Daniel Deronda
乔治.艾略特 George Eliot
CHAPTER LVIII.
"Much adoe there was, God wot;He wold love and she wold not."--NICHOLAS BRETON.
Extension, we know, is a very imperfect measure of things; and the lengthof the sun's journeying can no more tell us how life has advanced than theacreage of a field can tell us what growths may be active within it. A manmay go south, and, stumbling over a bone, may meditate upon it till he hasfound a new starting-point for anatomy; or eastward, and discover a newkey to language telling a new story of races; or he may head an expeditionthat opens new continental pathways, get himself mained in body, and gothrough a whole heroic poem of resolve and endurance; and at the end of afew months he may come back to find his neighbors grumbling at the sameparish grievance as before, or to see the same elderly gentleman treadingthe pavement in discourse with himself, shaking his head after the samepercussive butcher's boy, and pausing at the same shop-window to look atthe same prints. If the swiftest thinking has about the pace of agreyhound, the slowest must be supposed to move, like the limpet, by anapparent sticking, which after a good while is discerned to be a slightprogression. Such differences are manifest in the variable intensity whichwe call human experience, from the revolutionary rush of change whichmakes a new inner and outer life, to that quiet recurrence of thefamiliar, which has no other epochs than those of hunger and the heavens.
Something of this contrast was seen in the year's experience which hadturned the brilliant, self-confident Gwendolen Harleth of the ArcheryMeeting into the crushed penitent impelled to confess her unworthinesswhere it would have been her happiness to be held worthy; while it hadleft her family in Pennicote without deeper change than that of someoutward habits, and some adjustment of prospects and intentions to reducedincome, fewer visits, and fainter compliments. The rectory was as pleasanta home as before: and the red and pink peonies on the lawn, the rows ofhollyhocks by the hedges, had bloomed as well this year as last: therector maintained his cheerful confidence in the good will of patrons andhis resolution to deserve it by diligence in the fulfillment of hisduties, whether patrons were likely to hear of it or not; doing nothingsolely with an eye to promotion except, perhaps, the writing of twoecclesiastical articles, which having no signature, were attributed tosome one else, except by the patrons who had a special copy sent them, andthese certainly knew the author but did not read the articles. The rector,however, chewed no poisonous cud of suspicion on this point: he mademarginal notes on his own copies to render them a more interesting loan,and was gratified that the Archdeacon and other authorities had nothing tosay against the general tenor of his argument. Peaceful authorship!--living in the air of the fields and downs, and not in the thrice-breathedbreath of criticism--bringing no Dantesque leanness; rather, assistingnutrition by complacency, and perhaps giving a more suffusive sense ofachievement than the production of a whole _Divina Commedia_. Then therewas the father's recovered delight in his favorite son, which was ahappiness outweighing the loss of eighteen hundred a year. Of whatevernature might be the hidden change wrought in Rex by the disappointment ofhis first love, it was apparently quite secondary to that evidence of moreserious ambition which dated from the family misfortune; indeed, Mr.Gascoigne was inclined to regard the little affair which had caused him somuch anxiety the year before as an evaporation of superfluous moisture, akind of finish to the baking process which the human dough demands. Rexhad lately come down for a summer visit to the rectory, bringing Annahome, and while he showed nearly the old liveliness with his brothers andsisters, he continued in his holiday the habits of the eager student,rising early in the morning and shutting himself up early in the eveningsto carry on a fixed course of study.
"You don't repent the choice of the law as a profession, Rex?" said hisfather.
"There is no profession I would choose before it," said Rex. "I shouldlike to end my life as a first-rate judge, and help to draw up a code. Ireverse the famous dictum. I should say, 'Give me something to do withmaking the laws, and let who will make the songs.'"
"You will have to stow in an immense amount of rubbish, I suppose--that'sthe worst of it," said the rector.
"I don't see that law-rubbish is worse than any other sort. It is not sobad as the rubbishy literature that people choke their minds with. Itdoesn't make one so dull. Our wittiest men have often been lawyers. Anyorderly way of looking at things as cases and evidence seems to me betterthan a perpetual wash of odds and ends bearing on nothing in particular.And then, from a higher point of view, the foundations and the growth oflaw make the most interesting aspects of philosophy and history. Of coursethere will be a good deal that is troublesome, drudging, perhapsexasperating. But the great prizes in life can't be won easily--I seethat."
"Well, my boy, the best augury of a man's success in his profession isthat he thinks it the finest in the world. But I fancy it so with mostwork when a man goes into it with a will. Brewitt, the blacksmith, said tome the other day that his 'prentice had no mind to his trade; 'and yet,sir,' said Brewitt, 'what would a young fellow have if he doesn't like theblacksmithing?"
The rector cherished a fatherly delight, which he allowed to escape himonly in moderation. Warham, who had gone to India, he had easily borneparting with, but Rex was that romance of later life which a man sometimesfinds in a son whom he recognizes as superior to himself, picturing afuture eminence for him according to a variety of famous examples. It wasonly to his wife that he said with decision: "Rex will be a distinguishedman, Nancy, I am sure of it--as sure as Paley's father was about his son."
"Was Paley an old bachelor?" said Mrs. Gascoigne.
"That is hardly to the point, my dear," said the rector, who did notremember that irrelevant detail. And Mrs. Gascoigne felt that she hadspoken rather weakly.
This quiet trotting of time at the rectory was shared by the group who hadexchanged the faded dignity of Offendene for the low white house not amile off, well enclosed with evergreens, and known to the villagers, as"Jodson's." Mrs. Davilow's delicate face showed only a slight deepening ofits mild melancholy, her hair only a few more silver lines, in consequenceof the last year's trials; the four girls had bloomed out a little frombeing less in the shade; and the good Jocosa preserved her serviceableneutrality toward the pleasures and glories of the world as things madefor those who were not "in a situation."
The low narrow drawing-room, enlarged by two quaint projecting windows,with lattices wide open on a July afternoon to the scent of monthly roses,the faint murmurs of the garden, and the occasional rare sound of hoofsand wheels seeming to clarify the succeeding silence, made rather acrowded, lively scene, Rex and Anna being added to the usual group of six.Anna, always a favorite with her younger cousins, had much to tell of hernew experience, and the acquaintances she had made in London, and when onher first visit she came alone, many questions were asked her aboutGwendolen's house in Grosvenor Square, what Gwendolen herself had said,and what any one else had said about Gwendolen. Had Anna been to seeGwendolen after she had known about the yacht? No:--an answer which leftspeculation free concerning everything connected with that interestingunknown vessel beyond the fact that Gwendolen had written just before sheset out to say that Mr. Grandcourt and she were going yachting on theMediterranean, and again from Marseilles to say that she was sure to likethe yachting, the cabins were very elegant, and she would probably notsend another letter till she had written quite a long diary filled with_dittos_. Also, this movement of Mr. and Mrs. Grandcourt had beenmentioned in "the newspaper;" so that altogether this new phase ofGwendolen's exalted life made a striking part of the sisters' romance, thebook-devouring Isabel throwing in a corsair or two to make an adventurethat might end well.
But when Rex was present, the girls, according to instructions, neverstarted this fascinating topic, and to-day there had only been animateddescriptions of the Meyricks and their extraordinary Jewish friends, whichcaused some astonished questioning from minds to which the idea of liveJews, out of a book, suggested a difference deep enough to be almostzoological, as of a strange race in Pliny's Natural History that mightsleep under the shade of its own ears. Bertha could not imagine what Jewsbelieved now; and she had a dim idea that they rejected the Old Testamentsince it proved the New; Miss Merry thought that Mirah and her brothercould "never have been properly argued with," and the amiable Alice didnot mind what the Jews believed, she was sure she "couldn't bear them."Mrs. Davilow corrected her by saying that the great Jewish families whowere in society were quite what they ought to be both in London and Paris,but admitted that the commoner unconverted Jews were objectionable; andIsabel asked whether Mirah talked just as they did, or whether you mightbe with her and not find out that she was a Jewess.
Rex, who had no partisanship with the Israelites, having made atroublesome acquaintance with the minutiae of their ancient history in theform of "cram," was amusing himself by playfully exaggerating the notionof each speaker, while Anna begged them all to understand that he was onlyjoking, when the laughter was interrupted by the bringing in of a letterfor Mrs. Davilow. A messenger had run with it in great haste from therectory. It enclosed a telegram, and as Mrs. Davilow read and re-read itin silence and agitation, all eyes were turned on her with anxiety, but noone dared to speak. Looking up at last and seeing the young faces "paintedwith fear," she remembered that they might be imagining something worsethan the truth, something like her own first dread which made her unableto understand what was written, and she said, with a sob which was halfrelief--
"My dears, Mr. Grandcourt--" She paused an instant, and then began again,"Mr. Grandcourt is drowned."
Rex started up as if a missile had been suddenly thrown into the room. Hecould not help himself, and Anna's first look was at him. But then,gathering some self-command while Mrs. Davilow was reading what the rectorhad written on the enclosing paper, he said--
"Can I do anything, aunt? Can I carry any word to my father from you?"
"Yes, dear. Tell him I will be ready--he is very good. He says he will gowith me to Genoa--he will be here at half-past six. Jocosa and Alice, helpme to get ready. She is safe--Gwendolen is safe--but she must be ill. I amsure she must be very ill. Rex, dear--Rex and Anna--go and and tell yourfather I will be quite ready. I would not for the world lose anothernight. And bless him for being ready so soon. I can travel night and daytill we get there."
Rex and Anna hurried away through the sunshine which was suddenly solemnto them, without uttering a word to each other: she chiefly possessed bysolicitude about any reopening of his wound, he struggling with atumultuary crowd of thoughts that were an offence against his better will.The tumult being undiminished when they were at the rectory gate, hesaid--
"Nannie, I will leave you to say everything to my father. If he wants meimmediately, let me know. I shall stay in the shrubbery for ten minutes--only ten minutes."
Who has been quite free from egoistic escapes of the imagination,picturing desirable consequences on his own future in the presence ofanother's misfortune, sorrow, or death? The expected promotion or legacyis the common type of a temptation which makes speech and even prayer asevere avoidance of the most insistent thoughts, and sometimes raises aninward shame, a self-distaste that is worse than any other form ofunpleasant companionship. In Rex's nature the shame was immediate, andoverspread like an ugly light all the hurrying images of what might come,which thrust themselves in with the idea that Gwendolen was again free--overspread them, perhaps, the more persistently because every phantasm ofa hope was quickly nullified by a more substantial obstacle. Before thevision of "Gwendolen free" rose the impassable vision of "Gwendolen rich,exalted, courted;" and if in the former time, when both their lives werefresh, she had turned from his love with repugnance, what ground was therefor supposing that her heart would be more open to him in the future?
These thoughts, which he wanted to master and suspend, were like atumultuary ringing of opposing chimes that he could not escape from byrunning. During the last year he had brought himself into a state of calmresolve, and now it seemed that three words had been enough to undo allthat difficult work, and cast him back into the wretched fluctuations of alonging which he recognized as simply perturbing and hopeless. And at thismoment the activity of such longing had an untimeliness that made itrepulsive to his better self. Excuse poor Rex; it was not much more thaneighteen months since he had been laid low by an archer who sometimestouches his arrow with a subtle, lingering poison. The disappointment of ayouthful passion has effects as incalculable as those of small-pox whichmay make one person plain and a genius, another less plain and morefoolish, another plain without detriment to his folly, and leave perhapsthe majority without obvious change. Everything depends--not on the merefact of disappointment, but--on the nature affected and the force thatstirs it. In Rex's well-endowed nature, brief as the hope had been, thepassionate stirring had gone deep, and the effect of disappointment wasrevolutionary, though fraught with a beneficent new order which retainedmost of the old virtues; in certain respects he believed that it hadfinally determined the bias and color of his life. Now, however, it seemedthat his inward peace was hardly more than that of republican Florence,and his heart no better than the alarm-bell that made work slack andtumult busy.
provided for."shaken by a change of circumstances that couldmake no change in relation to him. He told himself the truth quiteroughly--any word to my father from .
This sort of passion had nested in the sweet-natured, strong Rex, and hehad made up his mind to its companionship, as if it had been an objectsupremely dear, stricken dumb and helpless, and turning all the future oftenderness into a shadow of the past. But he had also made up his mindthat his life was not to be pauperized because he had had to renounce onesort of joy; rather, he had begun life again with a new counting-up of thetreasures that remained to him, and he had even felt a release of powersuch as may come from ceasing to be afraid of your own neck.
And now, here he was pacing the shrubbery, angry with himself that thesense of irrevocableness in his lot, which ought in reason to have been asstrong as ever, had been shaken by a change of circumstances that couldmake no change in relation to him. He told himself the truth quiteroughly--
"She would never love me; and that is not the question--I could neverapproach her as a lover in her present position. I am exactly of noconsequence at all, and am not likely to be of much consequence till myhead is turning gray. But what has that to do with it? She would not haveme on any terms, and I would not ask her. It is a meanness to be thinkingabout it now--no better than lurking about the battle-field to strip thedead; but there never was more gratuitous sinning. I have nothing to gainthere--absolutely nothing. * * * Then why can't I face the facts, andbehave as they demand, instead of leaving my father to suppose that thereare matters he can't speak to me about, though I might be useful in them?"
The last thought made one wave with the impulse that sent Rex walkingfirmly into the house and through the open door of the study, where he sawhis father packing a traveling-desk.
"Can I be of any use, sir?" said Rex, with rallied courage, as his fatherlooked up at him.
"Yes, my boy; when I'm gone, just see to my letters, and answer wherenecessary, and send me word of everything. Dymock will manage the parishvery well, and you will stay with your mother, or, at least, go up anddown again, till I come back, whenever that may be."
"You will hardly be very long, sir, I suppose," said Rex, beginning tostrap a railway rug. "You will perhaps bring my cousin back to England?"He forced himself to speak of Gwendolen for the first time, and the rectornoticed the epoch with satisfaction.
"That depends," he answered, taking the subject as a matter-of-coursebetween them. "Perhaps her mother may stay there with her, and I may comeback very soon. This telegram leaves us in ignorance which is ratheranxious. But no doubt the arrangements of the will lately made aresatisfactory, and there may possibly be an heir yet to be born. In anycase, I feel confident that Gwendolen will be liberally--I should expect,splendidly--provided for."
"It must have been a great shock for her," said Rex, getting more resoluteafter the first twinge had been borne. "I suppose he was a devotedhusband."
"No doubt of it," said the rector, in his most decided manner. "Few men ofhis position would have come forward as he did under the circumstances."
Rex had never seen Grandcourt, had never been spoken to about him by anyone of the family, and knew nothing of Gwendolen's flight from her suitorto Leubronn. He only knew that Grandcourt, being very much in love withher, had made her an offer in the first weeks of her sudden poverty, andhad behaved very handsomely in providing for her mother and sisters. Thatwas all very natural and what Rex himself would have liked to do.Grandcourt had been a lucky fellow, and had had some happiness before hegot drowned. Yet Rex wondered much whether Gwendolen had been in love withthe successful suitor, or had only forborne to tell him that she hatedbeing made love to.