Daniel Deronda

G >> George Eliot >> Daniel Deronda

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56 | 57 | 58 | 59 | 60 | 61 | 62 | 63 | 64 | 65 | 66 | 67 | 68 | 69

"Certainly," said Deronda. "Lord and Lady Pentreath disappeared some time
ago."

Grandcourt gave his arm in silent compliance, nodding over his shoulder to
Deronda, and Gwendolen too only half turned to bow and say, "Thanks." The
husband and wife left the gallery and paced the corridors in silence. When
the door had closed on them in the boudoir, Grandcourt threw himself into
a chair and said, with undertoned peremptoriness, "Sit down." She, already
in the expectation of something unpleasant, had thrown off her burnous
with nervous unconsciousness, and immediately obeyed. Turning his eyes
toward her, he began--

"Oblige me in future by not showing whims like a mad woman in a play."

"What do you mean?" said Gwendolen.

"I suppose there is some understanding between you and Deronda about that
thing you have on your wrist. If you have anything to say to him, say it.
But don't carry on a telegraphing which other people are supposed not to
see. It's damnably vulgar."

"You can know all about the necklace," said Gwendolen, her angry pride
resisting the nightmare of fear.

"I don't want to know. Keep to yourself whatever you like." Grandcourt
paused between each sentence, and in each his speech seemed to become more
preternaturally distinct in its inward tones. "What I care to know I shall
know without your telling me. Only you will please to behave as becomes my
wife. And not make a spectacle of yourself."

"Do you object to my talking to Mr. Deronda?"

"I don't care two straws about Deronda, or any other conceited hanger-on.
You may talk to him as much as you like. He is not going to take my place.
You are my wife. And you will either fill your place properly--to the
world and to me--or you will go to the devil."

"I never intended anything but to fill my place properly," said Gwendolen,
with bitterest mortification in her soul.

"You put that thing on your wrist, and hid it from me till you wanted him
to see it. Only fools go into that deaf and dumb talk, and think they're
secret. You will understand that you are not to compromise yourself.
Behave with dignity. That's all I have to say."

With that last word Grandcourt rose, turned his back to the fire and
looked down on her. She was mute. There was no reproach that she dared to
fling back at him in return for these insulting admonitions, and the very
reason she felt them to be insulting was that their purport went with the
most absolute dictate of her pride. What she would least like to incur was
the making a fool of herself and being compromised. It was futile and
irrelevant to try and explain that Deronda too had only been a monitor--
the strongest of all monitors. Grandcourt was contemptuous, not jealous;
contemptuously certain of all the subjection he cared for. Why could she
not rebel and defy him? She longed to do it. But she might as well have
tried to defy the texture of her nerves and the palpitation of her heart.
Her husband had a ghostly army at his back, that could close round her
wherever she might turn. She sat in her splendid attire, like a white
image of helplessness, and he seemed to gratify himself with looking at
her. She could not even make a passionate exclamation, or throw up her
arms, as she would have done in her maiden days. The sense of his scorn
kept her still.

"Shall I ring?" he said, after what seemed to her a long while. She moved
her head in assent, and after ringing he went to his dressing-room.

Certain words were gnawing within her. "The wrong you have done me will be
your own curse." As he closed the door, the bitter tears rose, and the
gnawing words provoked an answer: "Why did you put your fangs into me and
not into him?" It was uttered in a whisper, as the tears came up silently.
But she immediately pressed her handkerchief against her eyes, and checked
her tendency to sob.

The next day, recovered from the shuddering fit of this evening scene, she
determined to use the charter which Grandcourt had scornfully given her,
and to talk as much as she liked with Deronda; but no opportunities
occurred, and any little devices she could imagine for creating them were
rejected by her pride, which was now doubly active. Not toward Deronda
himself--she was singularly free from alarm lest he should think her
openness wanting in dignity: it was part of his power over her that she
believed him free from all misunderstanding as to the way in which she
appealed to him; or rather, that he should misunderstand her had never
entered into her mind. But the last morning came, and still she had never
been able to take up the dropped thread of their talk, and she was without
devices. She and Grandcourt were to leave at three o'clock. It was too
irritating that after a walk in the grounds had been planned in Deronda's
hearing, he did not present himself to join in it. Grandcourt was gone
with Sir Hugo to King's Topping, to see the old manor-house; others of the
gentlemen were shooting; she was condemned to go and see the decoy and the
waterfowl, and everything else that she least wanted to see, with the
ladies, with old Lord Pentreath and his anecdotes, with Mr. Vandernoodt
and his admiring manners. The irritation became too strong for her;
without premeditation, she took advantage of the winding road to linger a
little out of sight, and then set off back to the house, almost running
when she was safe from observation. She entered by a side door, and the
library was on her left hand; Deronda, she knew, was often there; why
might she not turn in there as well as into any other room in the house?
She had been taken there expressly to see the illuminated family tree, and
other remarkable things--what more natural than that she should like to
look in again? The thing most to be feared was that the room would be
empty of Deronda, for the door was ajar. She pushed it gently, and looked
round it. He was there, writing busily at a distant table, with his back
toward the door (in fact, Sir Hugo had asked him to answer some
constituents' letters which had become pressing). An enormous log fire,
with the scent of Russia from the books, made the great room as warmly
odorous as a private chapel in which the censors have been swinging. It
seemed too daring to go in--too rude to speak and interrupt him; yet she
went in on the noiseless carpet, and stood still for two or three minutes,
till Deronda, having finished a letter, pushed it aside for signature, and
threw himself back to consider whether there were anything else for him to
do, or whether he could walk out for the chance of meeting the party which
included Gwendolen, when he heard her voice saying, "Mr. Deronda."

It was certainly startling. He rose hastily, turned round, and pushed away
his chair with a strong expression of surprise.

"Am I wrong to come in?" said Gwendolen.

"I thought you were far on your walk," said Deronda.

"I turned back," said Gwendolen.

"Do you intend to go out again? I could join you now, if you would allow
me."

"No; I want to say something, and I can't stay long," said Gwendolen,
speaking quickly in a subdued tone, while she walked forward and rested
her arms and muff on the back of the chair he had pushed away from him. "I
want to tell you that it is really so--I can't help feeling remorse for
having injured others. That was what I meant when I said that I had done
worse than gamble again and pawn the necklace again--something more
injurious, as you called it. And I can't alter it. I am punished, but I
can't alter it. You said I could do many things. Tell me again. What
should you do--what should you feel if you were in my place?"

The hurried directness with which she spoke--the absence of all her little
airs, as if she were only concerned to use the time in getting an answer
that would guide her, made her appeal unspeakably touching.

Deronda said,--"I should feel something of what you feel--deep sorrow."

"But what would you try to do?" said Gwendolen, with urgent quickness.

"Order my life so as to make any possible amends, and keep away from doing
any sort of injury again," said Deronda, catching her sense that the time
for speech was brief.

"But I can't--I can't; I must go on," said Gwendolen, in a passionate loud
whisper. "I have thrust out others--I have made my gain out of their loss
--tried to make it--tried. And I must go on. I can't alter it."

It was impossible to answer this instantaneously. Her words had confirmed
his conjecture, and the situation of all concerned rose in swift images
before him. His feeling for those who had been thrust out sanctioned her
remorse; he could not try to nullify it, yet his heart was full of pity
for her. But as soon as he could he answered--taking up her last words--

"That is the bitterest of all--to wear the yoke of our own wrong-doing.
But if you submitted to that as men submit to maiming or life-long
incurable disease?--and made the unalterable wrong a reason for more
effort toward a good, that may do something to counterbalance the evil?
One who has committed irremediable errors may be scourged by that
consciousness into a higher course than is common. There are many
examples. Feeling what it is to have spoiled one life may well make us
long to save other lives from being spoiled."

"But you have not wronged any one, or spoiled their lives," said
Gwendolen, hastily. "It is only others who have wronged _you_."

Deronda colored slightly, but said immediately--"I suppose our keen
feeling for ourselves might end in giving us a keen feeling for others,
if, when we are suffering acutely, we were to consider that others go
through the same sharp experience. That is a sort of remorse before
commission. Can't you understand that?"

"I think I do--now," said Gwendolen. "But you were right--I _am_ selfish.
I have never thought much of any one's feelings, except my mother's. I
have not been fond of people. But what can I do?" she went on, more
quickly. "I must get up in the morning and do what every one else does. It
is all like a dance set beforehand. I seem to see all that can be--and I
am tired and sick of it. And the world is all confusion to me"--she made a
gesture of disgust. "You say I am ignorant. But what is the good of trying
to know more, unless life were worth more?"

"This good," said Deronda promptly, with a touch of indignant severity,
which he was inclined to encourage as his own safeguard; "life _would_ be
worth more to you: some real knowledge would give you an interest in the
world beyond the small drama of personal desires. It is the curse of your
life--forgive me--of so many lives, that all passion is spent in that
narrow round, for want of ideas and sympathies to make a larger home for
it. Is there any single occupation of mind that you care about with
passionate delight or even independent interest?"

Deronda paused, but Gwendolen, looking startled and thrilled as by an
electric shock, said nothing, and he went on more insistently--

"I take what you said of music for a small example--it answers for all
larger things--you will not cultivate it for the sake of a private joy in
it. What sort of earth or heaven would hold any spiritual wealth in it for
souls pauperized by inaction? If one firmament has no stimulus for our
attention and awe, I don't see how four would have it. We should stamp
every possible world with the flatness of our own inanity--which is
necessarily impious, without faith or fellowship. The refuge you are
needing from personal trouble is the higher, the religious life, which
holds an enthusiasm for something more than our own appetites and
vanities. The few may find themselves in it simply by an elevation of
feeling; but for us who have to struggle for our wisdom, the higher life
must be a region in which the affections are clad with knowledge."

The half-indignant remonstrance that vibrated in Deronda's voice came, as
often happens, from the habit of inward argument with himself rather than
from severity toward Gwendolen: but it had a more beneficial effect on her
than any soothings. Nothing is feebler than the indolent rebellion of
complaint; and to be roused into self-judgment is comparative activity.
For the moment she felt like a shaken child--shaken out of its wailing
into awe, and she said humbly--

"I will try. I will think."

They both stood silent for a minute, as if some third presence had
arrested them,--for Deronda, too, was under that sense of pressure which
is apt to come when our own winged words seem to be hovering around us,
--till Gwendolen began again--

"You said affection was the best thing, and I have hardly any--none about
me. If I could, I would have mamma; but that is impossible. Things have
changed to me so--in such a short time. What I used not to like I long for
now. I think I am almost getting fond of the old things now they are
gone." Her lip trembled.

"Take the present suffering as a painful letting in of light," said
Deronda, more gently. "You are conscious of more beyond the round of your
own inclinations--you know more of the way in which your life presses on
others, and their life on yours. I don't think you could have escaped the
painful process in some form or other."

"But it is a very cruel form," said Gwendolen, beating her foot on the
ground with returning agitation. "I am frightened at everything. I am
frightened at myself. When my blood is fired I can do daring things--take
any leap; but that makes me frightened at myself." She was looking at
nothing outside her; but her eyes were directed toward the window, away
from Deronda, who, with quick comprehension said--

"Turn your fear into a safeguard. Keep your dread fixed on the idea of
increasing that remorse which is so bitter to you. Fixed meditation may do
a great deal toward defining our longing or dread. We are not always in a
state of strong emotion, and when we are calm we can use our memories and
gradually change the bias of our fear, as we do our tastes. Take your fear
as a safeguard. It is like quickness of hearing. It may make consequences
passionately present to you. Try to take hold of your sensibility, and use
it as if it were a faculty, like vision." Deronda uttered each sentence
more urgently; he felt as if he were seizing a faint chance of rescuing
her from some indefinite danger.

"Yes, I know; I understand what you mean," said Gwendolen in her loud
whisper, not turning her eyes, but lifting up her small gloved hand and
waving it in deprecation of the notion that it was easy to obey that
advice. "But if feelings rose--there are some feelings--hatred and anger--
how can I be good when they keep rising? And if there came a moment when I
felt stifled and could bear it no longer----" She broke off, and with
agitated lips looked at Deronda, but the expression on his face pierced
her with an entirely new feeling. He was under the baffling difficulty of
discerning, that what he had been urging on her was thrown into the pallid
distance of mere thought before the outburst of her habitual emotion. It
was as if he saw her drowning while his limbs were bound. The pained
compassion which was spread over his features as he watched her, affected
her with a compunction unlike any she had felt before, and in a changed
and imploring tone she said--

"I am grieving you. I am ungrateful. You _can_ help me. I will think of
everything. I will try. Tell me--it will not be a pain to you that I have
dared to speak of my trouble to you? You began it, you know, when you
rebuked me." There was a melancholy smile on her lips as she said that,
but she added more entreatingly, "It will not be a pain to you?"

"Not if it does anything to save you from an evil to come," said Deronda,
with strong emphasis; "otherwise, it will be a lasting pain."

"No--no--it shall not be. It may be--it shall be better with me because I
have known you." She turned immediately, and quitted the room.

When she was on the first landing of the staircase, Sir Hugo passed across
the hall on his way to the library, and saw her. Grandcourt was not with
him.

Deronda, when the baronet entered, was standing in his ordinary attitude,
grasping his coat-collar, with his back to the table, and with that
indefinable expression by which we judge that a man is still in the shadow
of a scene which he has just gone through. He moved, however, and began to
arrange the letters.

"Has Mrs. Grandcourt been in here?" said Sir Hugo.

"Yes, she has."

"Where are the others?"

"I believe she left them somewhere in the grounds."

After a moment's silence, in which Sir Hugo looked at a letter without
reading it, he said "I hope you are not playing with fire, Dan--you
understand me?"

"I believe I do, sir," said Deronda, after a slight hesitation, which had
some repressed anger in it. "But there is nothing answering to your
metaphor--no fire, and therefore no chance of scorching."

Sir Hugo looked searchingly at him, and then said, "So much the better.
For, between ourselves, I fancy there may be some hidden gunpowder in that
establishment."

CHAPTER XXXVII.

_Aspern._ Pardon, my lord--I speak for Sigismund.
_Fronsberg._ For him? Oh, ay--for him I always hold
A pardon safe in bank, sure he will draw
Sooner or later on me. What his need?
Mad project broken? fine mechanic wings
That would not fly? durance, assault on watch,
Bill for Epernay, not a crust to eat?
_Aspern._ Oh, none of these, my lord; he has escaped
From Circe's herd, and seeks to win the love
Of your fair ward Cecilia: but would win
First 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 in
which his anxiety for Mirah was blent with curiosity to know more of the
enigmatic Mordecai--he did not manage to go up before Sir Hugo, who
preceded his family that he might be ready for the opening of Parliament
on the sixth of February. Deronda took up his quarters in Park Lane, aware
that his chambers were sufficiently tenanted by Hans Meyrick. This was
what he expected; but he found other things not altogether according to
his expectations.

Most of us remember Retzsch's drawing of destiny in the shape of
Mephistopheles playing at chess with man for his soul, a game in which we
may imagine the clever adversary making a feint of unintended moves so as
to set the beguiled mortal on carrying his defensive pieces away from the
true point of attack. The fiend makes preparation his favorite object of
mockery, that he may fatally persuade us against our taking out
waterproofs when he is well aware the sky is going to clear, foreseeing
that the imbecile will turn this delusion into a prejudice against
waterproofs instead of giving a closer study to the weather-signs. It is a
peculiar test of a man's metal when, after he has painfully adjusted
himself to what seems a wise provision, he finds all his mental precaution
a little beside the mark, and his excellent intentions no better than
miscalculated dovetails, accurately cut from a wrong starting-point. His
magnanimity has got itself ready to meet misbehavior, and finds quite a
different call upon it. Something of this kind happened to Deronda.

His first impression was one of pure pleasure and amusement at finding his
sitting-room transformed into an _atelier_ strewed with miscellaneous
drawings and with the contents of two chests from Rome, the lower half of
the windows darkened with baize, and the blonde Hans in his weird youth as
the presiding genius of the littered place--his hair longer than of old,
his face more whimsically creased, and his high voice as usual getting
higher under the excitement of rapid talk. The friendship of the two had
been kept up warmly since the memorable Cambridge time, not only by
correspondence but by little episodes of companionship abroad and in
England, and the original relation of confidence on one side and
indulgence on the other had been developed in practice, as is wont to be
the case where such spiritual borrowing and lending has been well begun.

"I knew you would like to see my casts and antiquities," said Hans, after
the first hearty greetings and inquiries, "so I didn't scruple to unlade
my chests here. But I've found two rooms at Chelsea not many hundred yards
from 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'm
waiting for. But you see I don't wait to begin work: you can't conceive
what a great fellow I'm going to be. The seed of immortality has sprouted
within me."

"Only a fungoid growth, I dare say--a growing disease in the lungs," said
Deronda, accustomed to treat Hans in brotherly fashion. He was walking
toward some drawings propped on the ledge of his bookcases; five rapidly-
sketched heads--different aspects of the same face. He stood at a
convenient distance from them, without making any remark. Hans, too, was
silent for a minute, took up his palette and began touching the picture on
his easel.

"What do you think of them?" he said at last.

"The full face looks too massive; otherwise the likenesses are good," said
Deronda, more coldly than was usual with him.

"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 the
full face. But I shall enlarge her scale for Berenice. I am making a
Berenice 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 pencil
and palette in hand, had moved to Deronda's side while he said this, but
he added hastily, as if conscious of a mistake, "No, no, I forgot; you
don't like sitting for your portrait, confound you! However, I've picked
up a capital Titus. There are to be five in the series. The first is
Berenice clasping the knees of Gessius Florus and beseeching him to spare
her people; I've got that on the easel. Then, this, where she is standing
on the Xystus with Agrippa, entreating the people not to injure themselves
by 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 of
their various thought,' as somebody says in the 'Rehearsal.'"

"But these are as impossible as the legs of Raphael's Alcibiades," said
Deronda.

"Then they are good ideally," said Hans. "Agrippa's legs were possibly
bad; I idealize that and make them impossibly bad. Art, my Eugenius, must
intensify. But never mind the legs now: the third sketch in the series is
Berenice exulting in the prospects of being Empress of Rome, when the news
has come that Vespasian is declared Emperor and her lover Titus his
successor."

"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 aesthetic
effect. The fourth is, Titus sending Berenice away from Rome after she has
shared his palace for ten years--both reluctant, both sad--_invitus
invitam_, 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 beauty
wears well, hers particularly. But now, here is the fifth: Berenice seated
lonely on the ruins of Jerusalem. That is pure imagination. That is what
ought 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 series
coming to a close. There is no sixth picture." Here Hans pretended to
speak with a gasping sense of sublimity, and drew back his head with a
frown, as if looking for a like impression on Deronda. "I break off in the
Homeric style. The story is chipped off, so to speak, and passes with a
ragged edge into nothing--_le neant_; can anything be more sublime,
especially in French? The vulgar would desire to see her corpse and
burial--perhaps her will read and her linen distributed. But now come and
look at this on the easel. I have made some way there."

"That beseeching attitude is really good," said Deronda, after a moment's
contemplation. "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 the
subject before. I take that lucky chance for an augury that I am going to
burst on the world as a great painter. I saw a splendid woman in the
Trastevere--the grandest women there are half Jewesses--and she set me
hunting for a fine situation of a Jewess at Rome. Like other men of vast
learning, I ended by taking what lay on the surface. I'll show you a
sketch of the Trasteverina's head when I can lay my hands on it."