Daniel Deronda

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Deronda was aware that Mordecai had looked up again at the words implying
a monetary affair, and was now examining him again, while he said, "Very
well, I shall redeem it in a month or so."

"Good. I'll make you out the ticket by-and-by," said Cohen, indifferently.
Then he held up his finger as a sign that conversation must be deferred.
He, Mordecai and Jacob put on their hats, and Cohen opened a thanksgiving,
which was carried on by responses, till Mordecai delivered himself alone
at some length, in a solemn chanting tone, with his chin slightly uplifted
and his thin hands clasped easily before him. Not only in his accent and
tone, but in his freedom from the self-consciousness which has reference
to others' approbation, there could hardly have been a stronger contrast
to the Jew at the other end of the table. It was an unaccountable
conjunction--the presence among these common, prosperous, shopkeeping
types, of a man who, in an emaciated threadbare condition, imposed a
certain awe on Deronda, and an embarrassment at not meeting his
expectations.

No sooner had Mordecai finished his devotional strain, than rising, with a
slight bend of his head to the stranger, he walked back into his room, and
shut the door behind him.

"That seems to be rather a remarkable man," said Deronda, turning to
Cohen, who immediately set up his shoulders, put out his tongue slightly,
and tapped his own brow. It was clearly to be understood that Mordecai did
not come up to the standard of sanity which was set by Mr. Cohen's view of
men and things.

"Does he belong to your family?" said Deronda.

This idea appeared to be rather ludicrous to the ladies as well as to
Cohen, and the family interchanged looks of amusement.

"No, no," said Cohen. "Charity! charity! he worked for me, and when he got
weaker and weaker I took him in. He's an incumbrance; but he brings a
blessing down, and he teaches the boy. Besides, he does the repairing at
the watches and jewelry."

Deronda hardly abstained from smiling at this mixture of kindliness and
the desire to justify it in the light of a calculation; but his
willingness to speak further of Mordecai, whose character was made the
more enigmatically striking by these new details, was baffled. Mr. Cohen
immediately dismissed the subject by reverting to the "accommodation,"
which was also an act of charity, and proceeded to make out the ticket,
get the forty pounds, and present them both in exchange for the diamond
ring. Deronda, feeling that it would be hardly delicate to protract his
visit beyond the settlement of the business which was its pretext, had to
take his leave, with no more decided result than the advance of forty
pounds and the pawn-ticket in his breast-pocket, to make a reason for
returning when he came up to town after Christmas. He was resolved that he
would then endeavor to gain a little more insight into the character and
history of Mordecai; from whom also he might gather something decisive
about the Cohens--for example, the reason why it was forbidden to ask Mrs.
Cohen the elder whether she had a daughter.

BOOK V.--MORDECAI.

CHAPTER XXXV.

Were uneasiness of conscience measured by extent of crime, human
history had been different, and one should look to see the contrivers
of greedy wars and the mighty marauders of the money-market in one
troop of self-lacerating penitents with the meaner robber and cut-
purse and the murderer that doth his butchery in small with his own
hand. No doubt wickedness hath its rewards to distribute; but who so
wins in this devil's game must needs be baser, more cruel, more brutal
than the order of this planet will allow for the multitude born of
woman, the most of these carrying a form of conscience--a fear which
is the shadow of justice, a pity which is the shadow of love--that
hindereth from the prize of serene wickedness, itself difficult of
maintenance in our composite flesh.

On the twenty-ninth of December Deronda knew that the Grandcourts had
arrived at the Abbey, but he had had no glimpse of them before he went to
dress for dinner. There had been a splendid fall of snow, allowing the
party of children the rare pleasures of snow-balling and snow-building,
and in the Christmas holidays the Mallinger girls were content with no
amusement unless it were joined in and managed by "cousin," as they had
always called Deronda. After that outdoor exertion he had been playing
billiards, and thus the hours had passed without his dwelling at all on
the prospect of meeting Gwendolen at dinner. Nevertheless that prospect
was interesting to him; and when, a little tired and heated with working
at amusement, he went to his room before the half-hour bell had rung, he
began to think of it with some speculation on the sort of influence her
marriage with Grandcourt would have on her, and on the probability that
there would be some discernible shades of change in her manner since he
saw her at Diplow, just as there had been since his first vision of her at
Leubronn.

"I fancy there are some natures one could see growing or degenerating
every day, if one watched them," was his thought. "I suppose some of us go
on faster than others: and I am sure she is a creature who keeps strong
traces of anything that has once impressed her. That little affair of the
necklace, and the idea that somebody thought her gambling wrong, had
evidently bitten into her. But such impressibility leads both ways: it may
drive one to desperation as soon as to anything better. And whatever
fascinations Grandcourt may have for capricious tastes--good heavens! who
can believe that he would call out the tender affections in daily
companionship? One might be tempted to horsewhip him for the sake of
getting some show of passion into his face and speech. I'm afraid she
married him out of ambition--to escape poverty. But why did she run out of
his way at first? The poverty came after, though. Poor thing! she may have
been urged into it. How can one feel anything else than pity for a young
creature like that--full of unused life--ignorantly rash--hanging all her
blind expectations on that remnant of a human being."

Doubtless the phrases which Deronda's meditation applied to the bridegroom
were the less complimentary for the excuses and pity in which it clad the
bride. His notion of Grandcourt as a "remnant" was founded on no
particular knowledge, but simply on the impression which ordinary polite
intercourse had given him that Grandcourt had worn out all his natural
healthy interest in things.

In general, one may be sure that whenever a marriage of any mark takes
place, male acquaintances are likely to pity the bride, female
acquaintances the bridegroom: each, it is thought, might have done better;
and especially where the bride is charming, young gentlemen on the scene
are apt to conclude that she can have no real attachment to a fellow so
uninteresting to themselves as her husband, but has married him on other
grounds. Who, under such circumstances, pities the husband? Even his
female friends are apt to think his position retributive: he should have
chosen some one else. But perhaps Deronda may be excused that he did not
prepare any pity for Grandcourt, who had never struck acquaintances as
likely to come out of his experiences with more suffering than he
inflicted; whereas, for Gwendolen, young, headlong, eager for pleasure,
fed with the flattery which makes a lovely girl believe in her divine
right to rule--how quickly might life turn from expectancy to a bitter
sense of the irremediable! After what he had seen of her he must have had
rather dull feelings not to have looked forward with some interest to her
entrance into the room. Still, since the honeymoon was already three weeks
in the distance, and Gwendolen had been enthroned, not only at Ryeland's,
but at Diplow, she was likely to have composed her countenance with
suitable manifestation or concealment, not being one who would indulge the
curious by a helpless exposure of her feelings.

A various party had been invited to meet the new couple; the old
aristocracy was represented by Lord and Lady Pentreath; the old gentry by
young Mr. and Mrs. Fitzadam of the Worcestershire branch of the Fitzadams;
politics and the public good, as specialized in the cider interest, by Mr.
Fenn, member for West Orchards, accompanied by his two daughters; Lady
Mallinger's family, by her brother, Mr. Raymond, and his wife; the useful
bachelor element by Mr. Sinker, the eminent counsel, and by Mr.
Vandernoodt, whose acquaintance Sir Hugo had found pleasant enough at
Leubronn to be adopted in England.

All had assembled in the drawing-room before the new couple appeared.
Meanwhile, the time was being passed chiefly in noticing the children--
various little Raymonds, nephews and nieces of Lady Mallinger's with her
own three girls, who were always allowed to appear at this hour. The scene
was really delightful--enlarged by full-length portraits with deep
backgrounds, inserted in the cedar paneling--surmounted by a ceiling that
glowed with the rich colors of the coats of arms ranged between the
sockets--illuminated almost as much by the red fire of oak-boughs as by
the pale wax-lights--stilled by the deep-piled carpet and by the high
English breeding that subdues all voices; while the mixture of ages, from
the white-haired Lord and Lady Pentreath to the four-year-old Edgar
Raymond, gave a varied charm to the living groups. Lady Mallinger, with
fair matronly roundness and mildly prominent blue eyes, moved about in her
black velvet, carrying a tiny white dog on her arm as a sort of finish to
her costume; the children were scattered among the ladies, while most of
the gentlemen were standing rather aloof, conversing with that very
moderate vivacity observable during the long minutes before dinner.
Deronda was a little out of the circle in a dialogue fixed upon him by Mr.
Vandernoodt, a man of the best Dutch blood imported at the revolution: for
the rest, one of those commodious persons in society who are nothing
particular themselves, but are understood to be acquainted with the best
in every department; close-clipped, pale-eyed, _nonchalant_, as good a
foil as could well be found to the intense coloring and vivid gravity of
Deronda.

He was talking of the bride and bridegroom, whose appearance was being
waited for. Mr. Vandernoodt was an industrious gleaner of personal
details, and could probably tell everything about a great philosopher or
physicist except his theories or discoveries; he was now implying that he
had learned many facts about Grandcourt since meeting him at Leubronn.

"Men who have seen a good deal of life don't always end by choosing their
wives so well. He has had rather an anecdotic history--gone rather deep
into pleasures, I fancy, lazy as he is. But, of course, you know all about
him."

"No, really," said Deronda, in an indifferent tone. "I know little more of
him than that he is Sir Hugo's nephew."

But now the door opened and deferred any satisfaction of Mr. Vandernoodt's
communicativeness.

The scene was one to set off any figure of distinction that entered on it,
and certainly when Mr. and Mrs. Grandcourt entered, no beholder could deny
that their figures had distinction. The bridegroom had neither more nor
less easy perfection of costume, neither more nor less well-cut
impassibility of face, than before his marriage. It was to be supposed of
him that he would put up with nothing less than the best in outward
equipment, wife included; and the bride was what he might have been
expected to choose. "By George, I think she's handsomer, if anything!"
said Mr. Vandernoodt. And Deronda was of the same opinion, but he said
nothing. The white silk and diamonds--it may seem strange, but she did
wear diamonds on her neck, in her ears, in her hair--might have something
to do with the new imposingness of her beauty, which flashed on him as
more unquestionable if not more thoroughly satisfactory than when he had
first seen her at the gaming-table. Some faces which are peculiar in their
beauty are like original works of art: for the first time they are almost
always met with question. But in seeing Gwendolen at Diplow, Deronda had
discerned in her more than he had expected of that tender appealing charm
which we call womanly. Was there any new change since then? He distrusted
his impressions; but as he saw her receiving greetings with what seemed a
proud cold quietude and a superficial smile, there seemed to be at work
within her the same demonic force that had possessed her when she took him
in her resolute glance and turned away a loser from the gaming-table.
There was no time for more of a conclusion--no time even for him to give
his greeting before the summons to dinner.

He sat not far from opposite to her at table, and could sometimes hear
what she said in answer to Sir Hugo, who was at his liveliest in
conversation with her; but though he looked toward her with the intention
of bowing, she gave him no opportunity of doing so for some time. At last
Sir Hugo, who might have imagined that they had already spoken to each
other, said, "Deronda, you will like to hear what Mrs. Grandcourt tells me
about your favorite Klesmer."

Gwendolen's eyelids had been lowered, and Deronda, already looking at her,
thought he discovered a quivering reluctance as she was obliged to raise
them and return his unembarrassed bow and smile, her own smile being one
of the lip merely. It was but an instant, and Sir Hugo continued without
pause--

"The Arrowpoints have condoned the marriage, and he is spending the
Christmas with his bride at Quetcham."

"I suppose he will be glad of it for the sake of his wife, else I dare say
he would not have minded keeping at a distance," said Deronda.

"It's a sort of troubadour story," said Lady Pentreath, an easy, deep-
voiced old lady; "I'm glad to find a little romance left among us. I think
our young people now are getting too worldly wise."

"It shows the Arrowpoints' good sense, however, to have adopted the
affair, after the fuss in the paper," said Sir Hugo. "And disowning your
own child because of a _mesalliance_ is something like disowning your one
eye: everybody knows it's yours, and you have no other to make an
appearance with."

"As to _mesalliance_, there's no blood on any side," said Lady Pentreath.
"Old Admiral Arrowpoint was one of Nelson's men, you know--a doctor's son.
And we all know how the mother's money came."

"If they were any _mesalliance_ in the case, I should say it was on
Klesmer's side," said Deronda.

"Ah, you think it is a case of the immortal marrying the mortal. What is
your opinion?" said Sir Hugo, looking at Gwendolen.

"I have no doubt that Herr Klesmer thinks himself immortal. But I dare say
his wife will burn as much incense before him as he requires," said
Gwendolen. She had recovered any composure that she might have lost.

"Don't you approve of a wife burning incense before her husband?" said Sir
Hugo, with an air of jocoseness.

"Oh, yes," said Gwendolen, "if it were only to make others believe in
him." She paused a moment and then said with more gayety, "When Herr
Klesmer admires his own genius, it will take off some of the absurdity if
his wife says Amen."

"Klesmer is no favorite of yours, I see," said Sir Hugo.

"I think very highly of him, I assure you," said Gwendolen. "His genius is
quite above my judgment, and I know him to be exceedingly generous."

She spoke with the sudden seriousness which is often meant to correct an
unfair or indiscreet sally, having a bitterness against Klesmer in her
secret soul which she knew herself unable to justify. Deronda was
wondering what he should have thought of her if he had never heard of her
before: probably that she put on a little hardness and defiance by way of
concealing some painful consciousness--if, indeed, he could imagine her
manners otherwise than in the light of his suspicion. But why did she not
recognize him with more friendliness?

Sir Hugo, by way of changing the subject, said to her, "Is not this a
beautiful room? It was part of the refectory of the Abbey. There was a
division made by those pillars and the three arches, and afterward they
were built up. Else it was half as large again originally. There used to
be rows of Benedictines sitting where we are sitting. Suppose we were
suddenly to see the lights burning low and the ghosts of the old monks
rising behind all our chairs!"

"Please don't!" said Gwendolen, with a playful shudder. "It is very nice
to come after ancestors and monks, but they should know their places and
keep underground. I should be rather frightened to go about this house all
alone. I suppose the old generations must be angry with us because we have
altered things so much."

"Oh, the ghosts must be of all political parties," said Sir Hugo. "And
those fellows who wanted to change things while they lived and couldn't do
it must be on our side. But if you would not like to go over the house
alone, you will like to go in company, I hope. You and Grandcourt ought to
see it all. And we will ask Deronda to go found with us. He is more
learned about it than I am." The baronet was in the most complaisant of
humors.

Gwendolen stole a glance at Deronda, who must have heard what Sir Hugo
said, for he had his face turned toward them helping himself to an
_entree_; but he looked as impassive as a picture. At the notion of
Deronda's showing her and Grandcourt the place which was to be theirs, and
which she with painful emphasis remembered might have been his (perhaps,
if others had acted differently), certain thoughts had rushed in--thoughts
repeated within her, but now returning on an occasion embarrassingly new;
and was conscious of something furtive and awkward in her glance which Sir
Hugo must have noticed. With her usual readiness of resource against
betrayal, she said, playfully, "You don't know how much I am afraid of Mr.
Deronda."

"How's that? Because you think him too learned?" said Sir Hugo, whom the
peculiarity of her glance had not escaped.

"No. It is ever since I first saw him at Leubronn. Because when he came to
look on at the roulette-table, I began to lose. He cast an evil eye on my
play. He didn't approve it. He has told me so. And now whatever I do
before him, I am afraid he will cast an evil eye upon it."

"Gad! I'm rather afraid of him myself when he doesn't approve," said Sir
Hugo, glancing at Deronda; and then turning his face toward Gwendolen, he
said less audibly, "I don't think ladies generally object to have his eyes
upon them." The baronet's small chronic complaint of facetiousness was at
this moment almost as annoying to Gwendolen as it often was to Deronda.

"I object to any eyes that are critical," she said, in a cool, high voice,
with a turn of her neck. "Are there many of these old rooms left in the
Abbey?"

"Not many. There is a fine cloistered court with a long gallery above it.
But the finest bit of all is turned into stables. It is part of the old
church. When I improved the place I made the most of every other bit; but
it was out of my reach to change the stables, so the horses have the
benefit of the fine old choir. You must go and see it."

"I shall like to see the horses as well as the building," said Gwendolen.

"Oh, I have no stud to speak of. Grandcourt will look with contempt at my
horses," said Sir Hugo. "I've given up hunting, and go on in a jog-trot
way, as becomes an old gentlemen with daughters. The fact is, I went in
for doing too much at this place. We all lived at Diplow for two years
while the alterations were going on: Do you like Diplow?"

"Not particularly," said Gwendolen, with indifference. One would have
thought that the young lady had all her life had more family seats than
she cared to go to.

"Ah! it will not do after Ryelands," said Sir Hugo, well pleased.
"Grandcourt, I know, took it for the sake of the hunting. But he found
something so much better there," added the baronet, lowering his voice,
"that he might well prefer it to any other place in the world."

"It has one attraction for me," said Gwendolen, passing over this
compliment with a chill smile, "that it is within reach of Offendene."

"I understand that," said Sir Hugo, and then let the subject drop.

What amiable baronet can escape the effect of a strong desire for a
particular possession? Sir Hugo would have been glad that Grandcourt, with
or without reason, should prefer any other place to Diplow; but inasmuch
as in the pure process of wishing we can always make the conditions of our
gratification benevolent, he did wish that Grandcourt's convenient disgust
for Diplow should not be associated with his marriage with this very
charming bride. Gwendolen was much to the baronet's taste, but, as he
observed afterward to Lady Mallinger, he should never have taken her for a
young girl who had married beyond her expectations.

Deronda had not heard much of this conversation, having given his
attention elsewhere, but the glimpses he had of Gwendolen's manner
deepened the impression that it had something newly artificial.

Later, in the drawing-room, Deronda, at somebody's request, sat down to
the piano and sang. Afterward, Mrs. Raymond took his place; and on rising
he observed that Gwendolen had left her seat, and had come to this end of
the room, as if to listen more fully, but was now standing with her back
to every one, apparently contemplating a fine cowled head carved in ivory
which hung over a small table. He longed to go to her and speak. Why
should he not obey such an impulse, as he would have done toward any other
lady in the room? Yet he hesitated some moments, observing the graceful
lines of her back, but not moving.

If you have any reason for not indulging a wish to speak to a fair woman,
it is a bad plan to look long at her back: the wish to see what it screens
becomes the stronger. There may be a very sweet smile on the other side.
Deronda ended by going to the end of the small table, at right angles to
Gwendolen's position, but before he could speak she had turned on him no
smile, but such an appealing look of sadness, so utterly different from
the chill effort of her recognition at table, that his speech was checked.
For what was an appreciative space of time to both, though the observation
of others could not have measured it, they looked at each other--she
seeming to take the deep rest of confession, he with an answering depth of
sympathy that neutralized all other feelings.

"Will you not join in the music?" he said by way of meeting the necessity
for speech.

That her look of confession had been involuntary was shown by that just
perceptible shake and change of countenance with which she roused herself
to reply calmly, "I join in it by listening. I am fond of music."

"Are you not a musician?"

"I have given a great deal of time to music. But I have not talent enough
to make it worth while. I shall never sing again."

"But if you are fond of music, it will always be worth while in private,
for your own delight. I make it a virtue to be content with my
middlingness," said Deronda, smiling; "it is always pardonable, so that
one does not ask others to take it for superiority."

"I cannot imitate you," said Gwendolen, recovering her tone of artificial
vivacity. "To be middling with me is another phrase for being dull. And
the worst fault I have to find with the world is, that it is dull. Do you
know, I am going to justify gambling in spite of you. It is a refuge from
dullness."

"I don't admit the justification," said Deronda. "I think what we call the
dullness of things is a disease in ourselves. Else how can any one find an
intense interest in life? And many do."

"Ah, I see! The fault I find in the world is my own fault," said
Gwendolen, smiling at him. Then after a moment, looking up at the ivory
again, she said, "Do _you_ never find fault with the world or with
others?"

"Oh, yes. When I am in a grumbling mood."

"And hate people? Confess you hate them when they stand in your way--when
their gain is your loss? That is your own phrase, you know."

"We are often standing in each other's way when we can't help it. I think
it is stupid to hate people on that ground."

"But if they injure you and could have helped it?" said Gwendolen with a
hard intensity unaccountable in incidental talk like this.

Deronda wondered at her choice of subjects. A painful impression arrested
his answer a moment, but at last he said, with a graver, deeper
intonation, "Why, then, after all, I prefer my place to theirs."

"There I believe you are right," said Gwendolen, with a sudden little
laugh, and turned to join the group at the piano.

Deronda looked around for Grandcourt, wondering whether he followed his
bride's movements with any attention; but it was rather undiscerning to
him to suppose that he could find out the fact. Grandcourt had a delusive
mood of observing whatever had an interest for him, which could be
surpassed by no sleepy-eyed animal on the watch for prey. At that moment
he was plunged in the depth of an easy chair, being talked to by Mr.
Vandernoodt, who apparently thought the acquaintance of such a bridegroom
worth cultivating; and an incautious person might have supposed it safe to
telegraph secrets in front of him, the common prejudice being that your
quick observer is one whose eyes have quick movements. Not at all. If you
want a respectable witness who will see nothing inconvenient, choose a
vivacious gentleman, very much on the alert, with two eyes wide open, a
glass in one of them, and an entire impartiality as to the purpose of
looking. If Grandcourt cared to keep any one under his power he saw them
out of the corners of his long narrow eyes, and if they went behind him he
had a constructive process by which he knew what they were doing there. He
knew perfectly well where his wife was, and how she was behaving. Was he
going to be a jealous husband? Deronda imagined that to be likely; but his
imagination was as much astray about Grandcourt as it would have been
about an unexplored continent where all the species were peculiar. He did
not conceive that he himself was a likely subject of jealousy, or that he
should give any pretext for it; but the suspicion that a wife is not happy
naturally leads one to speculate on the husband's private deportment; and
Deronda found himself after one o'clock in the morning in the rather
ludicrous position of sitting up severely holding a Hebrew grammar in his
hands (for somehow, in deference to Mordecai, he had begun to study
Hebrew), with the consciousness that he had been in that attitude nearly
an hour, and had thought of nothing but Gwendolen and her husband. To be
an unusual young man means for the most part to get a difficult mastery
over the usual, which is often like the sprite of ill-luck you pack up
your goods to escape from, and see grinning at you from the top of your
luggage van. The peculiarities of Deronda's nature had been acutely
touched by the brief incident and words which made the history of his
intercourse with Gwendolen; and this evening's slight addition had given
them an importunate recurrence. It was not vanity--it was ready sympathy
that had made him alive to a certain appealingness in her behavior toward
him; and the difficulty with which she had seemed to raise her eyes to bow
to him, in the first instance, was to be interpreted now by that
unmistakable look of involuntary confidence which she had afterward turned
on him under the consciousness of his approach.