Ah, I am a long while coming to that. It is dreadful to speak of, yet I must tell you—I must tell you everything. My father—it was he that took me away. I thought we were only going on a little journey; and I was pleased. There was a box with all my little things in. But we went on board a ship, and got farther and farther away from the land. Then I was ill; and I thought it would never end—it was the first misery, and it seemed endless. But at last we landed. I knew nothing then, and believed what my father said. He comforted me, and told me I should go back to my mother. But it was America we had reached, and it was long years before we came back to Europe. At first I often asked my father when we were going back; and I tried to learn writing fast, because I wanted to write to my mother; but one day when he found me trying to write a letter, he took me on his knee and told me that my mother and brother were dead; that was why we did not go back. I remember my brother a little; he carried me once; but he was not always at home. I believed my father when he said that they were dead. I saw them under the earth when he said they were there, with their eyes forever closed. I never thought of its not being true; and I used to cry every night in my bed for a long while. Then when she came so often to me, in my sleep, I thought she must be living about me though I could not always see her, and that comforted me. I was never afraid in the dark, because of that; and very often in the day I used to shut my eyes and bury my face and try to see her and to hear her singing. I came to do that at last without shutting my eyes.


Still your father was not unkind to you, I hope,


No; he petted me, and took pains to teach me. He was an actor; and I found out, after, that the ‘Coburg’ I used to hear of his going to at home was a theatre. But he had more to do with the theatre than acting. He had not always been an actor; he had been a teacher, and knew many languages. His acting was not very good; I think, but he managed the stage, and wrote and translated plays. An Italian lady, a singer, lived with us a long time. They both taught me, and I had a master besides, who made me learn by heart and recite. I worked quite hard, though I was so little; and I was not nine when I first went on the stage. I could easily learn things, and I was not afraid. But then and ever since I hated our way of life. My father had money, and we had finery about us in a disorderly way; always there were men and women coming and going; there was loud laughing and disputing, strutting, snapping of fingers, jeering, faces I did not like to look at—though many petted and caressed me. But then I remembered my mother. Even at first when I understood nothing, I shrank away from all those things outside me into companionship with thoughts that were not like them; and I gathered thoughts very fast, because I read many things—plays and poetry, Shakespeare and Schiller, and learned evil and good. My father began to believe that I might be a great singer: my voice was considered wonderful for a child; and he had the best teaching for me. But it was painful that he boasted of me, and set me to sing for show at any minute, as if I had been a musical box. Once when I was nine years old, I played the part of a little girl who had been forsaken and did not know it, and sat singing to herself while she played with flowers. I did it without any trouble; but the clapping and all the sounds of the theatre were hateful to me; and I never liked the praise I had, because it all seemed very hard and unloving: I missed the love and trust I had been born into. I made a life in my own thoughts quite different from everything about me: I chose what seemed to me beautiful out of the plays and everything, and made my world out of it; and it was like a sharp knife always grazing me that we had two sorts of life which jarred so with each other—women looking good and gentle on the stage, and saying good things as if they felt them, and directly after I saw them with coarse, ugly manners. My father sometimes noticed my shrinking ways; and Signora said one day, when I had been rehearsing, ‘She will never be an artist: she has no notion of being anybody but herself. That does very well now, but by-and-by you will see—she will have no more face and action than a singing-bird.’ My father was angry, and they quarreled. I sat alone and cried, because what she had said was like a long unhappy future unrolled before me. I did not want to be an artist; but this was what my father expected of me. After a while Signora left us, and a governess used to come and give me lessons in different things, because my father began to be afraid of my singing too much; but I still acted from time to time. Rebellious feelings grew stronger in me, and I wished to get away from this life; but I could not tell where to go, and I dreaded the world. Besides, I felt it would be wrong to leave my father: I dreaded doing wrong, for I thought I might get wicked and hateful to myself, in the same way that many others seemed hateful to me. For so long, so long I had never felt my outside world happy; and if I got wicked I should lose my world of happy thoughts where my mother lived with me. That was my childish notion all through those years. Oh how long they were!


Had you no teaching about what was your duty?


No—only that I ought to do what my father wished. He did not follow our religion at New York, and I think he wanted me not to know much about it. But because my mother used to take me to the synagogue, and I remembered sitting on her knee and looking through the railing and hearing the chanting and singing, I longed to go. One day when I was quite small I slipped out and tried to find the synagogue, but I lost myself a long while till a peddler questioned me and took me home. My father, missing me, had been much in fear, and was very angry. I too had been so frightened at losing myself that it was long before I thought of venturing out again. But after Signora left us we went to rooms where our landlady was a Jewess and observed her religion. I asked her to take me with her to the synagogue; and I read in her prayer-books and Bible, and when I had money enough I asked her to buy me books of my own, for these books seemed a closer companionship with my mother: I knew that she must have looked at the very words and said them. In that way I have come to know a little of our religion, and the history of our people, besides piecing together what I read in plays and other books about Jews and Jewesses; because I was sure my mother obeyed her religion. I had left off asking my father about her. It is very dreadful to say it, but I began to disbelieve him. I had found that he did not always tell the truth, and made promises without meaning to keep them; and that raised my suspicion that my mother and brother were still alive though he had told me they were dead. For in going over the past again as I got older and knew more, I felt sure that my mother had been deceived, and had expected to see us back again after a very little while; and my father taking me on his knee and telling me that my mother and brother were both dead seemed to me now but a bit of acting, to set my mind at rest. The cruelty of that falsehood sank into me, and I hated all untruth because of it. I wrote to my mother secretly: I knew the street, Colman Street, where we lived, and that it was not Blackfriars Bridge and the Coburg, and that our name was Cohen then, though my father called us Lapidoth, because, he said, it was a name of his forefathers in Poland. I sent my letter secretly; but no answer came, and I thought there was no hope for me. Our life in America did not last much longer. My father suddenly told me we were to pack up and go to Hamburg, and I was rather glad. I hoped we might get among a different sort of people, and I knew German quite well—some German plays almost all by heart. My father spoke it better than he spoke English. I was thirteen then, and I seemed to myself quite old—I knew so much, and yet so little. I think other children cannot feel as I did. I had often wished that I had been drowned when I was going away from my mother. But I set myself to obey and suffer: what else could I do? One day when we were on our voyage, a new thought came into my mind. I was not very ill that time, and I kept on deck a good deal. My father acted and sang and joked to amuse people on board, and I used often to hear remarks about him. One day, when I was looking at the sea and nobody took notice of me, I overheard a gentleman say, ‘Oh, he is one of those clever Jews—a rascal, I shouldn’t wonder. There’s no race like them for cunning in the men and beauty in the women. I wonder what market he means that daughter for.’ When I heard this it darted into my mind that the unhappiness in my life came from my being a Jewess, and that always to the end the world would think slightly of me and that I must bear it, for I should be judged by that name; and it comforted me to believe that my suffering was part of the affliction of my people, my part in the long song of mourning that has been going on through ages and ages. For if many of our race were wicked and made merry in their wickedness—what was that but part of the affliction borne by the just among them, who were despised for the sins of their brethren?—But you have not rejected me.


And we will try to save you from being judged unjustly by others, my poor child. Go on, go on: tell me all.


Don’t strain it further: it will never do for the public:—it is gold, but a thread of gold dust.


Father, you ought not to mimic our own people before Christians who mock them: would it not be bad if I mimicked you, that they might mock you?


You couldn’t do it, my dear.


What is the matter, father?


She’s just a pearl; the mud has only washed her,


What is your feeling about a search for this mother? Have you no fears? I have, I confess.


Oh, I believe the mother’s good, or was good. She may be dead—that’s my fear. A good woman, you may depend: you may know it by the scoundrel the father is. Where did the child get her goodness from? Wheaten flour has to be accounted for.


We should be very jealous of any one who took the task from us. She will stay under my roof; there is Hans’s old room for her.


Will she be content to wait?


No trouble there. It is not her nature to run into planning and devising: only to submit. See how she submitted to that father! It was a wonder to herself how she found the will and contrivance to run away from him. About finding her mother, her only notion now is to trust; since you were sent to save her and we are good to her, she trusts that her mother will be found in the same unsought way. And when she is talking I catch her feeling like a child. Oh, yes; we will hurry nothing. Rely upon it, she shall be taken tender care of. If you like to give me your address abroad, I will write to let you know how we get on. It is not fair that we should have all the pleasure of her salvation to ourselves. And besides, I want to make believe that I am doing something for you as well as for Mirah.


That is no make-believe. What should I have done without you last night? Everything would have gone wrong. I shall tell Hans that the best of having him for a friend is, knowing his mother.


Kate burns a pastille before his portrait every day. And I carry his signature in a little black-silk bag round my neck to keep off the cramp. And Amy says the multiplication-table in his name. We must all do something extra in honor of him, now he has brought you to us.


I suppose he is too great a person to want anything. He is perhaps very high in the world?


He is very much above us in rank. He is related to grand people. I dare say he leans on some of the satin cushions we prick our fingers over.


I am glad he is of high rank,


Now, why are you glad of that?


Because I have always disliked men of high rank before.


Oh, Mr. Deronda is not so very high. He need not hinder us from thinking ill of the whole peerage and baronetage if we like.


I will ask Daniel.


Now go away, girls. Never mind, mamma dear. Never mind. I don’t mind. I will do something. I will be something. Things will come right. It seemed worse because I was away. Come now! you must be glad because I am here.


Bless you, my good, good darling! I can be happy, if you can!


Keep them all away from us to-day, mamma. Let you and me be alone together. What have you thought of doing, exactly, mamma?


Oh, my dear, the next thing to be done is to move away from this house. Mr. Haynes most fortunately is as glad to have it now as he would have been when we took it. Lord Brackenshaw’s agent is to arrange everything with him to the best advantage for us: Bazley, you know; not at all an ill-natured man.


I cannot help thinking that Lord Brackenshaw would let you stay here rent-free, mamma,


My dear child, Lord Brackenshaw is in Scotland, and knows nothing about us. Neither your uncle nor I would choose to apply to him. Besides, what could we do in this house without servants, and without money to warm it? The sooner we are out the better. We have nothing to carry but our clothes, you know?


I suppose you mean to go abroad, then?


Oh, no, dear, no. How could we travel? You never did learn anything about income and expenses, that makes it so much harder for you, my pet.


But where are we to go?


It is all decided. A little furniture is to be got in from the rectory—all that can be spared. It is Sawyer’s Cottage we are to go to.


That is impossible. Something else than that ought to have been thought of. My uncle ought not to allow that. I will not submit to it.


My sweet child, what else could have been thought of? Your uncle, I am sure, is as kind as he can be: but he is suffering himself; he has his family to bring up. And do you quite understand? You must remember—we have nothing. We shall have absolutely nothing except what he and my sister give us. They have been as wise and active as possible, and we must try to earn something. I and the girls are going to work a table-cloth border for the Ladies’ Charity at Winchester, and a communion cloth that the parishioners are to present to Pennicote Church.


But surely somewhere else than Sawyer’s Cottage might have been found,


No, indeed, dear. You know houses are scarce, and we may be thankful to get anything so private. It is not so very bad. There are two little parlors and four bedrooms. You shall sit alone whenever you like.


I cannot conceive that all your property is gone at once, mamma. How can you be sure in so short a time? It is not a week since you wrote to me.


The first news came much earlier, dear. But I would not spoil your pleasure till it was quite necessary.


Oh, how vexatious! If I had known, I could have brought home the money I had won: and for want of knowing, I stayed and lost it. I had nearly two hundred pounds, and it would have done for us to live on a little while, till I could carry out some plan. Everything has gone against me. People have come near me only to blight me.


We must resign ourselves to the will of Providence, my child,


But I don’t resign myself. I shall do what I can against it. What is the good of calling the people’s wickedness Providence? You said in your letter it was Mr. Lassman’s fault we had lost our money. Has he run away with it all?


No, dear, you don’t understand. There were great speculations: he meant to gain. It was all about mines and things of that sort. He risked too much.


I don’t call that Providence: it was his improvidence with our money, and he ought to be punished. Can’t we go to law and recover our fortune? My uncle ought to take measures, and not sit down by such wrongs. We ought to go to law.


My dear child, law can never bring back money lost in that way. Your uncle says it is milk spilled upon the ground. Besides, one must have a fortune to get any law: there is no law for people who are ruined. And our money has only gone along with other people’s. We are not the only sufferers: others have to resign themselves besides us.


But I don’t resign myself to live at Sawyer’s Cottage and see you working for sixpences and shillings because of that. I shall not do it. I shall do what is more befitting our rank and education.


I am sure your uncle and all of us will approve of that, dear, and admire you the more for it. I didn’t mean that you should resign yourself to worse when anything better offered itself. Both your uncle and aunt have felt that your abilities and education were a fortune for you, and they have already heard of something within your reach.


What is that, mamma?


There are two situations that offer themselves. One is in a bishop’s family, where there are three daughters, and the other is in quite a high class of school; and in both, your French, and music, and dancing—and then your manners and habits as a lady, are exactly what is wanted. Each is a hundred a year—and—just for the present, to save you from the petty, common way of living that we must go to—you would perhaps accept one of the two.


What! be like Miss Graves at Madame Meunier’s? No.


I think, myself, that Dr. Monpert’s would be more suitable. There could be no hardship in a bishop’s family.


Excuse me, mamma. There are hardships everywhere for a governess. And I don’t see that it would be pleasanter to be looked down on in a bishop’s family than in any other. Besides, you know very well I hate teaching. Fancy me shut up with three awkward girls something like Alice! I would rather emigrate than be a governess.


I have some ornaments, mamma, and I could sell them. They would make a sum: I want a little sum—just to go on with. I dare say Marshall, at Wanchester, would take them: I know he showed me some bracelets once that he said he had bought from a lady. Jocosa might go and ask him. Jocosa is going to leave us, of course. But she might do that first.


She would do anything she could, poor, dear soul. I have not told you yet—she wanted me to take all her savings—her three hundred pounds. I tell her to set up a little school. It will be hard for her to go into a new family now she has been so long with us.


Oh, recommend her for the bishop’s daughters. I am sure she will do better than I should.


Do take care not to say such things to your uncle. He will be hurt at your despising what he has exerted himself about. But I dare say you have something else in your mind that he might not disapprove, if you consulted him.


There is some one else I want to consult first. Are the Arrowpoints at Quetcham still, and is Herr Klesmer there? But I daresay you know nothing about it, poor, dear mamma. Can Jeffries go on horseback with a note?


Oh, my dear, Jeffries is not here, and the dealer has taken the horses. But some one could go for us from Leek’s farm. The Arrowpoints are at Quetcham, I know. Miss Arrowpoint left her card the other day: I could not see her. But I don’t know about Herr Klesmer. Do you want to send before to-morrow?


Yes, as soon as possible. I will write a note,


What can you be thinking of, Gwen?


Don’t mind what, there’s a dear, good mamma. I mean to do something. Never mind what until it is all settled. And then you shall be comforted. The dear face!—it is ten years older in these three weeks. Now, now, now! don’t cry But mind you don’t contradict me or put hindrances in my way. I must decide for myself. I cannot be dictated to by my uncle or any one else. My life is my own affair. And I think I think I can do better for you than let you live in Sawyer’s Cottage.


Pray get this sent to Quetcham at once, mamma. The man must be told to wait for an answer. Let no time be lost.


I had no idea before that you were a political man. You must have been used to public speaking. You speak uncommonly well, though I don’t agree with you. From what you said about sentiment, I fancy you are a Panslavist.


No; my name is Elijah. I am the Wandering Jew,


Herr Klesmer has cosmopolitan ideas. He looks forward to a fusion of races.


With all my heart. I was sure he had too much talent to be a mere musician.


Ah, sir, you are under some mistake there. No man has too much talent to be a musician. Most men have too little. A creative artist is no more a mere musician than a great statesman is a mere politician. We are not ingenious puppets, sir, who live in a box and look out on the world only when it is gaping for amusement. We help to rule the nations and make the age as much as any other public men. We count ourselves on level benches with legislators. And a man who speaks effectively through music is compelled to something more difficult than parliamentary eloquence.


Your pianist does not think small beer of himself.


Herr Klesmer is something more than a pianist. He is a great musician in the fullest sense of the word. He will rank with Schubert and Mendelssohn.


Ah, you ladies understand these things,


Why were you so heated last night with Mr. Bult? He meant no harm.


You wish me to be complaisant to him?


I think it is hardly worth your while to be other than civil.


You find no difficulty in tolerating him, then?—you have a respect for a political platitudinarian as insensible as an ox to everything he can’t turn into political capital. You think his monumental obtuseness suited to the dignity of the English gentleman.


I did not say that.


You mean that I acted without dignity, and you are offended with me.


Now you are slightly nearer the truth,


Then I had better put my burial-clothes in my portmanteau and set off at once.


I don’t see that. If I have to bear your criticism of my operetta, you should not mind my criticism of your impatience.


But I do mind it. You would have wished me to take his ignorant impertinence about a ‘mere musician’ without letting him know his place. I am to hear my gods blasphemed as well as myself insulted. But I beg pardon. It is impossible you should see the matter as I do. Even you can’t understand the wrath of the artist: he is of another caste for you.


That is true. He is of a caste to which I look up—a caste above mine.


That is finely felt—I am grateful. But I had better go, all the same. I have made up my mind to go, for good and all. You can get on exceedingly well without me: your operetta is on wheels—it will go of itself. And your Mr. Bull’s company fits me ‘wie die Faust ins Auge.’ I am neglecting my engagements. I must go off to St. Petersburg. You agree with me that I had better go?


Certainly; if that is what your business and feeling prompt. I have only to wonder that you have consented to give us so much of your time in the last year. There must be treble the interest to you anywhere else. I have never thought of you consenting to come here as anything else than a sacrifice.


Why should I make the sacrifice?


That is the mystery,


You can conceive no motive?


None that seems in the least probable.


Then I shall tell you. It is because you are to me the chief woman in the world—the throned lady whose colors I carry between my heart and my armor. This would be the last impertinence in me, if I meant to found anything upon it. That is out of the question. I meant no such thing. But you once said it was your doom to suspect every man who courted you of being an adventurer, and what made you angriest was men’s imputing to you the folly of believing that they courted you for your own sake. Did you not say so?


Very likely,


It was a bitter word. Well, at least one man who has seen women as plenty as flowers in May has lingered about you for your own sake. And since he is one whom you can never marry, you will believe him. There is an argument in favor of some other man. But don’t give yourself for a meal to a minotaur like Bult. I shall go now and pack. I shall make my excuses to Mrs. Arrowpoint.


You must take this heap of manuscript. Why should I not marry the man who loves me, if I love him?


It would be too hard—impossible—you could not carry it through. I am not worth what you would have to encounter. I will not accept the sacrifice. It would be thought a mésalliance for you and I should be liable to the worst accusations.


Is it the accusations you are afraid of? I am afraid of nothing but that we should miss the passing of our lives together.


If Klesmer has presumed to offer himself to you, your father shall horsewhip him off the premises. Pray, speak, Mr. Arrowpoint.


This will never do, Cath.


Do! who in their senses ever thought it would do? You might as well say poisoning and strangling will not do. It is a comedy you have got up, Catherine. Else you are mad.


I am quite sane and serious, mamma, and Herr Klesmer is not to blame. He never thought of my marrying him. I found out that he loved me, and loving him, I told him I would marry him.


Leave that unsaid, Catherine. Every one else will say that for you. You will be a public fable. Every one will say that you must have made an offer to a man who has been paid to come to the house—who is nobody knows what—a gypsy, a Jew, a mere bubble of the earth.


Never mind, mamma. We all know he is a genius—as Tasso was.


Those times were not these, nor is Klesmer Tasso. There is no sting in that sarcasm, except the sting of undutifulness.


I am sorry to hurt you, mamma. But I will not give up the happiness of my life to ideas that I don’t believe in and customs I have no respect for.


You have lost all sense of duty, then? You have forgotten that you are our only child—that it lies with you to place a great property in the right hands?


What are the right hands? My grandfather gained the property in trade.


Mr. Arrowpoint, will you sit by and hear this without speaking?


I am a gentleman, Cath. We expect you to marry a gentleman,


And a man connected with the institutions of this country. A woman in your position has serious duties. Where duty and inclination clash, she must follow duty.


I don’t deny that. But one may say very true things and apply them falsely. People can easily take the sacred word duty as a name for what they desire any one else to do.


Your parent’s desire makes no duty for you, then?


Yes, within reason. But before I give up the happiness of my life—


Catherine, Catherine, it will not be your happiness,


Well, what seems to me my happiness—before I give it up, I must see some better reason than the wish that I should marry a nobleman, or a man who votes with a party that he may be turned into a nobleman. I feel at liberty to marry the man I love and think worthy, unless some higher duty forbids.


And so it does, Catherine, though you are blinded and cannot see it. It is a woman’s duty not to lower herself. You are lowering yourself. Mr. Arrowpoint, will you tell your daughter what is her duty?


You must see, Catherine, that Klesmer is not the man for you. He won’t do at the head of estates. He has a deuced foreign look—is an unpractical man.


I really can’t see what that has to do with it, papa. The land of England has often passed into the hands of foreigners—Dutch soldiers, sons of foreign women of bad character:—if our land were sold to-morrow it would very likely pass into the hands of some foreign merchant on ’Change. It is in everybody’s mouth that successful swindlers may buy up half the land in the country. How can I stem that tide?


It will never do to argue about marriage, Cath. It’s no use getting up the subject like a parliamentary question. We must do as other people do. We must think of the nation and the public good.


I can’t see any public good concerned here, papa. Why is it to be expected of any heiress that she should carry the property gained in trade into the hands of a certain class? That seems to be a ridiculous mishmash of superannuated customs and false ambition. I should call it a public evil. People had better make a new sort of public good by changing their ambitions.


That is mere sophistry, Catherine. Because you don’t wish to marry a nobleman, you are not obliged to marry a mountebank or a charlatan.


I cannot understand the application of such words, mamma.


No, I dare say not. You have got to a pitch at which we are not likely to understand each other.


It can’t be done, Cath. A man like Klesmer can’t marry such a property as yours. It can’t be done.


It certainly will not be done. Where is the man? Let him be fetched.


I cannot fetch him to be insulted. Nothing will be achieved by that.


I suppose you would wish him to know that in marrying you he will not marry your fortune,


Certainly; if it were so, I should wish him to know it.


Then you had better fetch him.


Come.


Herr Klesmer, it is unnecessary to repeat what has passed between us and our daughter. Mr. Arrowpoint will tell you our resolution.


Your marrying is out of the question. It is a wild scheme altogether. A man has been called out for less.


You have taken a base advantage of our confidence,


The pretension is ridiculous. You had better give it up and leave the house at once,


I can give up nothing without reference to your daughter’s wish. My engagement is to her.


It is useless to discuss the question. We shall never consent to the marriage. If Catherine disobeys us we shall disinherit her. You will not marry her fortune. It is right you should know that.


Madam, her fortune has been the only thing I have had to regret about her. But I must ask her if she will not think the sacrifice greater than I am worthy of.


It is no sacrifice to me, except that I am sorry to hurt my father and mother. I have always felt my fortune to be a wretched fatality of my life.


You mean to defy us, then?


I mean to marry Herr Klesmer,


He had better not count on our relenting,


Madam, certain reasons forbid me to retort. But understand that I consider it out of the power of either of you, or of your fortune, to confer on me anything that I value. My rank as an artist is of my own winning, and I would not exchange it for any other. I am able to maintain your daughter, and I ask for no change in my life but her companionship.


You will leave the house, however,


I go at once,


Let there be no misunderstanding, mamma. I consider myself engaged to Herr Klesmer, and I intend to marry him.


It’s all very fine, but what the deuce are we to do with the property?


There is Harry Brendall. He can take the name.


Harry Brendall will get through it all in no time,


Pray go to church, mamma. I prefer seeing Herr Klesmer alone.


That is hardly correct, I think,


Our affairs are too serious for us to think of such nonsensical rules. They are insulting as well as ridiculous.


You would not mind Isabel sitting with you? She would be reading in a corner.


No; she could not: she would bite her nails and stare. It would be too irritating. Trust my judgment, mamma, I must be alone. Take them all to church.


I am beautiful


It is most kind of you to come, Herr Klesmer. I hope you have not thought me presumptuous.


I took your wish as a command that did me honor,


I wish to consult you, Herr Klesmer. We have lost all our fortune; we have nothing. I must get my own bread, and I desire to provide for my mamma, so as to save her from any hardship. The only way I can think of—and I should like it better than anything—is to be an actress—to go on the stage. But, of course, I should like to take a high position, and I thought—if you thought I could it would be better for me to be a singer—to study singing also. I know. I know that my method of singing is very defective; but I have been ill taught. I could be better taught; I could study. And you will understand my wish:—to sing and act too, like Grisi, is a much higher position. Naturally, I should wish to take as high rank as I can. And I can rely on your judgment. I am sure you will tell me the truth.


You have never seen anything, I think, of artists and their lives?—I mean of musicians, actors, artists of that kind?


Oh, no,


You are—pardon me, in coming to a conclusion on such a matter as this, everything must be taken into consideration—you are perhaps twenty?


I am twenty-one. Do you think I am too old? Many persons begin later than others,


You have probably not thought of an artistic career until now: you did not entertain the notion, the longing—what shall I say?—you did not wish yourself an actress, or anything of that sort, till the present trouble?


Not exactly: but I was fond of acting. I have acted; you saw me, if you remember—you saw me here in charades, and as Hermione,


Yes, yes. I remember—I remember perfectly,


I shall be very much obliged to you for taking the trouble to give me your advice, whatever it maybe.


Miss Harleth. I will veil nothing from you in this matter. I should reckon myself guilty if I put a false visage on things—made them too black or too white. The gods have a curse for him who willingly tells another the wrong road. And if I misled one who is so young, so beautiful—who, I trust, will find her happiness along the right road, I should regard myself as a—Bösewicht. You are a beautiful young lady—you have been brought up in ease—you have done what you would—you have not said to yourself, ‘I must know this exactly,’ ‘I must understand this exactly,’ ‘I must do this exactly,’ In sum, you have not been called upon to be anything but a charming young lady, whom it is an impoliteness to find fault with. Well, then, with that preparation, you wish to try the life of an artist; you wish to try a life of arduous, unceasing work, and—uncertain praise. Your praise would have to be earned, like your bread; and both would come slowly, scantily—what do I say?—they may hardly come at all.


I thought that you, being an artist, would consider the life one of the most honorable and delightful. And if I can do nothing better?—I suppose I can put up with the same risks as other people do.


Do nothing better? No, my dear Miss Harleth, you could do nothing better—neither man nor woman could do anything better—if you could do what was best or good of its kind. I am not decrying the life of the true artist. I am exalting it. I say, it is out of the reach of any but choice organizations—natures framed to love perfection and to labor for it; ready, like all true lovers, to endure, to wait, to say, I am not yet worthy, but she—Art, my mistress—is worthy, and I will live to merit her. An honorable life? Yes. But the honor comes from the inward vocation and the hard-won achievement: there is no honor in donning the life as a livery.


I am quite prepared to bear hardships at first. Of course no one can become celebrated all at once. And it is not necessary that every one should be first-rate—either actresses or singers. If you would be so kind as to tell me what steps I should take, I shall have the courage to take them. I don’t mind going up hill. It will be easier than the dead level of being a governess. I will take any steps you recommend.


I will tell you the steps, not that I recommend, but that will be forced upon you. It is all one, so far, what your goal will be—excellence, celebrity, second, third rateness—it is all one. You must go to town under the protection of your mother. You must put yourself under training—musical, dramatic, theatrical:—whatever you desire to do you have to learn I know. You have exercised your talents—you recite—you sing—from the drawing-room Standpunkt. My dear Fräulein, you must unlearn all that. You have not yet conceived what excellence is: you must unlearn your mistaken admirations. You must know what you have to strive for, and then you must subdue your mind and body to unbroken discipline. Your mind, I say. For you must not be thinking of celebrity: put that candle out of your eyes, and look only at excellence. You would of course earn nothing—you could get no engagement for a long while. You would need money for yourself and your family. But that


Now, what sort of issue might be fairly expected from all this self-denial? You would ask that. It is right that your eyes should be open to it. I will tell you truthfully. This issue would be uncertain, and, most probably, would not be worth much.


You think I want talent, or am too old to begin.


Yes! The desire and the training should have begun seven years ago—or a good deal earlier. A mountebank’s child who helps her father to earn shillings when she is six years old—a child that inherits a singing throat from a long line of choristers and learns to sing as it learns to talk, has a likelier beginning. Any great achievement in acting or in music grows with the growth. Whenever an artist has been able to say, ‘I came, I saw, I conquered,’ it has been at the end of patient practice. Genius at first is little more than a great capacity for receiving discipline. Singing and acting, like the fine dexterity of the juggler with his cups and balls, require a shaping of the organs toward a finer and finer certainty of effect. Your muscles—your whole frame—must go like a watch, true, true to a hair. That is the work of spring-time, before habits have been determined.


I did not pretend to genius. I only suppose that I might have a little talent—enough to improve.


I don’t deny that. If you had been put in the right track some years ago and had worked well you might now have made a public singer, though I don’t think your voice would have counted for much in public. For the stage your personal charms and intelligence might then have told without the present drawback of inexperience—lack of discipline—lack of instruction.


I understood, of course, that no one can be a finished actress at once. It may be impossible to tell beforehand whether I should succeed; but that seems to me a reason why I should try. I should have thought that I might have taken an engagement at a theatre meanwhile, so as to earn money and study at the same time.


Can’t be done, my dear Miss Harleth—I speak plainly—it can’t be done. I must clear your mind of these notions which have no more resemblance to reality than a pantomime. Ladies and gentlemen think that when they have made their toilet and drawn on their gloves they are as presentable on the stage as in a drawing-room. No manager thinks that. With all your grace and charm, if you were to present yourself as an aspirant to the stage, a manager would either require you to pay as an amateur for being allowed to perform or he would tell you to go and be taught—trained to bear yourself on the stage, as a horse, however beautiful, must be trained for the circus; to say nothing of that study which would enable you to personate a character consistently, and animate it with the natural language of face, gesture, and tone. For you to get an engagement fit for you straight away is out of the question.


I really cannot understand that. I shall be obliged to you if you will explain how it is that such poor actresses get engaged. I have been to the theatre several times, and I am sure there were actresses who seemed to me to act not at all well and who were quite plain.


Ah, my dear Miss Harleth, that is the easy criticism of the buyer. We who buy slippers toss away this pair and the other as clumsy; but there went an apprenticeship to the making of them. Excuse me; you could not at present teach one of those actresses; but there is certainly much that she could teach you. For example, she can pitch her voice so as to be heard: ten to one you could not do it till after many trials. Merely to stand and move on the stage is an art—requires practice. It is understood that we are not now talking of a comparse in a petty theatre who earns the wages of a needle-woman. That is out of the question for you.


Of course I must earn more than that, but I think I could soon learn to do tolerably well all those little things you have mentioned. I am not so very stupid. And even in Paris, I am sure, I saw two actresses playing important ladies’ parts who were not at all ladies and quite ugly. I suppose I have no particular talent, but I must think it is an advantage, even on the stage, to be a lady and not a perfect fright.


Ah, let us understand each other. I was speaking of what you would have to go through if you aimed at becoming a real artist—if you took music and the drama as a higher vocation in which you would strive after excellence. On that head, what I have said stands fast. You would find—after your education in doing things slackly for one-and-twenty years—great difficulties in study; you would find mortifications in the treatment you would get when you presented yourself on the footing of skill. You would be subjected to tests; people would no longer feign not to see your blunders. You would at first only be accepted on trial. You would have to bear what I may call a glaring insignificance: any success must be won by the utmost patience. You would have to keep your place in a crowd, and after all it is likely you would lose it and get out of sight. If you determine to face these hardships and still try, you will have the dignity of a high purpose, even though you may have chosen unfortunately. You will have some merit, though you may win no prize. You have asked my judgment on your chances of winning. I don’t pretend to speak absolutely; but measuring probabilities, my judgment is:—you will hardly achieve more than mediocrity. But—there are certainly other ideas, other dispositions with which a young lady may take up an art that will bring her before the public. She may rely on the unquestioned power of her beauty as a passport. She may desire to exhibit herself to an admiration which dispenses with skill. This goes a certain way on the stage: not in music: but on the stage, beauty is taken when there is nothing more commanding to be had. Not without some drilling, however: as I have said before, technicalities have in any case to be mastered. But these excepted, we have here nothing to do with art. The woman who takes up this career is not an artist: she is usually one who thinks of entering on a luxurious life by a short and easy road—perhaps by marriage—that is her most brilliant chance, and the rarest. Still, her career will not be luxurious to begin with: she can hardly earn her own poor bread independently at once, and the indignities she will be liable to are such as I will not speak of.


I desire to be independent. That was my reason for asking whether I could not get an immediate engagement. Of course I cannot know how things go on about theatres. But I thought that I could have made myself independent. I have no money, and I will not accept help from any one.


That is a hard saying for your friends. I have given you pain. That was inevitable. I was bound to put the truth, the unvarnished truth, before you. I have not said—I will not say—you will do wrong to choose the hard, climbing path of an endeavoring artist. You have to compare its difficulties with those of any less hazardous—any more private course which opens itself to you. If you take that more courageous resolve I will ask leave to shake hands with you on the strength of our freemasonry, where we are all vowed to the service of art, and to serve her by helping every fellow-servant. Where there is the duty of service there must be the duty of accepting it. The question is not one of personal obligation. And in relation to practical matters immediately affecting your future—excuse my permitting myself to mention in confidence an affair of my own. I am expecting an event which would make it easy for me to exert myself on your behalf in furthering your opportunities of instruction and residence in London—under the care, that is, of your family—without need for anxiety on your part. If you resolve to take art as a bread-study, you need only undertake the study at first; the bread will be found without trouble. The event I mean is my marriage—in fact—you will receive this as a matter of confidence—my marriage with Miss Arrowpoint, which will more than double such right as I have to be trusted by you as a friend. Your friendship will have greatly risen in value for her by your having adopted that generous labor.


I congratulate you sincerely, Herr Klesmer. I think I never saw any one so admirable as Miss Arrowpoint. And I have to thank you for every sort of kindness this morning. But I can’t decide now. If I make the resolve you have spoken of, I will use your permission—I will let you know. But I fear the obstacles are too great. In any case, I am deeply obliged to you. It was very bold of me to ask you to take this trouble.


Command me at any time. There is an address on this card which will always find me with little delay.


If I take the wrong road, it will not be because of your flattery.


God forbid that you should take any road but one where you will find and give happiness!


An end of it!


Well, my darling. I see by the wheel-marks that Klesmer has been here. Have you been satisfied with the interview?


Satisfied, mamma? oh, yes,


Your uncle and aunt were disappointed at not seeing you. I only said that you wanted rest.


Quite right, mamma,


Am I not to know anything now, Gwendolen? Am I always to be in the dark?


There is really nothing to tell now, mamma. I had a mistaken idea about something I could do. Herr Klesmer has undeceived me. That is all.


Don’t look and speak in that way, my dear child: I cannot bear it,


Mamma, don’t speak to me now. It is useless to cry and waste our strength over what can’t be altered. You will live at Sawyer’s Cottage, and I am going to the bishop’s daughters. There is no more to be said. Things cannot be altered, and who cares? It makes no difference to any one else what we do. We must try not to care ourselves. We must not give way. I dread giving way. Help me to be quiet.


How shall you endure it, mamma? You and the four girls all in that closet of a room, with the green and yellow paper pressing on your eyes? And without me?


It will be some comfort that you have not to bear it too, dear.


If it were not that I must get some money, I would rather be there than go to be a governess.


Don’t set yourself against it beforehand, Gwendolen. If you go to the palace you will have every luxury about you. And you know how much you have always cared for that. You will not find it so hard as going up and down those steep narrow stairs, and hearing the crockery rattle through the house, and the dear girls talking.


It is like a bad dream. I cannot believe that my uncle will let you go to such a place. He ought to have taken some other steps.


Don’t be unreasonable, dear child. What could he have done?


That was for him to find out. It seems to me a very extraordinary world if people in our position must sink in this way all at once,


I felt that there was no time to be lost, Gwendolen; for a position in a good family where you will have some consideration is not to be had at a moment’s notice. And however long we waited we could hardly find one where you would be better off than at Bishop Mompert’s. I am known to both him and Mrs. Mompert, and that of course is an advantage to you. Our correspondence has gone on favorably; but I cannot be surprised that Mrs. Mompert wishes to see you before making an absolute engagement. She thinks of arranging for you to meet her at Wanchester when she is on her way to town. I dare say you will feel the interview rather trying for you, my dear; but you will have a little time to prepare your mind.


Do you know why she wants to see me, uncle?


Don’t be alarmed, my dear. She would like to have a more precise idea of you than my report can give. And a mother is naturally scrupulous about a companion for her daughters. I have told her you are very young. But she herself exercises a close supervision over her daughters’ education, and that makes her less anxious as to age. She is a woman of taste and also of strict principle, and objects to having a French person in the house. I feel sure that she will think your manners and accomplishments as good as she is likely to find; and over the religious and moral tone of the education she, and indeed the bishop himself, will preside.


I think so highly of the position, that I should have been tempted to try and get it for Anna, if she had been at all likely to meet Mrs. Mompert’s wants. It is really a home, with a continuance of education in the highest sense: ‘governess’ is a misnomer. The bishop’s views are of a more decidedly Low Church color than my own—he is a close friend of Lord Grampian’s; but, though privately strict, he is not by any means narrow in public matters. Indeed, he has created as little dislike in his diocese as any bishop on the bench. He has always remained friendly to me, though before his promotion, when he was an incumbent of this diocese, we had a little controversy about the Bible Society.


There was another situation, I think, mamma spoke of?


Yes, but that is in a school. I should not have the same satisfaction in your taking that. It would be much harder work, you are aware, and not so good in any other respect. Besides, you have not an equal chance of getting it.


Oh dear no, it would be much harder for you, my dear—it would be much less appropriate. You might not have a bedroom to yourself.


When is Mrs. Mompert likely to send for me?


That is rather uncertain, but she has promised not to entertain any other proposal till she has seen you. She has entered with much feeling into your position. It will be within the next fortnight, probably. But I must be off now. I am going to let part of my glebe uncommonly well.


What a stay Henry is to us all!


He is indeed. I think cheerfulness is a fortune in itself. I wish I had it.


And Rex is just like him. I must tell you the comfort we have had in a letter from him. I must read you a little bit,


Tell mother she has put out an advertisement for a jolly good hard-working son, in time to hinder me from taking ship; and I offer myself for the place.


Nothing is wrong with you now, is it?


I suppose I shall begin to pretend by-and-by, but why should I do it now?


Mamma. I had forgotten these things. Why didn’t you remind me of them? Do see about getting them sold. You will not mind about parting with them. You gave them all to me long ago.


If we can do without them, darling, I would rather keep them for you. Why, how came you to put that pocket handkerchief in here?


It happened to be with the necklace—I was in a hurry. Don’t sell the necklace, mamma,


No, dear, no; it was made out of your dear father’s chain. And I should prefer not selling the other things. None of them are of any great value. All my best ornaments were taken from me long ago. And these things have not been reckoned on for any expenses. Carry them with you.


That would be quite useless, mamma. Governesses don’t wear ornaments. You had better get me a gray frieze livery and a straw poke, such as my aunt’s charity children wear.


No, dear, no; don’t take that view of it. I feel sure the Momperts will like you the better for being graceful and elegant.


I am not at all sure what the Momperts will like me to be. It is enough that I am expected to be what they like,


If there is anything you would object to less—anything that could be done—instead of your going to the bishop’s, do say so, Gwendolen. Tell me what is in your heart. I will try for anything you wish. Don’t keep things away from me. Let us bear them together.


Oh, mamma, there is nothing to tell. I can’t do anything better. I must think myself fortunate if they will have me. I shall get some money for you. That is the only thing I have to think of. I shall not spend any money this year: you will have all the eighty pounds. I don’t know how far that will go in housekeeping; but you need not stitch your poor fingers to the bone, and stare away all the sight that the tears have left in your dear eyes.


Bless you for your tenderness, my good darling! Don’t despair because there are clouds now. You are so young. There may be great happiness in store for you yet.


I don’t see any reason for expecting it, mamma,


What did happen between her and Mr. Grandcourt?


I will keep this necklace, mamma. But do get the other things sold, even if they will not bring much. Ask my uncle what to do with them. I shall certainly not use them again. I am going to take the veil. I wonder if all the poor wretches who have ever taken it felt as I do.


Don’t exaggerate evils, dear.


How can any one know that I exaggerate, when I am speaking of my own feeling? I did not say what any one else felt.


As you like” is a bad finger-post.


Yes; I heard somebody say how providential it was that there always happened to be springs at gambling places.


Oh, that was a joke, in imitation of the old one about the towns and the rivers, you know.


Ah, perhaps,


Oh, my dear, he is not a fool. You must not suppose that he can’t see a joke. He can play his cards as well as most of us.


He has never seemed to me a very sensible man,


You had better come over for a run or two when the season begins.


Well, you will let me know the turn of events, if this marriage seems likely to come off after all, or if anything else happens to make the want of money pressing. My plan would be much better for him than burdening Ryelands.


That’s true, only it must not be urged on him—just placed in his way that the scent may tickle him. Grandcourt is not a man to be always led by what makes for his own interest; especially if you let him see that it makes for your interest too. I’m attached to him, of course. I’ve given up everything else for the sake of keeping by him, and it has lasted a good fifteen years now. He would not easily get any one else to fill my place. He’s a peculiar character, is Henleigh Grandcourt, and it has been growing on him of late years. However, I’m of a constant disposition, and I’ve been a sort of guardian to him since he was twenty; an uncommonly fascinating fellow he was then, to be sure—and could be now, if he liked. I’m attached to him; and it would be a good deal worse for him if he missed me at his elbow.


Are you making all the arrangements for our starting by the Paris train?


I didn’t know you meant to start,


You might have known. Just see to everything, will you? and mind no brute gets into the same carriage with us. And leave my P. P. C. at the Mallingers’.”


Oh.


What is it?


Shut the door, will you? I can’t speak into the corridor. Is Miss Harleth at Offendene?


Well, I hardly know. The family’s utterly done up. They and the Gascoignes too have lost all their money. It’s owing to some rascally banking business. The poor mother hasn’t a sou, it seems. She and the girls have to huddle themselves into a little cottage like a laborer’s.


Don’t lie to me, if you please. It’s not amusing, and it answers no other purpose.


What do you mean?


Just tell me the truth, will you?


It’s no invention of mine. I have heard the story from several—Bazley, Brackenshaw’s man, for one. He is getting a new tenant for Offendene.


I don’t mean that. Is Miss Harleth there, or is she not?


Upon my soul, I can’t tell. She may have left yesterday. I heard she had taken a situation as governess; she may be gone to it for what I know. But if you wanted to see her no doubt the mother would send for her back.


Send Hutchins to inquire whether she will be there to-morrow.


It would be as well for you to remember, Grandcourt, that you are coming under closer fire now. There can be none of the ordinary flirting done, which may mean everything or nothing. You must make up your mind whether you wish to be accepted; and more than that, how you would like being refused. Either one or the other. You can’t be philandering after her again for six weeks. Everything has a more serious look now than it had before. There is her family to be provided for. You could not let your wife’s mother live in beggary. It will be a confoundedly hampering affair. Marriage will pin you down in a way you haven’t been used to; and in point of money you have not too much elbow-room. And after all, what will you get by it? You are master over your estates, present or future, as far as choosing your heir goes; it’s a pity to go on encumbering them for a mere whim, which you may repent of in a twelvemonth. I should be sorry to see you making a mess of your life in that way. If there were anything solid to be gained by the marriage, that would be a different affair.


I knew before that you had an objection to my marrying Miss Harleth. But I never considered that a reason against it.


I never supposed you did. It was not that I urged as a reason. I should have thought it might have been a reason against it, after all your experience, that you would be acting like the hero of a ballad, and making yourself absurd—and all for what? You know you couldn’t make up your mind before. It’s impossible you can care much about her. And as for the tricks she is likely to play, you may judge of that from what you heard at Leubronn. However, what I wished to point out to you was, that there can be no shilly-shally now.


Perfectly. I don’t intend that there should be. I dare say it’s disagreeable to you. But if you suppose I care a damn for that you are most stupendously mistaken.


Oh, well, if you have made up your mind!—only there’s another aspect of the affair. I have been speaking on the supposition that it was absolutely certain she would accept you, and that destitution would have no choice. But I am not so sure that the young lady is to be counted on. She is kittle cattle to shoe, I think. And she had her reasons for running away before. She had her reasons,


I had come to that conclusion before,


Yes, but I hardly think you know what her reasons were.


You do, apparently,


Yes, and you had better know too, that you may judge of the influence you have over her if she swallows her reasons and accepts you. For my own part I would take odds against it. She saw Lydia in Cardell Chase and heard the whole story.


What follows? Oblige me by pushing that pen and paper here, will you? Just wait for this letter. Let Hutchins go with it at once, will you?


You will find an interest in varied experience, my dear, and I have no doubt you will be a more valuable woman for having sustained such a part as you are called to.


I cannot pretend to believe that I shall like it. But I am quite aware that I am obliged to bear it.


And your good sense will teach you to behave suitably under it. I feel sure that Mrs. Mompert will be pleased with you. You will know how to conduct yourself to a woman who holds in all senses the relation of a superior to you. This trouble has come on you young, but that makes it in some respects easier, and there is a benefit in all chastisement if we adjust our minds to it.


I have always, ever since I was little, felt that mamma was not a happy woman; and now I dare say I shall be more unhappy than she has been. Poor mamma! it will be still worse for her now. I can get a little money for her—that is all I shall care about now.


It was nothing, mamma. It is all over now. What is that letter?—worse news still?


I don’t know what you will think it, dear. You will hardly guess where it comes from.


Don’t ask me to guess anything,


It is addressed to you, dear. It comes from Diplow,


It must be answered, darling. The man waits.


I wish I had never known it!


It will be necessary for you to write, dear. Or shall I write an answer for you—which you will dictate?


No, mamma. But please lay me out the pen and paper. There is really no reason on earth why you should be so alarmed at the man’s waiting a few minutes, mamma. Servants expect nothing else than to wait. It is not to be supposed that I must write on the instant.


No, dear, he can wait another quarter of an hour, if you like.


I did not mean him to wait long enough for that needlework to be finished,


But if you don’t feel able to decide?


I must decide,


If Mr. Grandcourt has only just returned from Leubronn,


I wonder whether he has heard of our misfortunes?


That could make no difference to a man in his position,


It would to some men. They would not like to take a wife from a family in a state of beggary almost, as we are. Here we are at Offendene with a great shell over us, as usual. But just imagine his finding us at Sawyer’s Cottage. Most men are afraid of being bored or taxed by a wife’s family. If Mr. Grandcourt did know, I think it a strong proof of his attachment to you.


What is the use of telling? When I have anything pleasant to tell, you may be sure I will tell you. Very well; and I wish to have the pleasure of refusing him. Put down that detestable needlework, and let us walk in the avenue. I am stifled.


Black is the only wear when one is going to refuse an offer,


Suppose the offer is not made after all,


Then that will be because I refuse it beforehand. It comes to the same thing.


I was disappointed not to find you at Leubronn. The place was intolerable without you. A mere kennel of a place. Don’t you think so?


I can’t judge what it would be without myself. With myself I like it well enough to have stayed longer, if I could. But I was obliged to come home on account of family troubles.


It was very cruel of you to go to Leubronn. You must have known that it would spoil everything: you knew you were the heart and soul of everything that went on. Are you quite reckless about me? Perhaps there is some deeper interest? Some attraction—some engagement—which it would have been only fair to make me aware of? Is there any man who stands between us?


No;


Am I to understand that some one else is preferred?


No What then? I may not be ready to take you.


The last thing I would do, is to importune you. I should not hope to win you by making myself a bore. If there were no hope for me, I would ask you to tell me so at once, that I might just ride away to—no matter where.


I fear you are not aware of what has happened to us. I have lately had to think so much of my mamma’s troubles, that other subjects have been quite thrown into the background. She has lost all her fortune, and we are going to leave this place. I must ask you to excuse my seeming preoccupied.


You will tell me now, I hope, that Mrs. Davilow’s loss of fortune will not trouble you further. You will trust me to prevent it from weighing upon her. You will give me the claim to provide against that.


You are very generous,


You accept what will make such things a matter of course? You consent to become my wife?


Do you command me to go?


No,


You accept my devotion?


Yes,


Will you not see mamma? I will fetch her.


Let us wait a little,


Have you anything else to say to me?


Yes—I know having things said to you is a great bore,


Not when they are things I like to hear.


Will it bother you to be asked how soon we can be married?


I think it will, to-day,


Not to-day, then, but to-morrow. Think of it before I come to-morrow. In a fortnight—or three weeks—as soon as possible.


Ah, you think you will be tired of my company. I notice when people are married the husband is not so much with his wife as when they are engaged. But perhaps I shall like that better, too.


You shall have whatever you like,


And nothing that I don’t like?—please say that; because I think I dislike what I don’t like more than I like what I like,


I don’t know—this is such a brute of a world, things are always turning up that one doesn’t like. I can’t always hinder your being bored. If you like to ride Criterion, I can’t hinder his coming down by some chance or other.


Ah, my friend Criterion, how is he?


He is outside: I made the groom ride him, that you might see him. He had the side-saddle on for an hour or two yesterday. Come to the window and look at him. Will you ride Criterion to-morrow? If you will, everything shall be arranged.


I should like it of all things. I want to lose myself in a gallop again. But now I must go and fetch mamma.


Take my arm to the door, then,


Oh, while I think of it—there is something I dislike that you can save me from. I do not like Mr. Lush’s company.


You shall not have it. I’ll get rid of him.


You are not fond of him yourself?


Not in the least. I let him hang on me because he has always been a poor devil. They got him to travel with me when I was a lad. He was always that coarse-haired kind of brute—sort of cross between a hog and a dilettante.


Come down, mamma, and see Mr. Grandcourt. I am engaged to him.


My darling child,


Yes. Everything is settled. You are not going to Sawyer’s Cottage, I am not going to be inspected by Mrs. Mompert, and everything is to be as I like. So come down with me immediately.


My dear, let me congratulate you on having created a strong attachment. You look serious, and I don’t wonder at it: a life-long union is a solemn thing. But from the way Mr. Grandcourt has acted and spoken I think we may already see some good arising out of our adversity. It has given you an opportunity of observing your future husband’s delicate liberality.


But I have no doubt that Mr. Grandcourt would have behaved quite as handsomely if you had not gone away to Germany, Gwendolen, and had been engaged to him, as you no doubt might have been, more than a month ago. But now there is no more room for caprice; indeed, I trust you have no inclination to any. A woman has a great debt of gratitude to a man who perseveres in making her such an offer. But no doubt you feel properly.


I am not at all sure that I do, aunt. I don’t know everything it is proper to feel on being engaged.


I do hope you will be happy,


I should like to know exactly what sort of places Ryelands and Gadsmere are,


Gadsmere, I believe, is a secondary place. But Ryelands I know to be one of our finest seats. The park is extensive and the woods of a very valuable order. The house was built by Inigo Jones, and the ceilings are painted in the Italian style. The estate is said to be worth twelve thousand a year, and there are two livings, one a rectory, in the gift of the Grandcourts. There may be some burdens on the land. Still, Mr. Grandcourt was an only child.


It would be most remarkable, if he were to become Lord Stannery in addition to everything else. Only think: there is the Grandcourt estate, the Mallinger estate, and the baronetcy, and the peerage, but they say there will be no land coming to him with the peerage.


The peerage, must be regarded as a remote chance. There are two cousins between the present peer and Mr. Grandcourt. It is certainly a serious reflection how death and other causes do sometimes concentrate inheritances on one man. But an excess of that kind is to be deprecated. To be Sir Mallinger Grandcourt Mallinger—I suppose that will be his style—with corresponding properties, is a valuable talent enough for any man to have committed to him. Let us hope it will be well used.


And what a position for the wife, Gwendolen! a great responsibility indeed. But you must lose no time in writing to Mrs. Mompert, Henry. It is a good thing that you have an engagement of marriage to offer as an excuse, else she might feel offended. She is rather a high woman.


I am rid of that horror,


Mamma!


Yes, dear,


Let me come to you.


I am sorry to wake you, darling, but I thought it better to give you this at once. The groom has brought Criterion; he has come on another horse, and says he is to stay here.


Pray wear this ring when I come at twelve in sign of our betrothal. I enclose a check drawn in the name of Mr. Gascoigne, for immediate expenses. Of course Mrs. Davilow will remain at Offendene, at least for some time. I hope, when I come, you will have granted me an early day, when you may begin to command me at a shorter distance.—Yours devotedly,


How very kind and delicate! But I really should like better not to be dependent on a son-in-law. I and the girls could get along very well.


Mamma, if you say that again, I will not marry him,


My dear child, I trust you are not going to marry only for my sake,


What I long for is your happiness, dear. I will not say anything to vex you. Will you not put on the ring?


I thought the lover always put on the betrothal ring himself. I know why he has sent it,


Why?


He would rather make me put it on than ask me to let him do it. Aha! he is very proud. But so am I. We shall match each other. I should hate a man who went down on his knees, and came fawning on me. He really is not disgusting.


That is very moderate praise, Gwen.


No, it is not, for a man. But now I must get up and dress. Will you come and do my hair, mamma, dear, and not be so naughty any more as to talk of living in poverty? You must bear to be made comfortable, even if you don’t like it. And Mr. Grandcourt behaves perfectly, now, does he not?


Certainly he does,


Of what use would it be to her that I should not marry him? He could have married her if he liked; but he did not like. Perhaps she is to blame for that. There must be a great deal about her that I know nothing of. And he must have been good to her in many ways, else she would not have wanted to marry him. Perhaps we shall have no children. I hope we shall not. And he might leave the estate to the pretty little boy. My uncle said that Mr. Grandcourt could do as he liked with the estates. Only when Sir Hugo Mallinger dies there will be enough for two.


Go back and make yourself look like a duchess, mamma. Put your point-lace over your head. I must have you look like a duchess. You must not take things humbly. It was very good of you to think of everything and send me that packet.


You will tell me if there is anything I forget? I will do anything you wish.


But I am very unreasonable in my wishes,


Yes, I expect that. Women always are.


Then I will not be unreasonable. I will not be told that I am what women always are.


I did not say that. You are what no other woman is.


And what is that, pray?


You are the woman I love.


Oh, what nice speeches!


Give me a nice speech in return. Say when we are to be married.


Not yet. Not till we have had a gallop over the downs. I am so thirsty for that, I can think of nothing else. I wish the hunting had begun. Sunday the twentieth, twenty-seventh, Monday, Tuesday. It will begin in ten days!


Let us be married in ten days, then, and we shall not be bored about the stables.


What do women always say in answer to that?


They agree to it,


Then I will not!


And when is the marriage to take place?


On the tenth.


I suppose you intend to remain here.


We shall go to Ryelands for a little while; but we shall return here for the sake of the hunting. You had better make some new arrangement for yourself.


What! I am to cut and run?


Something of that kind.


The bride objects to me. I hope she will make up to you for the want of my services.


I can’t help your being so damnably disagreeable to women,


To one woman, if you please.


It makes no difference since she is the one in question.


I suppose I am not to be turned adrift after fifteen years without some provision.


You must have saved something out of me.


Deuced little. I have often saved something for you.


You can have three hundred a year. But you must live in town and be ready to look after things when I want you. I shall be rather hard up.


If you are not going to be at Ryelands this winter, I might run down there and let you know how Swinton goes on.


If you like. I don’t care a toss where you are, so that you keep out of sight.


Much obliged,


Perhaps you will not object to packing up as soon as possible. The Torringtons are coming, and Miss Harleth will be riding over here.


With all my heart. Can’t I be of use in going to Gadsmere?


No. I am going myself.


About your being rather hard up. Have you thought of that plan—


Just leave me alone, will you?


MY DEAR SIR HUGO—Since we came home the marriage has been absolutely decided on, and is to take place in less than three weeks. It is so far the worse for him that her mother has lately lost all her fortune, and he will have to find supplies. Grandcourt, I know, is feeling the want of cash; and unless some other plan is resorted to, he will be raising money in a foolish way. I am going to leave Diplow immediately, and I shall not be able to start the topic. What I should advise is, that Mr. Deronda, who I know has your confidence, should propose to come and pay a short visit here, according to invitation (there are going to be other people in the house), and that you should put him fully in possession of your wishes and the possible extent of your offer. Then, that he should introduce the subject to Grandcourt so as not to imply that you suspect any particular want of money on his part, but only that there is a strong wish on yours. What I have formerly said to him has been in the way of a conjecture that you might be willing to give a good sum for his chance of Diplow; but if Mr. Deronda came armed with a definite offer, that would take another sort of hold. Ten to one he will not close for some time to come; but the proposal will have got a stronger lodgment in his mind; and though at present he has a great notion of the hunting here, I see a likelihood, under the circumstances, that he will get a distaste for the neighborhood, and there will be the notion of the money sticking by him without being urged. I would bet on your ultimate success. As I am not to be exiled to Siberia, but am to be within call, it is possible that, by and by, I may be of more service to you. But at present I can think of no medium so good as Mr. Deronda. Nothing puts Grandcourt in worse humor than having the lawyers thrust their paper under his nose uninvited. Trusting that your visit to Leubronn has put you in excellent condition for the winter, I remain, my dear Sir Hugo, yours very faithfully,


You see this fine young fellow—not such as you see every day, is he?—he belongs to me in a sort of way. I brought him up from a child; but you would not ticket him off easily, he has notions of his own, and he’s as far as the poles asunder from what I was at his age. What do you say, Dan? It would be pleasant enough for you. You have not seen the place for a good many years now, and you might have a famous run with the harriers if you went down next week,


I should not go on that account,


I think Lush’s notion is a good one. And it would be a pity to lose the occasion.


That is a different matter—if you think my going of importance to your object,


Why, you will see the fair gambler, the Leubronn Diana, I shouldn’t wonder. We shall have to invite her to the Abbey, when they are married,


I cannot conceive whom you mean,


I mean that Grandcourt is going to marry the girl you saw at Leubronn—don’t you remember her—the Miss Harleth who used to play at roulette.


Dear me! Is that a good match for him?


That depends on the sort of goodness he wants. However, she and her friends have nothing, and she will bring him expenses. It’s a good match for my purposes, because if I am willing to fork out a sum of money, he may be willing to give up his chance of Diplow, so that we shall have it out and out, and when I die you will have the consolation of going to the place you would like to go to—wherever I may go.


I wish you would not talk of dying in that light way, dear.


It’s rather a heavy way, Lou, for I shall have to pay a heavy sum—forty thousand, at least.


But why are we to invite them to the Abbey? I do not like women who gamble, like Lady Cragstone.


Oh, you will not mind her for a week. Besides, she is not like Lady Cragstone because she gambled a little, any more than I am like a broker because I’m a Whig. I want to keep Grandcourt in good humor, and to let him see plenty of this place, that he may think the less of Diplow. I don’t know yet whether I shall get him to meet me in this matter. And if Dan were to go over on a visit there, he might hold out the bait to him. It would be doing me a great service.


Daniel is not fond of Mr. Grandcourt, I think, is he?


There is no avoiding everybody one doesn’t happen to be fond of. I will go to Diplow—I don’t know that I have anything better to do—since Sir Hugo wishes it.


That’s a trump! And if you don’t find it very pleasant, it’s so much experience. Nothing used to come amiss to me when I was young. You must see men and manners.


Yes; but I have seen that man, and something of his manners too,


Not nice manners, I think,


Well, you see they succeed with your sex. And he was an uncommonly good-looking fellow when he was two or three and twenty—like his father. He doesn’t take after his father in marrying the heiress, though. If he had got Miss Arrowpoint and my land too, confound him, he would have had a fine principality.


Now my cousins are at Diplow, will you go there?—to-morrow? The carriage shall come for Mrs. Davilow. You can tell me what you would like done in the rooms. Things must be put in decent order while we are away at Ryelands. And to-morrow is the only day.


I beg your pardon—did I annoy you?


Oh, it was nothing, only I cannot bear—to be kissed under my ear.


Why is to-morrow the only day?


Because the next day is the first with the hounds,


And after that?


After that I must go away for a couple of days—it’s a bore—but I shall go one day and come back the next. You object to my going away?


It’s no use objecting,


Yes it is. I will put off going. And I will travel at night, so as only to be away one day.


Then don’t put off going, but travel at night,


Then you will go to Diplow to-morrow?


Oh, yes, if you wish it,


How you treat us poor devils of men! We are always getting the worst of it.


Are you? Are you always getting the worst?


Yes. Are you as kind to me as I am to you?


If I were as kind to you as you are to me, that would spoil your generosity: it would no longer be as great as it could be—and it is that now.


Then I am not to ask for one kiss,


Not one? Apropos, is there any one besides Captain and Mrs. Torrington at Diplow?—or do you leave them tête-à-tête? I suppose he converses in cigars, and she answers with her chignon.


She has a sister with her, and there are two men besides—one of them you know, I believe.


Ah, then, I have a poor opinion of him,


You saw him at Leubronn—young Deronda—a young fellow with the Mallingers.


I never spoke to him. Is he not disagreeable?


No, not particularly. He thinks a little too much of himself. I thought he had been introduced to you.


No. Some one told me his name the evening before I came away. That was all. What is he?


A sort of ward of Sir Hugo Mallinger’s. Nothing of any consequence.


Oh, poor creature! How very unpleasant for him! I wonder if it has left off raining!


Deronda, Miss Harleth tells me you were not introduced to her at Leubronn?


Miss Harleth hardly remembers me, I imagine. She was intensely occupied when I saw her.


On the contrary. I remember you very well. You did not approve of my playing at roulette.


How did you come to that conclusion?


Oh, you cast an evil eye on my play. I began to lose as soon as you came to look on. I had always been winning till then.


Roulette in such a kennel as Leubronn is a horrid bore,


I found it a bore when I began to lose,


I wonder what he thinks of me, really? He must have felt interested in me, else he would not have sent me my necklace. I wonder what he thinks of my marriage? What notions has he to make him so grave about things? Why is he come to Diplow?


Shall you hunt to-morrow, Mr. Deronda?


Yes, I believe so.


You don’t object to hunting, then?


I find excuses for it. It is a sin I am inclined to—when I can’t get boating or cricketing.


Do you object to my hunting?


I have no right to object to anything you choose to do.


You thought you had a right to object to my gambling,


I was sorry for it. I am not aware that I told you of my objection,


You hindered me from gambling again,


Was it really so, or only a joke of yours, about Mr. Deronda’s spoiling your play, Gwen?


Oh, it merely happened that he was looking on when I began to lose. I noticed him.


I don’t wonder at that: he is a striking young man. He puts me in mind of Italian paintings. One would guess, without being told, that there was foreign blood in his veins.


Is there?


Mrs. Torrington says so. I asked particularly who he was, and she told me that his mother was some foreigner of high rank.


His mother? Then who was his father?


Well—every one says he is the son of Sir Hugo Mallinger, who brought him up; though he passes for a ward. She says, if Sir Hugo Mallinger could have done as he liked with his estates, he would have left them to this Mr. Deronda, since he has no legitimate son.


Mamma, have men generally children before they are married?


No, dear, no. Why do you ask such a question?


If it were so, I ought to know,


You are thinking of what I said about Mr. Deronda and Sir Hugo Mallinger. That is a very unusual case, dear.


Does Lady Mallinger know?


She knows enough to satisfy her. That is quite clear, because Mr. Deronda has lived with them.


And people think no worse of him?


Well, of course he is under some disadvantage: it is not as if he were Lady Mallinger’s son. He does not inherit the property, and he is not of any consequence in the world. But people are not obliged to know anything about his birth; you see, he is very well received.


I wonder whether he knows about it; and whether he is angry with his father?


My dear child, why should you think of that?


Why? Haven’t children reason to be angry with their parents? How can they help their parents marrying or not marrying?


How can I help what other people have done? Things would not come right if I were to turn round now and declare that I would not marry Mr. Grandcourt.


Go on! I want to speak to Mr. Deronda. Mr. Deronda, you must enlighten my ignorance. I want to know why you thought it wrong for me to gamble. Is it because I am a woman?


Not altogether; but I regretted it the more because you were a woman. I think it would be better for men not to gamble. It is a besotting kind of taste, likely to turn into a disease. And, besides, there is something revolting to me in raking a heap of money together, and internally chuckling over it, when others are feeling the loss of it. I should even call it base, if it were more than an exceptional lapse. There are enough inevitable turns of fortune which force us to see that our gain is another’s loss:—that is one of the ugly aspects of life. One would like to reduce it as much as one could, not get amusement out of exaggerating it.


But you do admit that we can’t help things. I mean that things are so in spite of us; we can’t always help it that our gain is another’s loss.


Clearly. Because of that, we should help it where we can.


But why should you regret it more because I am a woman?


Perhaps because we need that you should be better than we are.


But suppose we need that men should be better than we are,


That is rather a difficulty. I suppose I should have said, we each of us think it would be better for the other to be good.


You see, I needed you to be better than I was—and you thought so. Don’t you want to know what I had to say to Mr. Deronda?


A—no,


Now that is the first impolite word you have spoken—that you don’t wish to hear what I had to say,


I wish to hear what you say to me—not to other men,


Then you wish to hear this. I wanted to make him tell me why he objected to my gambling, and he gave me a little sermon.


Yes—but excuse me the sermon.


If you ever marry another woman I will give them up to her: are you going to marry another woman?


How changed!


Hush, dear! I think some one is coming.


Mamma, is it the miller with my donkey?


How far are you come?


From Diplow,


You are tired, then.


No, I rested at the Junction—a hideous hole. These railway journeys are always a confounded bore. But I had coffee and smoked.


I expected to see you—it was so long since I had heard from you. I suppose the weeks seem longer at Gadsmere than they do at Diplow,


Yes. But you found the money paid into the bank.


Oh, yes,


Yes, the time has gone on at rather a rattling pace with me; generally it is slow enough. But there has been a good deal happening, as you know


What do I know?


That I was thinking of marrying. You saw Miss Harleth?


She told you that?


No. Lush told me,


Good God! say at once that you are going to marry her,


Of course, this kind of thing must happen some time or other, Lydia,


You didn’t always see the necessity.


Perhaps not. I see it now.


All this is of no consequence to you. I and the children are importunate creatures. You wish to get away again and be with Miss Harleth.


Don’t make the affair more disagreeable than it need be. Lydia. It is of no use to harp on things that can’t be altered. Of course, its deucedly disagreeable to me to see you making yourself miserable. I’ve taken this journey to tell you what you must make up your mind to—you and the children will be provided for as usual—and there’s an end of it. It will be better for you. You may go on living here. But I think of by-and-by settling a good sum on you and the children, and you can live where you like. There will be nothing for you to complain of then. Whatever happens, you will feel secure. Nothing could be done beforehand. Every thing has gone on in a hurry. You have never had any reason to fear that I should be illiberal. I don’t care a curse about the money.


If you did care about it, I suppose you would not give it us,


That’s a devilishly unfair thing to say, and I advise you not to say that sort of thing again.


Should you punish me by leaving the children in beggary?


There is no question about leaving the children in beggary. I advise you not to say things that you will repent of.


I am used to repenting. Perhaps you will repent. You have already repented of loving me.


All this will only make it uncommonly difficult for us to meet again. What friend have you besides me?


Quite true.


There is one thing I had to mention, Lydia. My diamonds—you have them.


Yes, I have them,


They are in this house, I suppose?


No; not in this house.


I thought you said you kept them by you.


When I said so it was true. They are in the bank at Dudley.


Get them away, will you? I must make an arrangement for your delivering them to some one.


Make no arrangement. They shall be delivered to the person you intended them for. I will make the arrangement.


What do you mean?


What I say. I have always told you that I would give them up to your wife. I shall keep my word. She is not your wife yet.


This is foolery. The diamonds must be delivered to me before my marriage,


What is your wedding-day?


The tenth. There is no time to be lost.


And where do you go after the marriage?


You must appoint a day before then, to get them from the bank and meet me—or somebody else I will commission;—it’s a great nuisance. Mention a day.


No; I shall not do that. They shall be delivered to her safely. I shall keep my word.


Do you mean to say, that you will not do as I tell you?


Yes, I mean that,


Infernal idiots that women are!


Why will you not tell me where you are going after the marriage? I could be at the wedding if I liked, and learn in that way,


Of course, if you like, you can play the mad woman. It is not to be supposed that you will wait to think what good will come of it—or what you owe to me.


Don’t let us part in anger, Henleigh, it is a very little thing I ask. If I were refusing to give anything up that you call yours it would be different: that would be a reason for treating me as if you hated me. But I ask such a little thing. If you will tell me where you are going on the wedding-day I will take care that the diamonds shall be delivered to her without scandal. Without scandal,


Such preposterous whims make a woman odious. What is the use of talking to mad people?


Yes, I am foolish—loneliness has made me foolish—indulge me. If you will indulge me in this one folly I will be very meek—I will never trouble you. I will be very meek after that.


Be quiet, and hear what I tell you, I will never forgive you if you present yourself again and make a scene.


I will not—if you will let me have my way—I promise you not to thrust myself forward again. I have never broken my word to you—how many have you broken to me? When you gave me the diamonds to wear you were not thinking of having another wife. And I now give them up—I don’t reproach you—I only ask you to let me give them up in my own way. Have I not borne it well? Everything is to be taken away from me, and when I ask for a straw, a chip—you deny it me. I will not bear to have it denied me.


We are going to Ryelands then.


They shall be delivered to her there,


Very well, I am going.


Forgive me; I will never vex you again,


You had better keep that promise. You have made me feel uncommonly ill with your folly,


Poor thing! Light a cigar,


Oh, child, men’s men: gentle or simple, they’re much of a muchness. I’ve heard my mother say Squire Pelton used to take his dogs and a long whip into his wife’s room, and flog ’em there to frighten her; and my mother was lady’s-maid there at the very time.


That’s unlucky talk for a wedding, Mrs. Girdle. A quarrel may end wi’ the whip, but it begins wi’ the tongue, and it’s the women have got the most o’ that.


The Lord gave it ’em to use, I suppose. He never meant you to have it all your own way.


By what I can make out from the gentleman as attends to the grooming at Offendene, this Mr. Grandcourt has wonderful little tongue. Everything must be done dummy-like without his ordering.


Then he’s the more whip, I doubt. She’s got tongue enough, I warrant her. See, there they come out together!


What wonderful long corners she’s got to her eyes! She makes you feel comical when she looks at you.


Thank God you bear it so well, my darling!


Why, you might have said that, if I had been going to Mrs. Mompert’s, you dear, sad, incorrigible mamma! Here am I—Mrs. Grandcourt! what else would you have me, but what I am sure to be? You know you were ready to die with vexation when you thought that I would not be Mrs. Grandcourt.


Hush, hush, my child, for heaven’s sake! How can I help feeling it when I am parting from you. But I can bear anything gladly if you are happy.


Not gladly, mamma, no! Willingly you would bear it, but always sorrowfully. Sorrowing is your sauce; you can take nothing without it. And you shall sorrow over my having everything at my beck—and enjoying everything glorious—splendid houses—and horses—and diamonds, I shall have diamonds—and going to court—and being Lady Certainly—and Lady Perhaps—and grand here—and tantivy there—and always loving you better than anybody else in the world.


My sweet child!—But I shall not be jealous if you love your husband better; and he will expect to be first.


Rather a ridiculous expectation. However, I don’t mean to treat him ill, unless he deserves it. I wish you were going with me, mamma.


Good-bye; God bless you; we shall see you again before long. Let us be thankful, Fanny. She is in a position well suited to her, and beyond what I should have dared to hope for. And few women can have been chosen more entirely for their own sake. You should feel yourself a happy mother.


Here we are at home!


These are our dens. You will like to be quiet here till dinner. We shall dine early.


Will you tell Hudson when she has put out my dress to leave everything? I shall not want her again, unless I ring.


Here is a packet, madam, which I was ordered to give into nobody’s hands but yours, when you were alone. The person who brought it said it was a present particularly ordered by Mr. Grandcourt; but he was not to know of its arrival till he saw you wear it. Excuse me, madam; I felt it right to obey orders.


entered, dressed for dinner.


And what did you think of the future bride on a nearer survey?


I thought better of her than I did in Leubronn. Roulette was not a good setting for her; it brought out something of the demon. At Diplow she seemed much more womanly and attractive—less hard and self-possessed. I thought her mouth and eyes had quite a different expression.


Don’t flirt with her too much, Dan. If you make Grandcourt savage when they come to the Abbey at Christmas, it will interfere with my affairs.


I can stay in town, sir.


No, no. Lady Mallinger and the children can’t do without you at Christmas. Only don’t make mischief—unless you can get up a duel, and manage to shoot Grandcourt, which might be worth a little inconvenience.


I don’t think you ever saw me flirt,


Oh, haven’t I, though? You are always looking tenderly at the women, and talking to them in a Jesuitical way. You are a dangerous young fellow—a kind of Lovelace who will make the Clarissas run after you instead of you running after them.


We are getting fonder of her every day. At breakfast-time we all look toward the door with expectation to see her come in; and we watch her and listen to her as if she were a native from a new country. I have not heard a word from her lips that gives me a doubt about her. She is quite contented and full of gratitude. My daughters are learning from her, and they hope to get her other pupils; for she is anxious not to eat the bread of idleness, but to work, like my girls. Mab says our life has become like a fairy tale, and all she is afraid of is that Mirah will turn into a nightingale again and fly away from us. Her voice is just perfect: not loud and strong, but searching and melting, like the thoughts of what has been. That is the way old people like me feel a beautiful voice.


Excuse me, Mirah, but does it seem quite right to you that the women should sit behind rails in a gallery apart?


Yes, I never thought of anything else,


And you like better to see the men with their hats on?


Oh, yes. I like what I have always seen there, because it brings back to me the same feelings—the feelings I would not part with for anything else in the world.


She says herself she is a very bad Jewess, and does not half know her people’s religion. Perhaps it would gradually melt away from her, and she would pass into Christianity like the rest of the world, if she got to love us very much, and never found her mother. It is so strange to be of the Jews’ religion now.


Oh, oh, oh! I wish I were not such a hideous Christian. How can an ugly Christian, who is always dropping her work, convert a beautiful Jewess, who has not a fault?


It may be wicked of me, but I cannot help wishing that her mother may not be found. There might be something unpleasant.


I don’t think it, my dear. I believe Mirah is cut out after the pattern of her mother. And what a joy it would be to her to have such a daughter brought back again! But a mother’s feelings are not worth reckoning, I suppose and a dead mother is worth more than a living one?


Well, and so she may be, little mother, but we would rather hold you cheaper, and have you alive.


Happy the eye which saw all these things; but verily to hear only of them afflicts our soul. Happy the eye that saw our temple and the joy of our congregation; but verily to hear only of them afflicts our soul. Happy the eye that saw the fingers when tuning every kind of song; but verily to hear only of them afflicts our soul.


Excuse me, young gentleman—allow me—what is your parentage—your mother’s family—her maiden name?


I am an Englishman.


See how different I am from the miserable creature by the river! all because you found me and brought me to the very best.


It was my good chance to find you. Any other man would have been glad to do what I did.


That is not the right way to be thinking about it. I think of what really was. It was you, and not another, who found me and were good to me.


I agree with Mirah. Saint Anybody is a bad saint to pray to.


Besides, Anybody could not have brought me to you. And I would rather be with you than with any one else in the world except my mother. I wonder if ever a poor little bird, that was lost and could not fly, was taken and put into a warm nest where was a mother and sisters who took to it so that everything came naturally, as if it had been always there. I hardly thought before that the world could ever be as happy and without fear as it is to me now. sometimes I am a little afraid.


What is it you are afraid of?


That when I am turning at the corner of a street I may meet my father. It seems dreadful that I should be afraid of meeting him. That is my only sorrow,


It is surely not very probable. Would it be a great grief to you now if you were never to meet your mother?


I want her to know that I have always loved her, and if she is alive I want to comfort her. She may be dead. If she were I should long to know where she was buried; and to know whether my brother lives, to say Kaddish in memory of her. But I will try not to grieve. I have thought much for so many years of her being dead. And I shall have her with me in my mind, as I have always had. We can never be really parted. I think I have never sinned against her. I have always tried not to do what would hurt her. Only, she might be sorry that I was not a good Jewess.


In what way are you not a good Jewess?


I am ignorant, and we never observed the laws, but lived among Christians just as they did. But I have heard my father laugh at the strictness of the Jews about their food and all customs, and their not liking Christians. I think my mother was strict; but she could never want me not to like those who are better to me than any of my own people I have ever known. I think I could obey in other things that she wished but not in that. It is so much easier to me to share in love than in hatred. I remember a play I read in German—since I have been here it has come into my mind—where the heroine says something like that.


Antigone,


Ah, you know it. But I do not believe that my mother would wish me not to love my best friends. She would be grateful to them. Oh, if we ever do meet and know each other as we are now, so that I could tell what would comfort her—I should be so full of blessedness my soul would know no want but to love her!


God bless you, child! It is curious that Mirah, who remembers her mother so well it is as if she saw her, cannot recall her brother the least bit—except the feeling of having been carried by him when she was tired, and of his being near her when she was in her mother’s lap. It must be that he was rarely at home. He was already grown up. It is a pity her brother should be quite a stranger to her.


He is good; I feel sure Ezra is good. He loved my mother—he would take care of her. I remember more of him than that. I remember my mother’s voice once calling, ‘Ezra!’ and then his answering from a distance ‘Mother!’ and then he came close to us. I feel sure he is good. I have always taken comfort from that. Is it not wonderful how I remember the voices better than anything else? I think they must go deeper into us than other things. I have often fancied heaven might be made of voices.


Like your singing—yes. Ma, do ask Mirah to sing. Mr. Deronda has not heard her.


Would it be disagreeable to you to sing now?


Oh, I shall like it. My voice has come back a little with rest.


I think I never enjoyed a song more than that,