Daniel Deronda
乔治.艾略特 George Eliot
CHAPTER XXXVII. Page 1
_Aspern._ Pardon, my lord--I speak for Sigismund._Fronsberg._ For him? Oh, ay--for him I always holdA pardon safe in bank, sure he will drawSooner or later on me. What his need?Mad project broken? fine mechanic wingsThat would not fly? durance, assault on watch,Bill for Epernay, not a crust to eat?_Aspern._ Oh, none of these, my lord; he has escapedFrom Circe's herd, and seeks to win the loveOf your fair ward Cecilia: but would winFirst your consent. You frown._Fronsberg._ Distinguish words.I said I held a pardon, not consent.
In spite of Deronda's reasons for wishing to be in town again--reasons inwhich his anxiety for Mirah was blent with curiosity to know more of theenigmatic Mordecai--he did not manage to go up before Sir Hugo, whopreceded his family that he might be ready for the opening of Parliamenton the sixth of February. Deronda took up his quarters in Park Lane, awarethat his chambers were sufficiently tenanted by Hans Meyrick. This waswhat he expected; but he found other things not altogether according tohis expectations.
Most of us remember Retzsch's drawing of destiny in the shape ofMephistopheles playing at chess with man for his soul, a game in which wemay imagine the clever adversary making a feint of unintended moves so asto set the beguiled mortal on carrying his defensive pieces away from thetrue point of attack. The fiend makes preparation his favorite object ofmockery, that he may fatally persuade us against our taking outwaterproofs when he is well aware the sky is going to clear, foreseeingthat the imbecile will turn this delusion into a prejudice againstwaterproofs instead of giving a closer study to the weather-signs. It is apeculiar test of a man's metal when, after he has painfully adjustedhimself to what seems a wise provision, he finds all his mental precautiona little beside the mark, and his excellent intentions no better thanmiscalculated dovetails, accurately cut from a wrong starting-point. Hismagnanimity has got itself ready to meet misbehavior, and finds quite adifferent call upon it. Something of this kind happened to Deronda.
His first impression was one of pure pleasure and amusement at finding hissitting-room transformed into an _atelier_ strewed with miscellaneousdrawings and with the contents of two chests from Rome, the lower half ofthe windows darkened with baize, and the blonde Hans in his weird youth asthe presiding genius of the littered place--his hair longer than of old,his face more whimsically creased, and his high voice as usual gettinghigher under the excitement of rapid talk. The friendship of the two hadbeen kept up warmly since the memorable Cambridge time, not only bycorrespondence but by little episodes of companionship abroad and inEngland, and the original relation of confidence on one side andindulgence on the other had been developed in practice, as is wont to bethe case where such spiritual borrowing and lending has been well begun.
"I knew you would like to see my casts and antiquities," said Hans, afterthe first hearty greetings and inquiries, "so I didn't scruple to unlademy chests here. But I've found two rooms at Chelsea not many hundred yardsfrom my mother and sisters, and I shall soon be ready to hang out there--when they've scraped the walls and put in some new lights. That's all I'mwaiting for. But you see I don't wait to begin work: you can't conceivewhat a great fellow I'm going to be. The seed of immortality has sproutedwithin me."
"Only a fungoid growth, I dare say--a growing disease in the lungs," saidDeronda, accustomed to treat Hans in brotherly fashion. He was walkingtoward some drawings propped on the ledge of his bookcases; five rapidly-sketched heads--different aspects of the same face. He stood at aconvenient distance from them, without making any remark. Hans, too, wassilent for a minute, took up his palette and began touching the picture onhis easel.
"What do you think of them?" he said at last.
"The full face looks too massive; otherwise the likenesses are good," saidDeronda, more coldly than was usual with him.
would not fly? durance, assault on watch,
"No, it is not too massive," said Hans, decisively. "I have noted that.There is always a little surprise when one passes from the profile to thefull face. But I shall enlarge her scale for Berenice. I am making aBerenice series--look at the sketches along there--and now I think of it,you are just the model I want for the Agrippa." Hans, still with penciland palette in hand, had moved to Deronda's side while he said this, buthe added hastily, as if conscious of a mistake, "No, no, I forgot; youdon't like sitting for your portrait, confound you! However, I've pickedup a capital Titus. There are to be five in the series. The first isBerenice clasping the knees of Gessius Florus and beseeching him to spareher people; I've got that on the easel. Then, this, where she is standingon the Xystus with Agrippa, entreating the people not to injure themselvesby resistance."
"Agrippa's legs will never do," said Deronda.
"The legs are good realistically," said Hans, his face creasing drolly;"public men are often shaky about the legs--' Their legs, the emblem oftheir various thought,' as somebody says in the 'Rehearsal.'"
"But these are as impossible as the legs of Raphael's Alcibiades," saidDeronda.
"Then they are good ideally," said Hans. "Agrippa's legs were possiblybad; I idealize that and make them impossibly bad. Art, my Eugenius, mustintensify. But never mind the legs now: the third sketch in the series isBerenice exulting in the prospects of being Empress of Rome, when the newshas come that Vespasian is declared Emperor and her lover Titus hissuccessor."
"You must put a scroll in her mouth, else people will not understand that.You can't tell that in a picture."
"It will make them feel their ignorance then--an excellent æstheticeffect. The fourth is, Titus sending Berenice away from Rome after she hasshared his palace for ten years--both reluctant, both sad--_invitusinvitam_, as Suetonius hath it. I've found a model for the Roman brute."
"Shall you make Berenice look fifty? She must have been that."
"No, no; a few mature touches to show the lapse of time. Dark-eyed beautywears well, hers particularly. But now, here is the fifth: Berenice seatedlonely on the ruins of Jerusalem. That is pure imagination. That is whatought to have been--perhaps was. Now, see how I tell a pathetic negative.Nobody knows what became of her--that is finely indicated by the seriescoming to a close. There is no sixth picture." Here Hans pretended tospeak with a gasping sense of sublimity, and drew back his head with afrown, as if looking for a like impression on Deronda. "I break off in theHomeric style. The story is chipped off, so to speak, and passes with aragged edge into nothing--_le néant_; can anything be more sublime,especially in French? The vulgar would desire to see her corpse andburial--perhaps her will read and her linen distributed. But now come andlook at this on the easel. I have made some way there."
"That beseeching attitude is really good," said Deronda, after a moment'scontemplation. "You have been very industrious in the Christmas holidays;for I suppose you have taken up the subject since you came to London."Neither of them had yet mentioned Mirah.
"No," said Hans, putting touches to his picture, "I made up my mind to thesubject before. I take that lucky chance for an augury that I am going toburst on the world as a great painter. I saw a splendid woman in theTrastevere--the grandest women there are half Jewesses--and she set mehunting for a fine situation of a Jewess at Rome. Like other men of vastlearning, I ended by taking what lay on the surface. I'll show you asketch of the Trasteverina's head when I can lay my hands on it."
"I should think she would be a more suitable model for Berenice," saidDeronda, not knowing exactly how to express his discontent.
"Not a bit of it. The model ought to be the most beautiful Jewess in theworld, and I have found her."
"Have you made yourself sure that she would like to figure in thatcharacter? I should think no woman would be more abhorrent to her. Doesshe quite know what you are doing?"
"Certainly. I got her to throw herself precisely into this attitude.Little mother sat for Gessius Florus, and Mirah clasped her knees." HereHans went a little way off and looked at the effect of his touches.
"I dare say she knows nothing about Berenice's history," said Deronda,feeling more indignation than he would have been able to justify.
"Oh, yes, she does--ladies' edition. Berenice was a fervid patriot, butwas beguiled by love and ambition into attaching herself to the arch-enemyof her people. Whence the Nemesis. Mirah takes it as a tragic parable, andcries to think what the penitent Berenice suffered as she wandered back toJerusalem and sat desolate amidst desolation. That was her own phrase. Icouldn't find it in my heart to tell her I invented that part of thestory."
"Show me your Trasteverina," said Deronda, chiefly in order to hinderhimself from saying something else.
"Shall you mind turning over that folio?" said Hans. "My studies of headsare all there. But they are in confusion. You will perhaps find her nextto a crop-eared undergraduate."
After Deronda had been turning over the drawings a minute or two, hesaid--
"These seem to be all Cambridge heads and bits of country. Perhaps I hadbetter begin at the other end."
"No; you'll find her about the middle. I emptied one folio into another."
"Is this one of your undergraduates?" said Deronda, holding up a drawing."It's an unusually agreeable face."
"That! Oh, that's a man named Gascoigne--Rex Gascoigne. An uncommonly goodfellow; his upper lip, too, is good. I coached him before he got hisscholarship. He ought to have taken honors last Easter. But he was ill,and has had to stay up another year. I must look him up. I want to knowhow he's going on."
"Here she is, I suppose," said Deronda, holding up a sketch of theTrasteverina.
"Ah," said Hans, looking at it rather contemptuously, "too coarse. I wasunregenerate then."
Deronda was silent while he closed the folio, leaving the Trasteverinaoutside. Then clasping his coat-collar, and turning toward Hans, he said,"I dare say my scruples are excessive, Meyrick, but I must ask you tooblige me by giving up this notion."
Hans threw himself into a tragic attitude, and screamed, "What! my series--my immortal Berenice series? Think of what you are saying, man--destroying, as Milton says, not a life but an immortality. Wait beforeyou, answer, that I may deposit the implements of my art and be ready touproot my hair."
Here Hans laid down his pencil and palette, threw himself backward into agreat chair, and hanging limply over the side, shook his long hair overhis face, lifted his hooked fingers on each side his head, and looked upwith comic terror at Deronda, who was obliged to smile, as he said--
"Paint as many Berenices as you like, but I wish you could feel with me--perhaps you will, on reflection--that you should choose another model."
"Why?" said Hans, standing up, and looking serious again.
"Because she may get into such a position that her face is likely to berecognized. Mrs. Meyrick and I are anxious for her that she should beknown as an admirable singer. It is right, and she wishes it, that sheshould make herself independent. And she has excellent chances. One goodintroduction is secured already, and I am going to speak to Klesmer. Herface may come to be very well known, and--well, it is useless to attemptto explain, unless you feel as I do. I believe that if Mirah saw thecircumstances clearly, she would strongly object to being exhibited inthis way--to allowing herself to be used as a model for a heroine of thissort."
As Hans stood with his thumbs in the belt of his blouse, listening to thisspeech, his face showed a growing surprise melting into amusement, that atlast would have its way in an explosive laugh: but seeing that Derondalooked gravely offended, he checked himself to say, "Excuse my laughing,Deronda. You never gave me an advantage over you before. If it had beenabout anything but my own pictures, I should have swallowed every wordbecause you said it. And so you actually believe that I should get my fivepictures hung on the line in a conspicuous position, and carefully studiedby the public? Zounds, man! cider-cup and conceit never gave me half sucha beautiful dream. My pictures are likely to remain as private as theutmost hypersensitiveness could desire."
Hans turned to paint again as a way of filling up awkward pauses. Derondastood perfectly still, recognizing his mistake as to publicity, but alsoconscious that his repugnance was not much diminished. He was the reverseof satisfied either with himself or with Hans; but the power of beingquiet carries a man well through moments of embarrassment. Hans had areverence for his friend which made him feel a sort of shyness atDeronda's being in the wrong; but it were not in his nature to give upanything readily, though it were only a whim--or rather, especially if itwere a whim, and he presently went on, painting the while--
"But even supposing I had a public rushing after my pictures as if theywere a railway series including nurses, babies and bonnet-boxes, I can'tsee any justice in your objection. Every painter worth remembering haspainted the face he admired most, as often as he could. It is a part ofhis soul that goes out into his pictures. He diffuses its influence inthat way. He puts what he hates into a caricature. He puts what he adoresinto some sacred, heroic form. If a man could paint the woman he loves athousand times as the Stella Marts to put courage into the sailors onboard a thousand ships, so much the more honor to her. Isn't that betterthan painting a piece of staring immodesty and calling it by a worshipfulname?"
"Every objection can be answered if you take broad ground enough, Hans: nospecial question of conduct can be properly settled in that way," saidDeronda, with a touch of peremptoriness. "I might admit all yourgeneralities, and yet be right in saying you ought not to publish Mirah'sface as a model for Berenice. But I give up the question of publicity. Iwas unreasonable there." Deronda hesitated a moment. "Still, even as aprivate affair, there might be good reasons for your not indulgingyourself too much in painting her from the point of view you mention. Youmust feel that her situation at present is a very delicate one; and untilshe is in more independence, she should be kept as carefully as a bit ofVenetian glass, for fear of shaking her out of the safe place she islodged in. Are you quite sure of your own discretion? Excuse me, Hans. Myhaving found her binds me to watch over her. Do you understand me?"
"Perfectly," said Hans, turning his face into a good-humored smile. "Youhave the very justifiable opinion of me that I am likely to shatter allthe glass in my way, and break my own skull into the bargain. Quite fair.Since I got into the scrape of being born, everything I have liked besthas been a scrape either for myself or somebody else. Everything I havetaken to heartily has somehow turned into a scrape. My painting is thelast scrape; and I shall be all my life getting out of it. You think now Ishall get into a scrape at home. No; I am regenerate. You think I must beover head and ears in love with Mirah. Quite right; so I am. But you thinkI shall scream and plunge and spoil everything. There you are mistaken--excusably, but transcendently mistaken. I have undergone baptism byimmersion. Awe takes care of me. Ask the little mother."
"You don't reckon a hopeless love among your scrapes, then," said Deronda,whose voice seemed to get deeper as Hans's went higher.
"I don't mean to call mine hopeless," said Hans, with provoking coolness,laying down his tools, thrusting his thumbs into his belt, and moving awaya little, as if to contemplate his picture more deliberately.
"My dear fellow, you are only preparing misery for yourself," saidDeronda, decisively. "She would not marry a Christian, even if she lovedhim. Have you heard her--of course you have--heard her speak of her peopleand her religion?"
hinderhimself from saying something.
"That can't last," said Hans. "She will see no Jew who is tolerable. Everymale of that race is insupportable,--'insupportably advancing'--his nose."
"She may rejoin her family. That is what she longs for. Her mother andbrother are probably strict Jews."
"I'll turn proselyte, if she wishes it," said Hans, with a shrug and alaugh.
"Don't talk nonsense, Hans. I thought you professed a serious love forher," said Deronda, getting heated.
"So I do. You think it desperate, but I don't."
"I know nothing; I can't tell what has happened. We must be prepared forsurprises. But I can hardly imagine a greater surprise to me than thatthere should have seemed to be anything in Mirah's sentiments for you tofound a romantic hope on." Deronda felt that he was too contemptuous.
"I don't found my romantic hopes on a woman's sentiments," said Hans,perversely inclined to be the merrier when he was addressed with gravity."I go to science and philosophy for my romance. Nature designed Mirah tofall in love with me. The amalgamation of races demands it--the mitigationof human ugliness demands it--the affinity of contrasts assures it. I amthe utmost contrast to Mirah--a bleached Christian, who can't sing twonotes in tune. Who has a chance against me?"
"I see now; it was all _persiflage_. You don't mean a word you say,Meyrick," said Deronda, laying his hand on Meyrick's shoulder, andspeaking in a tone of cordial relief. "I was a wiseacre to answer youseriously."
"Upon my honor I do mean it, though," said Hans, facing round and layinghis left hand on Deronda's shoulder, so that their eyes fronted each otherclosely. "I am at the confessional. I meant to tell you as soon as youcame. My mother says you are Mirah's guardian, and she thinks herselfresponsible to you for every breath that falls on Mirah in her house.Well, I love her--I worship her--I won't despair--I mean to deserve her."
"My dear fellow, you can't do it," said Deronda, quickly.
"I should have said, I mean to try."
"You can't keep your resolve, Hans. You used to resolve what you would dofor your mother and sisters."
"You have a right to reproach me, old fellow," said Hans, gently.
"Perhaps I am ungenerous," said Deronda, not apologetically, however. "Yetit can't be ungenerous to warn you that you are indulging mad, Quixoticexpectations."
"Who will be hurt but myself, then?" said Hans, putting out his lip. "I amnot going to say anything to her unless I felt sure of the answer. I darenot ask the oracles: I prefer a cheerful caliginosity, as Sir ThomasBrowne might say. I would rather run my chance there and lose, than besure of winning anywhere else. And I don't mean to swallow the poison ofdespair, though you are disposed to thrust it on me. I am giving up wine,so let me get a little drunk on hope and vanity."
"With all my heart, if it will do you any good," said Deronda, loosingHans's shoulder, with a little push. He made his tone kindly, but hiswords were from the lip only. As to his real feeling he was silenced.