Daniel Deronda
乔治.艾略特 George Eliot
CHAPTER LII. Page 2
A dove-like note of melancholy in this speech caused Mrs. Meyrick to lookat Mirah with new examination. After laying down her hat and pushing hercurls flat, with an air of fatigue, she placed herself on a chair oppositeher friend in her habitual attitude, her feet and hands just crossed; andat a distance she might have seemed a colored statue of serenity. But Mrs.Meyrick discerned a new look of suppressed suffering in her face, whichcorresponded to the hint that to be patient and hopeful required someextra influence.
"Is there any fresh trouble on your mind, my dear?" said Mrs. Meyrick,giving up her needlework as a sign of concentrated attention.
Mirah hesitated before she said, "I am too ready to speak of troubles, Ithink. It seems unkind to put anything painful into other people's minds,unless one were sure it would hinder something worse. And perhaps I am toohasty and fearful."
"Oh, my dear, mothers are made to like pain and trouble for the sake oftheir children. Is it because the singing lessons are so few, and arelikely to fall off when the season comes to an end? Success in thesethings can't come all at once." Mrs. Meyrick did not believe that she wastouching the real grief; but a guess that could be corrected would make aneasier channel for confidence.
"No, not that," said Mirah, shaking her head gently. "I have been a littledisappointed because so many ladies said they wanted me to give them ortheir daughters lessons, and then I never heard of them again, But perhapsafter the holidays I shall teach in some schools. Besides, you know, I amas rich as a princess now. I have not touched the hundred pounds that Mrs.Klesmer gave me; and I should never be afraid that Ezra would be in wantof anything, because there is Mr. Deronda," and he said, "It is the chiefhonor of my life that your brother will share anything with me. Oh, no!Ezra and I can have no fears for each other about such things as food andclothing."
"But there is some other fear on your mind," said Mrs. Meyrick not withoutdivination--"a fear of something that may disturb your peace; Don't beforecasting evil, dear child, unless it is what you can guard against.Anxiety is good for nothing if we can't turn it into a defense. Butthere's no defense against all the things that might be. Have you any morereason for being anxious now than you had a month ago?"
"Yes, I have," said Mirah. "I have kept it from Ezra. I have not dared totell him. Pray forgive me that I can't do without telling you. I _have_more reason for being anxious. It is five days ago now. I am quite sure Isaw my father."
Mrs. Meyrick shrank into a smaller space, packing her arms across herchest and leaning forward--to hinder herself from pelting that father withher worst epithets.
"The year has changed him," Mirah went on. "He had already been muchaltered and worn in the time before I left him. You remember I said how heused sometimes to cry. He was always excited one way or the other. I havetold Ezra everything that I told you, and he says that my father had takento gambling, which makes people easily distressed, and then again exalted.And now--it was only a moment that I saw him--his face was more haggard,and his clothes were shabby. He was with a much worse-looking man, whocarried something, and they were hurrying along after an omnibus."
"Well, child, he did not see you, I hope?"
"No. I had just come from Mrs. Raymond's, and I was waiting to cross nearthe Marble Arch. Soon he was on the omnibus and gone out of sight. It wasa dreadful moment. My old life seemed to have come back again, and it wasworse than it had ever been before. And I could not help feeling it a newdeliverance that he was gone out of sight without knowing that I wasthere. And yet it hurt me that I was feeling so--it seemed hateful in me--almost like words I once had to speak in a play, that 'I had warmed myhands in the blood of my kindred.' For where might my father be going?What may become of him? And his having a daughter who would own him inspite of all, might have hindered the worst. Is there any pain like seeingwhat ought to be the best things in life turned into the worst? All thoseopposite feelings were meeting and pressing against each other, and tookup all my strength. No one could act that. Acting is slow and poor to whatwe go through within. I don't know how I called a cab. I only rememberthat I was in it when I began to think, 'I cannot tell Ezra; he must notknow.'"
"You are afraid of grieving him?" Mrs. Meyrick asked, when Mirah hadpaused a little.
"Yes--and there is something more," said Mirah, hesitatingly, as if shewere examining her feeling before she would venture to speak of it. "Iwant to tell you; I cannot tell any one else. I could not have told my ownmother: I should have closed it up before her. I feel shame for my father,and it is perhaps strange--but the shame is greater before Ezra thanbefore any one else in the world. He desired me to tell him all about mylife, and I obeyed him. But it is always like a smart to me to know thatthose things about my father are in Ezra's mind. And--can you believe it?when the thought haunts me how it would be if my father were to come andshow himself before us both, what seems as if it would scorch me most isseeing my father shrinking before Ezra. That is the truth. I don't knowwhether it is a right feeling. But I can't help thinking that I wouldrather try to maintain my father in secret, and bear a great deal in thatway, if I could hinder him from meeting my brother."
"You must not encourage that feeling, Mirah," said Mrs. Meyrick, hastily."It would be very dangerous; it would be wrong. You must not haveconcealment of that sort."
"But ought I now to tell Ezra that I have seen my father?" said Mirah,with deprecation in her tone.
"No," Mrs. Meyrick answered, dubitatively. "I don't know that it isnecessary to do that. Your father may go away with the birds. It is notclear that he came after you; you may never see him again. And then yourbrother will have been spared a useless anxiety. But promise me that ifyour father sees you--gets hold of you in any way again--and you will letus all know. Promise me that solemnly, Mirah. I have a right to ask it."
Mirah reflected a little, then leaned forward to put her hands in Mrs.Meyrick's, and said, "Since you ask it, I do promise. I will bear thisfeeling of shame. I have been so long used to think that I must bear thatsort of inward pain. But the shame for my father burns me more when Ithink of his meeting Ezra." She was silent a moment or two, and then said,in a new tone of yearning compassion, "And we are his children--and he wasonce young like us--and my mother loved him. Oh! I cannot help seeing itall close, and it hurts me like a cruelty."
Mirah shed no tears: the discipline of her whole life had been againstindulgence in such manifestation, which soon falls under the control ofstrong motives; but it seemed that the more intense expression of sorrowhad entered into her voice. Mrs. Meyrick, with all her quickness andloving insight, did not quite understand that filial feeling in Mirahwhich had active roots deep below her indignation for the worst offenses.She could conceive that a mother would have a clinging pity and shame fora reprobate son, but she was out of patience with what she held anexaggerated susceptibility on behalf of this father, whose reappearanceinclined her to wish him under the care of a turnkey. Mirah's promise,however, was some security against her weakness.
must come of that.Mrs. Grandcourt, the Vandyke duchess, is your cousin?
That incident was the only reason that Mirah herself could have stated forthe hidden sadness which Hans had divined. Of one element in her changedmood she could have given no definite account: it was something as dim asthe sense of approaching weather-change, and had extremely slight externalpromptings, such as we are often ashamed to find all we can allege insupport of the busy constructions that go on within us, not only withouteffort, but even against it, under the influence of any blind emotionalstirring. Perhaps the first leaven of uneasiness was laid by Gwendolen'sbehavior on that visit which was entirely superfluous as a means ofengaging Mirah to sing, and could have no other motive than the excitedand strange questioning about Deronda. Mirah had instinctively kept thevisit a secret, but the active remembrance of it had raised a newsusceptibility in her, and made her alive as she had never been before tothe relations Deronda must have with that society which she herself wasgetting frequent glimpses of without belonging to it. Her peculiar lifeand education had produced in her an extraordinary mixture ofunworldliness, with knowledge of the world's evil, and even this knowledgewas a strange blending of direct observation with the effects of readingand theatrical study. Her memory was furnished with abundant passionatesituation and intrigue, which she never made emotionally her own, but felta repelled aloofness from, as she had done from the actual life aroundher. Some of that imaginative knowledge began now to weave itself aroundMrs. Grandcourt; and though Mirah would admit no position likely to affecther reverence for Deronda, she could not avoid a new painfully vividassociation of his general life with a world away from her own, wherethere might be some involvement of his feeling and action with a womanlike Gwendolen, who was increasingly repugnant to her--increasingly, evenafter she had ceased to see her; for liking and disliking can grow inmeditation as fast as in the more immediate kind of presence. Anydisquietude consciously due to the idea that Deronda's deepest care mightbe for something remote not only from herself but even from his friendshipfor her brother, she would have checked with rebuking questions:--What wasshe but one who had shared his generous kindness with many others? and hisattachment to her brother, was it not begun late to be soon ended? Otherties had come before, and others would remain after this had been cut byswift-coming death. But her uneasiness had not reached that point of self-recognition in which she would have been ashamed of it as an indirect,presumptuous claim on Deronda's feeling. That she or any one else shouldthink of him as her possible lover was a conception which had neverentered her mind; indeed it was equally out of the question with Mrs.Meyrick and the girls, who with Mirah herself regarded his intervention inher life as something exceptional, and were so impressed by his mission asher deliverer and guardian that they would have held it an offense to hintat his holding any other relation toward her: a point of view which Hansalso had readily adopted. It is a little hard upon some men that theyappear to sink for us in becoming lovers. But precisely to this innocenceof the Meyricks was owing the disturbance of Mirah's unconsciousness. Thefirst occasion could hardly have been more trivial, but it prepared heremotive nature for a deeper effect from what happened afterward.
It was when Anna Gascoigne, visiting the Meyricks; was led to speak of hercousinship with Gwendolen. The visit had been arranged that Anna might seeMirah; the three girls were at home with their mother, and there wasnaturally a flux of talk among six feminine creatures, free from thepresence of a distorting male standard. Anna Gascoigne felt herself muchat home with the Meyrick girls, who knew what it was to have a brother,and to be generally regarded as of minor importance in the world; and shehad told Rex that she thought the University very nice, because brothersmade friends there whose families were not rich and grand, and yet (likethe University) were very nice. The Meyricks seemed to her almostalarmingly clever, and she consulted them much on the best mode ofteaching Lotta, confiding to them that she herself was the least clever ofher family. Mirah had lately come in, and there was a complete bouquet ofyoung faces around the tea-table--Hafiz, seated a little aloft with largeeyes on the alert, regarding the whole scene as an apparatus for supplyinghis allowance of milk.
"Think of our surprise, Mirah," said Kate. "We were speaking of Mr.Deronda and the Mallingers, and it turns out that Miss Gascoigne knowsthem."
"I only knew about them," said Anna, a little flushed with excitement,what she had heard and now saw of the lovely Jewess being an almoststartling novelty to her. "I have not even seen them. But some months ago,my cousin married Sir Hugo Mallinger's nephew, Mr. Grandcourt, who livedin Sir Hugo's place at Diplow, near us."
"There!" exclaimed Mab, clasping her hands. "Something must come of that.Mrs. Grandcourt, the Vandyke duchess, is your cousin?"
"Oh, yes; I was her bridesmaid," said Anna. "Her mamma and mine aresisters. My aunt was much richer before last year, but then she and mammalost all their fortune. Papa is a clergyman, you know, so it makes verylittle difference to us, except that we keep no carriage, and have nodinner parties--and I like it better. But it was very sad for poor AuntDavilow, for she could not live with us, because she has four daughtersbesides Gwendolen; but then, when she married Mr. Grandcourt, it did notsignify so much, because of his being so rich."
"Oh, this finding out relationships is delightful!" said Mab. "It is likea Chinese puzzle that one has to fit together. I feel sure somethingwonderful may be made of it, but I can't tell what."
"Dear me, Mab," said Amy, "relationships must branch out. The onlydifference is, that we happen to know some of the people concerned. Suchthings are going on every day."
"And pray, Amy, why do you insist on the number nine being so wonderful?"said Mab. "I am sure that is happening every day. Never mind, MissGascoigne; please go on. And Mr. Deronda?--have you never seen Mr.Deronda? You _must_ bring him in."
"No, I have not seen him," said Anna; "but he was at Diplow before mycousin was married, and I have heard my aunt speaking of him to papa. Shesaid what you have been saying about him--only not so much: I mean, aboutMr. Deronda living with Sir Hugo Mallinger, and being so nice, shethought. We talk a great deal about every one who comes near Pennicote,because it is so seldom there is any one new. But I remember, when I askedGwendolen what she thought of Mr. Deronda, she said, 'Don't mention it,Anna: but I think his hair is dark.' That was her droll way of answering:she was always so lively. It is really rather wonderful that I should cometo hear so much about him, all through Mr. Hans knowing Rex, and then myhaving the pleasure of knowing you," Anna ended, looking at Mrs. Meyrickwith a shy grace.
"The pleasure is on our side too; but the wonder would have been, if youhad come to this house without hearing of Mr. Deronda--wouldn't it,Mirah?" said Mrs. Meyrick.
Mirah smiled acquiescently, but had nothing to say. A confused discontenttook possession of her at the mingling of names and images to which shehad been listening.
"My son calls Mrs. Grandcourt the Vandyke duchess," continued Mrs.Meyrick, turning again to Anna; "he thinks her so striking andpicturesque."
"Yes," said Anna. "Gwendolen was always so beautiful--people felldreadfully in love with her. I thought it a pity, because it made themunhappy."
"And how do you like Mr. Grandcourt, the happy lover?" said Mrs. Meyrick,who, in her way, was as much interested as Mab in the hints she had beenhearing of vicissitude in in the life of a widow with daughters.
"Papa approved of Gwendolen's accepting him, and my aunt says he is verygenerous," said Anna, beginning with a virtuous intention of repressingher own sentiments; but then, unable to resist a rare occasion forspeaking them freely, she went on--"else I should have thought he was notvery nice--rather proud, and not at all lively, like Gwendolen. I shouldhave thought some one younger and more lively would have suited herbetter. But, perhaps, having a brother who seems to us better than any onemakes us think worse of others."
"Wait till you see Mr. Deronda," said Mab, nodding significantly."Nobody's brother will do after him."
"Our brothers _must_ do for people's husbands," said Kate, curtly,"because they will not get Mr. Deronda. No woman will do for him tomarry."
"No woman ought to want him to marry him," said Mab, with indignation."_I_ never should. Fancy finding out that he had a tailor's bill, and usedboot-hooks, like Hans. Who ever thought of his marrying?"
"I have," said Kate. "When I drew a wedding for a frontispiece to 'Heartsand Diamonds,' I made a sort of likeness to him for the bridegroom, and Iwent about looking for a grand woman who would do for his countess, but Isaw none that would not be poor creatures by the side of him."
"You should have seen this Mrs. Grandcourt then," said Mrs. Meyrick. "Hanssays that she and Mr. Deronda set each other off when they are side byside. She is tall and fair. But you know her, Mirah--you can always saysomething descriptive. What do _you_ think of Mrs. Grandcourt?"
"I think she is the _Princess of Eboli_ in _Don Carlos_," said Mirah, witha quick intensity. She was pursuing an association in her own mind notintelligible to her hearers--an association with a certain actress as wellas the part she represented.
"Your comparison is a riddle for me, my dear," said Mrs. Meyrick, smiling.
"You said that Mrs. Grandcourt was tall and fair," continued Mirah,slightly paler. "That is quite true."
Mrs. Meyrick's quick eye and ear detected something unusual, butimmediately explained it to herself. Fine ladies had often wounded Mirahby caprices of manner and intention.
"Mrs. Grandcourt had thought of having lessons of Mirah," she said turningto Anna. "But many have talked of having lessons, and then have found notime. Fashionable ladies have too much work to do."
And the chat went on without further insistance on the _Princess ofEboli_. That comparison escaped Mirah's lips under the urgency of a pangunlike anything she had felt before. The conversation from the beginninghad revived unpleasant impressions, and Mrs. Meyrick's suggestion ofGwendolen's figure by the side of Deronda's had the stinging effect of avoice outside her, confirming her secret conviction that this tall andfair woman had some hold on his lot. For a long while afterward she feltas if she had had a jarring shock through her frame.
In the evening, putting her cheek against her brother's shoulder as shewas sitting by him, while he sat propped up in bed under a new difficultyof breathing, she said--
"Ezra, does it ever hurt your love for Mr. Deronda that so much of hislife was all hidden away from you--that he is amongst persons and caresabout persons who are all so unlike us--I mean unlike you?"
"No, assuredly no," said Mordecai. "Rather it is a precious thought to methat he has a preparation which I lacked, and is an accomplishedEgyptian." Then, recollecting that his words had reference which hissister must not yet understand, he added. "I have the more to give him,since his treasure differs from mine. That is a blessedness infriendship."
Mirah mused a little.
"Still," she said, "it would be a trial to your love for him if that otherpart of his life were like a crowd in which he had got entangled, so thathe was carried away from you--I mean in his thoughts, and not merelycarried out of sight as he is now--and not merely for a little while, butcontinually. How should you bear that! Our religion commands us to bear.But how should you bear it?"
"Not well, my sister--not well; but it will never happen," said Mordecai,looking at her with a tender smile. He thought that her heart neededcomfort on his account.
Mirah said no more. She mused over the difference between her own state ofmind and her brother's, and felt her comparative pettiness. Why could shenot be completely satisfied with what satisfied his larger judgment? Shegave herself no fuller reason than a painful sense of unfitness--in what?Airy possibilities to which she could give no outline, but to which onename and one figure gave the wandering persistency of a blot in hervision. Here lay the vaguer source of the hidden sadness renderednoticeable to Hans by some diminution of that sweet ease, that readyjoyousness of response in her speech and smile, which had come with thenew sense of freedom and safety, and had made her presence like thefreshly-opened daisies and clear bird-notes after the rain. She herselfregarded her uneasiness as a sort of ingratitude and dullness ofsensibility toward the great things that had been given her in her newlife; and whenever she threw more energy than usual into her singing, itwas the energy of indignation against the shallowness of her own content.In that mood she once said, "Shall I tell you what is the differencebetween you and me, Ezra? You are a spring in the drought, and I am anacorn-cup; the waters of heaven fill me, but the least little shake leavesme empty."
"Why, what has shaken thee?" said Mordecai. He fell into this antique formof speech habitually in talking to his sister and to the Cohen children.
"Thoughts," said Mirah; "thoughts that come like the breeze and shake me--bad people, wrong things, misery--and how they might touch our life."
"We must take our portion, Mirah. It is there. On whose shoulder would welay it, that we might be free?"
The one voluntary sign she made of her inward care was this distantallusion.