick to announce his visit at four o'clock, and he found Mirah seatedat work with only Mrs. Meyrick and Mab, the open piano, and all theglorious company of engravings. The dainty neatness of her hair and dress,the glow of tranquil happiness in a face where a painter need have changednothing if he had wanted to put it in front of the host singing "peace onearth and good will to men," made a contrast to his first vision of herthat was delightful to Deronda's eyes. Mirah herself was thinking of it,and immediately on their greeting said--
"See how different I am from the miserable creature by the river! allbecause you found me and brought me to the very best."
"It was my good chance to find you," said Deronda. "Any other man wouldhave been glad to do what I did."
"That is not the right way to be thinking about it," said Mirah, shakingher head with decisive gravity, "I think of what really was. It was you,and not another, who found me and were good to me."
"I agree with Mirah," said Mrs. Meyrick. "Saint Anybody is a bad saint topray to."
"Besides, Anybody could not have brought me to you," said Mirah, smilingat Mrs. Meyrick. "And I would rather be with you than with any one else inthe world except my mother. I wonder if ever a poor little bird, that waslost and could not fly, was taken and put into a warm nest where was amother and sisters who took to it so that everything came naturally, as ifit had been always there. I hardly thought before that the world couldever be as happy and without fear as it is to me now." She lookedmeditative a moment, and then said, "sometimes I am a _little_ afraid."
"What is it you are afraid of?" said Deronda with anxiety.
"That when I am turning at the corner of a street I may meet my father. Itseems dreadful that I should be afraid of meeting him. That is my onlysorrow," said Mirah, plaintively.
"It is surely not very probable," said Deronda, wishing that it were lessso; then, not to let the opportunity escape--"Would it be a great grief toyou now if you were never to meet your mother?"
She did not answer immediately, but meditated again, with her eyes fixedon the opposite wall. Then she turned them on Deronda and said firmly, asif she had arrived at the exact truth, "I want her to know that I havealways loved her, and if she is alive I want to comfort her. She may bedead. If she were I should long to know where she was buried; and to knowwhether my brother lives, so that we can remember her together. But I willtry not to grieve. I have thought much for so many years of her beingdead. And I shall have her with me in my mind, as I have always had. Wecan never be really parted. I think I have never sinned against her. Ihave always tried not to do what would hurt her. Only, she might be sorrythat I was not a good Jewess."
"In what way are you not a good Jewess?" said Deronda.
"I am ignorant, and we never observed the laws, but lived among Christiansjust as they did. But I have heard my father laugh at the strictness ofthe Jews about their food and all customs, and their not likingChristians. I think my mother was strict; but she could never want me notto like those who are better to me than any of my own people I have everknown. I think I could obey in other things that she wished but not inthat. It is so much easier to me to share in love than in hatred. Iremember a play I read in German--since I have been here it has come intomy mind--where the heroine says something like that."
"Antigone," said Deronda.
"Ah, you know it. But I do not believe that my mother would wish me not tolove my best friends. She would be grateful to them." Here Mirah hadturned to Mrs. Meyrick, and with a sudden lighting up of her wholecountenance, she said, "Oh, if we ever do meet and know each other as weare now, so that I could tell what would comfort her--I should be so fullof blessedness my soul would know no want but to love her!"
"God bless you, child!" said Mrs. Meyrick, the words escapinginvoluntarily from her motherly heart. But to relieve the strain offeeling she looked at Deronda and said, "It is curious that Mirah, whoremembers her mother so well it is as if she saw her, cannot recall herbrother the least bit--except the feeling of having been carried by himwhen she was tired, and of his being near her when she was in her mother'slap. It must be that he was rarely at home. He was already grown up. It isa pity her brother should be quite a stranger to her."
"He is good; I feel sure Ezra is good," said Mirah, eagerly. "He loved mymother--he would take care of her. I remember more of him than that. Iremember my mother's voice once calling, 'Ezra!' and then his answeringfrom a distance 'Mother!'"--Mirah had changed her voice a little in eachof these words and had given them a loving intonation--"and then he cameclose to us. I feel sure he is good. I have always taken comfort fromthat."
It was impossible to answer this either with agreement or doubt. Mrs.Meyrick and Deronda exchanged a quick glance: about this brother she feltas painfully dubious as he did. But Mirah went on, absorbed in hermemories--
"Is it not wonderful how I remember the voices better than anything else?I think they must go deeper into us than other things. I have oftenfancied heaven might be made of voices."
"Like your singing--yes," said Mab, who had hitherto kept a modestsilence, and now spoke bashfully, as was her wont in the presence ofPrince Camaralzaman--"Ma, do ask Mirah to sing. Mr. Deronda has not heardher."
"Would it be disagreeable to you to sing now?" said Deronda, with a moredeferential gentleness than he had ever been conscious of before.
"Oh, I shall like it," said Mirah. "My voice has come back a little withrest."
Perhaps her ease of manner was due to something more than the simplicityof her nature. The circumstances of her life made her think of everythingshe did as work demanded from her, in which affectation had nothing to do;and she had begun her work before self-consciousness was born.
She immediately rose and went to the piano--a somewhat worn instrumentthat seemed to get the better of its infirmities under the firm touch ofher small fingers as she preluded. Deronda placed himself where he couldsee her while she sang; and she took everything as quietly as if she hadbeen a child going to breakfast.
Imagine her--it is always good to imagine a human creature in whom bodilyloveliness seems as properly one with the entire being as the bodilyloveliness of those wondrous transparent orbs of life that we find in thesea--imagine her with her dark hair brushed from her temples, but yetshowing certain tiny rings there which had cunningly found their own wayback, the mass of it hanging behind just to the nape of the little neck incurly fibres, such as renew themselves at their own will after beingbathed into straightness like that of water-grasses. Then see the perfectcameo her profile makes, cut in a duskish shell, where by some happyfortune there pierced a gem-like darkness for the eye and eyebrow; thedelicate nostrils defined enough to be ready for sensitive movements, thefinished ear, the firm curves of the chin and neck, entering into theexpression of a refinement which was not feebleness.
She sang Beethoven's "Per pietà non dirmi addio" with a subdued butsearching pathos which had that essential of perfect singing, the makingone oblivious of art or manner, and only possessing one with the song. Itwas the sort of voice that gives the impression of being meant like abird's wooing for an audience near and beloved. Deronda began by lookingat her, but felt himself presently covering his eyes with his hand,wanting to seclude the melody in darkness; then he refrained from whatmight seem oddity, and was ready to meet the look of mute appeal which sheturned toward him at the end.
"I think I never enjoyed a song more than that," he said, gratefully.
"You like my singing? I am so glad," she said, with a smile of delight."It has been a great pain to me, because it failed in what it was wantedfor. But now we think I can use it to get my bread. I have really beentaught well. And now I have two pupils, that Miss Meyrick found for me.They pay me nearly two crowns for their two lessons."
"I think I know some ladies who would find you many pupils afterChristmas," said Deronda. "You would not mind singing before any one whowished to hear you?"
"Oh no, I want to do something to get money. I could teach reading andspeaking, Mrs. Meyrick thinks. But if no one would learn of me, that isdifficult." Mirah smiled with a touch of merriment he had not seen in herbefore. "I dare say I should find her poor--I mean my mother. I shouldwant to get money for her. And I can not always live on charity; though"--here she turned so as to take all three of her companions in one glance--"it is the sweetest charity in all the world."
"I should think you can get rich," said Deronda, smiling. "Great ladieswill perhaps like you to teach their daughters, We shall see. But now dosing again to us."
She went on willingly, singing with ready memory various things byGordigiani and Schubert; then, when she had left the piano, Mab said,entreatingly, "Oh, Mirah, if you would not mind singing the little hymn."
"It is too childish," said Mirah. "It is like lisping."
"What is the hymn?" said Deronda.
"It is the Hebrew hymn she remembers her mother singing over her when shelay in her cot," said Mrs. Meyrick.
"I should like very much to hear it," said Deronda, "if you think I amworthy to hear what is so sacred."
was confused and wished she had not spoken.
"I will sing it if you like," said Mirah, "but I don't sing real words--only here and there a syllable like hers--the rest is lisping. Do you knowHebrew? because if you do, my singing will seem childish nonsense."
Deronda shook his head. "It will be quite good Hebrew to me."
Mirah crossed her little feet and hands in her easiest attitude, and thenlifted up her head at an angle which seemed to be directed to someinvisible face bent over her, while she sang a little hymn of quaintmelancholy intervals, with syllables that really seemed childish lispingto her audience; the voice in which she gave it forth had gathered even asweeter, more cooing tenderness than was heard in her other songs.
"If I were ever to know the real words, I should still go on in my old waywith them," said Mirah, when she had repeated the hymn several times.
"Why not?" said Deronda. "The lisped syllables are very full of meaning."
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Meyrick. "A mother hears something of a lisp inher children's talk to the very last. Their words are not just whateverybody else says, though they may be spelled the same. If I were tolive till my Hans got old, I should still see the boy in him. A mother'slove, I often say, is like a tree that has got all the wood in it, fromthe very first it made."
"Is not that the way with friendship, too?" said Deronda, smiling. "Wemust not let the mothers be too arrogant."
The little woman shook her head over her darning.
"It is easier to find an old mother than an old friend. Friendships beginwith liking or gratitude--roots that can be pulled up. Mother's lovebegins deeper down."
"Like what you were saying about the influence of voices," said Deronda,looking at Mirah. "I don't think your hymn would have had more expressionfor me if I had known the words. I went to the synagogue at Frankfortbefore I came home, and the service impressed me just as much as if I hadfollowed the words--perhaps more."
"Oh, was it great to you? Did it go to your heart?" said Mirah, eagerly."I thought none but our people would feel that. I thought it was all shutaway like a river in a deep valley, where only heaven saw--I mean---" shehesitated feeling that she could not disentangle her thought from itsimagery.
"I understand," said Deronda. "But there is not really such a separation--deeper down, as Mrs. Meyrick says. Our religion is chiefly a Hebrewreligion; and since Jews are men, their religious feelings must have muchin common with those of other men--just as their poetry, though in onesense peculiar, has a great deal in common with the poetry of othernations. Still it is to be expected that a Jew would feel the forms of hispeople's religion more than one of another race--and yet"--here Derondahesitated in his turn--"that is perhaps not always so."
"Ah no," said Mirah, sadly. "I have seen that. I have seen them mock. Isit not like mocking your parents?--like rejoicing in your parents' shame?"
rejoicing in your parents' shame?"threatened to becomesevere if Mirah .
"Some minds naturally rebel against whatever they were brought up in, andlike the opposite; they see the faults in what is nearest to them," saidDeronda apologetically.
"But you are not like that," said Mirah, looking at him with unconsciousfixedness.
"No, I think not," said Deronda; "but you know I was not brought up as aJew."
"Ah, I am always forgetting," said Mirah, with a look of disappointedrecollection, and slightly blushing.
Deronda also felt rather embarrassed, and there was an awkward pause,which he put an end to by saying playfully--
"Whichever way we take it, we have to tolerate each other; for if we allwent in opposition to our teaching, we must end in difference, just thesame."
"To be sure. We should go on forever in zig-zags," said Mrs. Meyrick. "Ithink it is very weak-minded to make your creed up by the rule of thecontrary. Still one may honor one's parents, without following theirnotions exactly, any more than the exact cut of their clothing. My fatherwas a Scotch Calvinist and my mother was a French Calvinist; I am neitherquite Scotch, nor quite French, nor two Calvinists rolled into one, yet Ihonor my parents' memory."
"But I could not make myself not a Jewess," said Mirah, insistently, "evenif I changed my belief."
"No, my dear. But if Jews and Jewesses went on changing their religion,and making no difference between themselves and Christians, there wouldcome a time when there would be no Jews to be seen," said Mrs. Meyrick,taking that consummation very cheerfully.
"Oh, please not to say that," said Mirah, the tears gathering. "It is thefirst unkind thing you ever said. I will not begin that. I will neverseparate myself from my mother's people. I was forced to fly from myfather; but if he came back in age and weakness and want, and needed me,should I say, 'This is not my father'? If he had shame, I must share it.It was he who was given to me for my father, and not another. And so it iswith my people. I will always be a Jewess. I will love Christians whenthey are good, like you. But I will always cling to my people. I willalways worship with them."
"Mirah, Mirah, my dear child, you mistake me!" said Mrs. Meyrick, alarmed."God forbid I should want you to do anything against your conscience. Iwas only saying what might be if the world went on. But I had better haveleft the world alone, and not wanted to be over-wise. Forgive me, come! wewill not try to take you from anybody you feel has more right to you."
"I would do anything else for you. I owe you my life," said Mirah, not yetquite calm.
doubt. Mrs.Meyrick and Deronda exchanged a quick glance: about!
"Hush, hush, now," said Mrs. Meyrick. "I have been punished enough forwagging my tongue foolishly--making an almanac for the Millennium, as myhusband used to say."
"But everything in the world must come to an end some time. We must bearto think of that," said Mab, unable to hold her peace on this point. Shehad already suffered from a bondage of tongue which threatened to becomesevere if Mirah were to be too much indulged in this inconvenientsusceptibility to innocent remarks.
Deronda smiled at the irregular, blonde face, brought into strangecontrast by the side of Mirah's--smiled, Mab thought, rather sarcasticallyas he said, "That 'prospect of everything coming to an end will not guideus far in practice. Mirah's feelings, she tells us, are concerned withwhat is."
Mab was confused and wished she had not spoken, since Mr. Deronda seemedto think that she had found fault with Mirah; but to have spoken once is atyrannous reason for speaking again, and she said--
"I only meant that we must have courage to hear things, else there ishardly anything we can talk about." Mab felt herself unanswerable here,inclining to the opinion of Socrates: "What motive has a man to live, ifnot for the pleasure of discourse?"
Deronda took his leave soon after, and when Mrs. Meyrick went outside withhim to exchange a few words about Mirah, he said, "Hans is to share mychambers when he comes at Christmas."
"You have written to Rome about that?" said Mrs. Meyrick, her facelighting up. "How very good and thoughtful of you! You mentioned Mirah,then?"
"Yes, I referred to her. I concluded he knew everything from you."
"I must confess my folly. I have not yet written a word about her. I havealways been meaning to do it, and yet have ended my letter without sayinga word. And I told the girls to leave it to me. However!--Thank you athousand times."
Deronda divined something of what was in the mother's mind, and hisdivination reinforced a certain anxiety already present in him. His inwardcolloquy was not soothing. He said to himself that no man could see thisexquisite creature without feeling it possible to fall in love with her;but all the fervor of his nature was engaged on the side of precaution.There are personages who feel themselves tragic because they march into apalpable morass, dragging another with them, and then cry out against allthe gods. Deronda's mind was strongly set against imitating them.
"I have my hands on the reins now," he thought, "and I will not drop them.I shall go there as little as possible."
He saw the reasons acting themselves out before him. How could he beMirah's guardian and claim to unite with Mrs. Meyrick, to whose charge hehad committed her, if he showed himself as a lover--whom she did not love--whom she would not marry? And if he encouraged any germ of lover'sfeeling in himself it would lead up to that issue. Mirah's was not anature that would bear dividing against itself; and even if love won herconsent to marry a man who was not of her race and religion, she wouldnever be happy in acting against that strong native bias which would stillreign in her conscience as remorse.
Deronda saw these consequences as we see any danger of marring our ownwork well begun. It was a delight to have rescued this child acquaintedwith sorrow, and to think of having placed her little feet in protectedpaths. The creature we help to save, though only a half-reared linnet,bruised and lost by the wayside--how we watch and fence it, and dote onits signs of recovery! Our pride becomes loving, our self is a not-selffor whose sake we become virtuous, when we set to some hidden work ofreclaiming a life from misery and look for our triumph in the secret joy--"This one is the better for me."
"I would as soon hold out my finger to be bitten off as set about spoilingher peace," said Deronda. "It was one of the rarest bits of fortune that Ishould have had friends like the Meyricks to place her with--generous,delicate friends without any loftiness in their ways, so that herdependence on them is not only safety but happiness. There could be norefuge to replace that, if it were broken up. But what is the use of mytaking the vows and settling everything as it should be, if that marplotHans comes and upsets it all?"
Few things were more likely. Hans was made for mishaps: his very limbsseemed more breakable than other people's--his eyes more of a resort foruninvited flies and other irritating guests. But it was impossible toforbid Hans's coming to London. He was intending to get a studio there andmake it his chief home; and to propose that he should defer coming on someostensible ground, concealing the real motive of winning time for Mirah'sposition to become more confirmed and independent, was impracticable.Having no other resource Deronda tried to believe that both he and Mrs.Meyrick were foolishly troubling themselves about one of those endlessthings called probabilities, which never occur; but he did not quitesucceed in his trying; on the contrary, he found himself going inwardlythrough a scene where on the first discovery of Han's inclination he gavehim a very energetic warning--suddenly checked, however, by the suspicionof personal feeling that his warmth might be creating in Hans. He couldcome to no result, but that the position was peculiar, and that he couldmake no further provision against dangers until they came nearer. To savean unhappy Jewess from drowning herself, would not have seemed a startlingvariation among police reports; but to discover in her so rare a creatureas Mirah, was an exceptional event which might well bring exceptionalconsequences. Deronda would not let himself for a moment dwell on anysupposition that the consequences might enter deeply into his own life.The image of Mirah had never yet had that penetrating radiation whichwould have been given to it by the idea of her loving him. When this sortof effluence is absent from the fancy (whether from the fact or not) a manmay go far in devotedness without perturbation.
As to the search for Mirah's mother and brother, Deronda took what she hadsaid to-day as a warrant for deferring any immediate measures. Hisconscience was not quite easy in this desire for delay, any more than itwas quite easy in his not attempting to learn the truth about his ownmother: in both cases he felt that there might be an unfulfilled duty to aparent, but in both cases there was an overpowering repugnance to thepossible truth, which threw a turning weight into the scale of argument.
"At least, I will look about," was his final determination. "I may findsome special Jewish machinery. I will wait till after Christmas."
What should we all do without the calendar, when we want to put off adisagreeable duty? The admirable arrangements of the solar system, bywhich our time is measured, always supply us with a term before which itis hardly worth while to set about anything we are disinclined to.