You like my singing? I am so glad. It has been a great pain to me, because it failed in what it was wanted for. But now we think I can use it to get my bread. I have really been taught well. And now I have two pupils, that Miss Meyrick found for me. They pay me nearly two crowns for their two lessons.


I think I know some ladies who would find you many pupils after Christmas. You would not mind singing before any one who wished to hear you?


Oh no, I want to do something to get money. I could teach reading and speaking, Mrs. Meyrick thinks. But if no one would learn of me, that is difficult. I dare say I should find her poor—I mean my mother. I should want to get money for her. And I can not always live on charity; though it is the sweetest charity in all the world.


I should think you can get rich. Great ladies will perhaps like you to teach their daughters. We shall see. But now do sing again to us.


Oh, Mirah, if you would not mind singing the little hymn.


It is too childish. It is like lisping.


What is the hymn?


It is the Hebrew hymn she remembers her mother singing over her when she lay in her cot,


I should like very much to hear it, if you think I am worthy to hear what is so sacred.


I will sing it if you like, but I don’t sing real words—only here and there a syllable like hers—the rest is lisping. Do you know Hebrew? because if you do, my singing will seem childish nonsense.


It will be quite good Hebrew to me.


If I were ever to know the real words, I should still go on in my old way with them,


Why not? The lisped syllables are very full of meaning.


Yes, indeed. A mother hears something of a lisp in her children’s talk to the very last. Their words are not just what everybody else says, though they may be spelled the same. If I were to live till my Hans got old, I should still see the boy in him. A mother’s love, I often say, is like a tree that has got all the wood in it, from the very first it made.


Is not that the way with friendship, too? We must not let the mothers be too arrogant.


It is easier to find an old mother than an old friend. Friendships begin with liking or gratitude—roots that can be pulled up. Mother’s love begins deeper down.


Like what you were saying about the influence of voices. I don’t think your hymn would have had more expression for me if I had known the words. I went to the synagogue at Frankfort before I came home, and the service impressed me just as much as if I had followed the words—perhaps more.


Oh, was it great to you? Did it go to your heart? I thought none but our people would feel that. I thought it was all shut away like a river in a deep valley, where only heaven saw—I mean—


I understand. But there is not really such a separation—deeper down, as Mrs. Meyrick says. Our religion is chiefly a Hebrew religion; and since Jews are men, their religious feelings must have much in common with those of other men—just as their poetry, though in one sense peculiar, has a great deal in common with the poetry of other nations. Still it is to be expected that a Jew would feel the forms of his people’s religion more than one of another race—and yet that is perhaps not always so.


Ah no. I have seen that. I have seen them mock. Is it not like mocking your parents?—like rejoicing in your parents’ shame?


Some minds naturally rebel against whatever they were brought up in, and like the opposite; they see the faults in what is nearest to them,


But you are not like that,


No, I think not, but you know I was not brought up as a Jew.


Ah, I am always forgetting,


Whichever way we take it, we have to tolerate each other; for if we all went in opposition to our teaching, we must end in difference, just the same.


To be sure. We should go on forever in zig-zags. I think it is very weak-minded to make your creed up by the rule of the contrary. Still one may honor one’s parents, without following their notions exactly, any more than the exact cut of their clothing. My father was a Scotch Calvinist and my mother was a French Calvinist; I am neither quite Scotch, nor quite French, nor two Calvinists rolled into one, yet I honor my parents’ memory.


But I could not make myself not a Jewess, even if I changed my belief.


No, my dear. But if Jews and Jewesses went on changing their religion, and making no difference between themselves and Christians, there would come a time when there would be no Jews to be seen,


Oh, please not to say that. It is the first unkind thing you ever said. I will not begin that. I will never separate myself from my mother’s people. I was forced to fly from my father; but if he came back in age and weakness and want, and needed me, should I say, ‘This is not my father’? If he had shame, I must share it. It was he who was given to me for my father, and not another. And so it is with my people. I will always be a Jewess. I will love Christians when they are good, like you. But I will always cling to my people. I will always worship with them.


Mirah, Mirah, my dear child, you mistake me! God forbid I should want you to do anything against your conscience. I was only saying what might be if the world went on. But I had better have left the world alone, and not wanted to be over-wise. Forgive me, come! we will not try to take you from anybody you feel has more right to you.


I would do anything else for you. I owe you my life,


Hush, hush, now. I have been punished enough for wagging my tongue foolishly—making an almanac for the Millennium, as my husband used to say.


But everything in the world must come to an end some time. We must bear to think of that,


That prospect of everything coming to an end will not guide us far in practice. Mirah’s feelings, she tells us, are concerned with what is.


I only meant that we must have courage to hear things, else there is hardly anything we can talk about.


Hans is to share my chambers when he comes at Christmas.


You have written to Rome about that? How very good and thoughtful of you! You mentioned Mirah, then?


Yes, I referred to her. I concluded he knew everything from you.


I must confess my folly. I have not yet written a word about her. I have always been meaning to do it, and yet have ended my letter without saying a word. And I told the girls to leave it to me. However!—Thank you a thousand times.


I have my hands on the reins now, and I will not drop them. I shall go there as little as possible.


I would as soon hold out my finger to be bitten off as set about spoiling her peace. It was one of the rarest bits of fortune that I should have had friends like the Meyricks to place her with—generous, delicate friends without any loftiness in their ways, so that her dependence on them is not only safety but happiness. There could be no refuge to replace that, if it were broken up. But what is the use of my taking the vows and settling everything as it should be, if that marplot Hans comes and upsets it all?


At least, I will look about. I may find some special Jewish machinery. I will wait till after Christmas.


No man may turn the bones of his father and mother into spoons


Good day, sir.


Confound it, Dan! why don’t you make an opportunity of saying these things in public? You’re wrong, you know. You won’t succeed. You’ve got the massive sentiment—the heavy artillery of the country against you. But it’s all the better ground for a young man to display himself on. When I was your age, I should have taken it. And it would be quite as well for you to be in opposition to me here and there. It would throw you more into relief. If you would seize an occasion of this sort to make an impression, you might be in Parliament in no time. And you know that would gratify me.


I am sorry not to do what would gratify you, sir. But I cannot persuade myself to look at politics as a profession.


Why not? if a man is not born into public life by his position in the country, there’s no way for him but to embrace it by his own efforts. The business of the country must be done—her Majesty’s Government carried on, as the old Duke said. And it never could be, my boy, if everybody looked at politics as if they were prophecy, and demanded an inspired vocation. If you are to get into Parliament, it won’t do to sit still and wait for a call either from heaven or constituents.


I don’t want to make a living out of opinions, especially out of borrowed opinions. Not that I mean to blame other men. I dare say many better fellows than I don’t mind getting on to a platform to praise themselves, and giving their word of honor for a party.


I’ll tell you what, Dan, a man who sets his face against every sort of humbug is simply a three-cornered, impracticable fellow. There’s a bad style of humbug, but there is also a good style—one that oils the wheels and makes progress possible. If you are to rule men, you must rule them through their own ideas; and I agree with the Archbishop at Naples who had a St. Januarius procession against the plague. It’s no use having an Order in Council against popular shallowness. There is no action possible without a little acting.


One may be obliged to give way to an occasional necessity. But it is one thing to say, ‘In this particular case I am forced to put on this foolscap and grin,’ and another to buy a pocket foolscap and practice myself in grinning. I can’t see any real public expediency that does not keep an ideal before it which makes a limit of deviation from the direct path. But if I were to set up for a public man I might mistake my success for public expediency.


What is the price of this book?


There is no mark, and Mr. Ram is not in now. I am keeping the shop while he is gone to dinner. What are you disposed to give for it?


Don’t you know how much it is worth?


Not its market-price. May I ask have you read it?


No. I have read an account of it, which makes me want to buy it.


You are a man of learning—you are interested in Jewish history?


I am certainly interested in Jewish history,


You are perhaps of our race?


No.


I believe Mr. Ram will be satisfied with half-a-crown, sir.


Mother! Mother! Coming, sir—coming directly.


How can I serve you, sir?


I should like to look at the silver clasps in the window, the larger ones, please, in the corner there.


I’ll reach ’em, mother; I’ll reach ’em. Mother’s too proud: she wants to do everything herself. That’s why I called her to wait on you, sir. When there’s a particular gentleman customer, sir, I daren’t do any other than call her. But I can’t let her do herself mischief with stretching.


They are only three guineas, sir,


First-rate workmanship, sir—worth twice the money; only I get ’em a bargain from Cologne,


Addy!


What is your name, sirrah?


Jacob Alexander Cohen,


You are not named after your father, then?


No, after my grandfather; he sells knives and razors and scissors—my grandfather does. He gave me this knife.


Is not that a dangerous plaything?


He’ll never hurt himself, bless you!


Have you got a knife?


Yes. Do you want to see it?


Mine’s the best,


You won’t find Jacob choosing the worst,


Are these the only grandchildren you have?


All. This is my only son,


And you have no daughter?


I think you’re a first-rate gentleman in the city, sir, if I may be allowed to guess.


No. I have nothing to do with the city.


That’s a bad job. I thought you might be the young principal of a first-rate firm. But you understand silver-work, I see.


A little. To tell you the truth, my errand is not so much to buy as to borrow. I dare say you go into rather heavy transactions occasionally.


Well, sir, I’ve accommodated gentlemen of distinction—I’m proud to say it. I wouldn’t exchange my business with any in the world. There’s none more honorable, nor more charitable, nor more necessary for all classes, from the good lady who wants a little of the ready for the baker, to a gentleman like yourself, sir, who may want it for amusement. I like my business, I like my street, and I like my shop. I wouldn’t have it a door further down. And I wouldn’t be without a pawn-shop, sir, to be the Lord Mayor. It puts you in connection with the world at large. I say it’s like the government revenue—it embraces the brass as well as the gold of the country. And a man who doesn’t get money, sir, can’t accommodate. Now, what can I do for you, sir?


I have a fine diamond ring to offer as security—not with me at this moment, unfortunately, for I am not in the habit of wearing it. But I will come again this evening and bring it with me. Fifty pounds at once would be a convenience to me.


Well, you know, this evening is the Sabbath, young gentleman, and I go to the Shool. The shop will be closed. But accommodation is a work of charity; if you can’t get here before, and are any ways pressed—why, I’ll look at your diamond. You’re perhaps from the West End—a longish drive?


Yes; and your Sabbath begins early at this season. I could be here by five—will that do?


You are coming again. Have you got any more knives at home?


I think I have one,


Has it two blades and a hook—and a white handle like that?


I dare say it has.


Do you like a cork-screw?


Yes,


Bring your knife, then, and we’ll shwop,


Shlav’m Shabbes fyock on,


And will you let me see you in it, Adelaide? And will you give me a kiss this evening?


You see there’s somebody will be disappointed if you don’t come this evening, sir. You won’t mind sitting down in our family place and waiting a bit for me, if I’m not in when you come, sir? I’ll stretch a point to accommodate a gent of your sort. Bring the diamond, and I’ll see what I can do for you.


Is that the sort of thing you want, Jacob?


Why do you like a hook better than a cork-screw? I think I must not tell you that. Our business was with the knives.


I’ll shwop,


Well, sir, you found your welcome in my family, I think. And you’ve been punctual. Nothing like a little stress here. It’s good for us all in our turn. I’ve felt it when I’ve had to make up payments. I began to fit every sort of box. It’s bracing to the mind. Now then! let us see, let us see.


That is the ring I spoke of. I believe it cost a hundred pounds. It will be a sufficient pledge to you for fifty, I think. I shall probably redeem it in a month or so.


Good, good. We’ll talk of it after our meal. Perhaps you’ll join us, if you’ve no objection. Me and my wife’ll feel honored, and so will mother; won’t you, mother? Mordecai!


I dare say you know all about it better than we do, sir,


Our baby is named Eugenie Esther,


It’s wonderful how the Emperor’s like a cousin of mine in the face, it struck me like lightning when I caught sight of him. I couldn’t have thought it.


Mother and me went to see the Emperor and Empress at the Crystal Palace. I had a fine piece of work to take care of, mother; she might have been squeezed flat—though she was pretty near as lusty then as she is now. I said if I had a hundred mothers I’d never take one of ’em to see the Emperor and Empress at the Crystal Palace again; and you may think a man can’t afford it when he’s got but one mother—not if he’d ever so big an insurance on her.


Your mother has been a widow a long while, perhaps. That has made your care for her the more needful.


Ay, ay, it’s a good many yore-zeit since I had to manage for her and myself. I went early to it. It’s that makes you a sharp knife.


What does—what makes a sharp knife, father?


Having your nose put on the grindstone.


What does that mean—putting my nose to the grindstone?


It means that you are to bear being hurt without making a noise,


I shan’t though,


I fancy that is the right quarter for learning. You have been a great student, I imagine?


I have studied. And you?—You know German by the book you were buying.


Yes, I have studied in Germany. Are you generally engaged in bookselling?


No; I only go to Mr. Ram’s shop every day to keep it while he goes to meals. Perhaps you know Hebrew?


I am sorry to say, not at all.


I’ve had something else to do than to get book-learning. I’ve had to make myself knowing about useful things. I know stones well. I’m not afraid of taking that ring of yours at my own valuation. But now, what do you want for it?


Fifty or sixty pounds,


Couldn’t do you that. Happy to oblige, but couldn’t go that lengths. Forty pound—say forty—I’ll let you have forty on it.


Very well, I shall redeem it in a month or so.


Good. I’ll make you out the ticket by-and-by,


That seems to be rather a remarkable man. Does he belong to your family?


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


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


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


No, really. I know little more of him than that he is Sir Hugo’s nephew.


By George, I think she’s handsomer, if anything!


Deronda, you will like to hear what Mrs. Grandcourt tells me about your favorite Klesmer.


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


It’s a sort of troubadour story. I’m glad to find a little romance left among us. I think our young people now are getting too worldly wise.


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


As to mésalliance, there’s no blood on any side. Old Admiral Arrowpoint was one of Nelson’s men, you know—a doctor’s son. And we all know how the mother’s money came.


If they were any mésalliance in the case, I should say it was on Klesmer’s side,


Ah, you think it is a case of the immortal marrying the mortal. What is your opinion?


I have no doubt that Herr Klesmer thinks himself immortal. But I dare say his wife will burn as much incense before him as he requires,


Don’t you approve of a wife burning incense before her husband?


Oh, yes, if it were only to make others believe in him. When Herr Klesmer admires his own genius, it will take off some of the absurdity if his wife says Amen.


Klesmer is no favorite of yours, I see,


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


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


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


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


You don’t know how much I am afraid of Mr. Deronda.


How’s that? Because you think him too learned?


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


Gad! I’m rather afraid of him myself when he doesn’t approve. I don’t think ladies generally object to have his eyes upon them.


I object to any eyes that are critical. Are there many of these old rooms left in the Abbey?


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


I shall like to see the horses as well as the building,


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


Not particularly,


Ah! it will not do after Ryelands. Grandcourt, I know, took it for the sake of the hunting. But he found something so much better there, that he might well prefer it to any other place in the world.


It has one attraction for me, that it is within reach of Offendene.


I understand that,


Will you not join in the music?


I join in it by listening. I am fond of music.


Are you not a musician?


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


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


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


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


Ah, I see! The fault I find in the world is my own fault. Do you never find fault with the world or with others?


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


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


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


But if they injure you and could have helped it?


Why, then, after all, I prefer my place to theirs.


There I believe you are right,


What is the use of it all? I can’t do anything to help her—nobody can, if she has found out her mistake already. And it seems to me that she has a dreary lack of the ideas that might help her. Strange and piteous to think what a center of wretchedness a delicate piece of human flesh like that might be, wrapped round with fine raiment, her ears pierced for gems, her head held loftily, her mouth all smiling pretense, the poor soul within her sitting in sick distaste of all things! But what do I know of her? There may be a demon in her to match the worst husband, for what I can tell. She was clearly an ill-educated, worldly girl: perhaps she is a coquette.


The thaw has gone on like magic, and it’s so pleasant out of doors just now—shall we go and see the stables and the other odd bits about the place?


Yes, pray. You will like to see the stables, Henleigh?


Uncommonly,


Who else is inclined to make the tour of the house and premises? The ladies must muffle themselves; there is only just about time to do it well before sunset. You will go, Dan, won’t you?


Oh, yes,


All meet in the library, then, when they are ready—say in half an hour,


Oh, you are there already. I must go and put on my coat.


A—you look rather ill. Do you feel equal to the walk?


Yes, I shall like it,


We could put off going over the house, you know, and only go out of doors,


Oh, dear no! let us put off nothing. I want a long walk.


Well, now, to my mind, that is more interesting standing as it is in the middle of what is frankly four centuries later, than if the whole front had been dressed up in a pretense of the thirteenth century. Additions ought to smack of the time when they are made and carry the stamp of their period. I wouldn’t destroy any old bits, but that notion of reproducing the old is a mistake, I think. At least, if a man likes to do it he must pay for his whistle. Besides, where are you to stop along that road—making loopholes where you don’t want to peep, and so on? You may as well ask me to wear out the stones with kneeling; eh, Grandcourt?


A confounded nuisance. I hate fellows wanting to howl litanies—acting the greatest bores that have ever existed.


Well, yes, that’s what their romanticism must come to, that is if they carry it out logically.


I think that way of arguing against a course because it may be ridden down to an absurdity would soon bring life to a standstill. It is not the logic of human action, but of a roasting-jack, that must go on to the last turn when it has been once wound up. We can do nothing safely without some judgment as to where we are to stop.


I find the rule of the pocket the best guide. And as for most of your new-old building, you had need to hire men to scratch and chip it all over artistically to give it an elderly-looking surface; which at the present rate of labor would not answer.


Do you want to keep up the old fashions, then, Mr. Deronda?


Some of them. I don’t see why we should not use our choice there as we do elsewhere—or why either age or novelty by itself is an argument for or against. To delight in doing things because our fathers did them is good if it shuts out nothing better; it enlarges the range of affection—and affection is the broadest basis of good in life.


Do you think so? I should have thought you cared most about ideas, knowledge, wisdom, and all that.


But to care about them is a sort of affection. Call it attachment; interest, willing to bear a great deal for the sake of being with them and saving them from injury. Of course, it makes a difference if the objects of interest are human beings; but generally in all deep affections the objects are a mixture—half persons and half ideas—sentiments and affections flow in together.


I wonder whether I understand that. I believe I am not very affectionate; perhaps you mean to tell me, that is the reason why I don’t see much good in life.


No, I did not mean to tell you that; but I admit that I should think it true if I believed what you say of yourself,


I never can get Mr. Deronda to pay me a compliment. I have quite a curiosity to see whether a little flattery can be extracted from him.


Ah! the fact is, it is useless to flatter a bride. We give it up in despair. She has been so fed on sweet speeches that every thing we say seems tasteless.


Quite true. Mr. Grandcourt won me by neatly-turned compliments. If there had been one word out of place it would have been fatal.


Do you hear that?


Yes. It’s a deucedly hard thing to keep up, though.


Pray don’t ask us to see two kitchens at once. It makes the heat double. I must really go out of it,


I wondered how long you meant to stay in that damned place


It was certainly rather too warm in one’s wraps.


Oh, this is glorious! This is glorious! Only I wish there were a horse in every one of the boxes. I would ten times rather have these stables than those at Diplow.


Do you take off your hat to horses?


Why not?


The fact is, stables dive deeper and deeper into the pocket nowadays, and I am very glad to have got rid of that démangeaison,


What is a man to do, though? He must ride. I don’t see what else there is to do. And I don’t call it riding to sit astride a set of brutes with every deformity under the sun.


Now we are going to see the cloister—the finest bit of all—in perfect preservation; the monks might have been walking there yesterday.


You had better take my arm. It’s a great bore being dragged about in this way, and no cigar,


I thought you would like it.


Like it!—one eternal chatter. And encouraging those ugly girls—inviting one to meet such monsters. How that fat Deronda can bear looking at her——


Why do you call him a fat? Do you object to him so much?


Object? no. What do I care about his being a fat? It’s of no consequence to me. I’ll invite him to Diplow again if you like.


I don’t think he would come. He is too clever and learned to care about us,


I never saw that make much difference in a man. Either he is a gentleman, or he is not,


I wonder whether one oftener learns to love real objects through their representations, or the representations through the real objects. When I was a little fellow these capitals taught me to observe and delight in the structure of leaves.


I suppose you can see every line of them with your eyes shut,


Yes. I was always repeating them, because for a good many years this court stood for me as my only image of a convent, and whenever I read of monks and monasteries, this was my scenery for them.


You must love this place very much. So many homes are like twenty others. But this is unique, and you seem to know every cranny of it. I dare say you could never love another home so well.


Oh, I carry it with me. To most men their early home is no more than a memory of their early years, and I’m not sure but they have the best of it. The image is never marred. There’s no disappointment in memory, and one’s exaggerations are always on the good side.


Don’t ask me—it was my feeling about everything—it was the sudden change from home.


I am the grave in which your chance of happiness is buried as well as mine. You had your warning. You have chosen to injure me and my children. He had meant to marry me. He would have married me at last, if you had not broken your word. You will have your punishment. I desire it with all my soul. Will you give him this letter to set him against me and ruin us more—me and my children? Shall you like to stand before your husband with these diamonds on you, and these words of mine in his thoughts and yours? Will he think you have any right to complain when he has made you miserable? You took him with your eyes open. The willing wrong you have done me will be your curse.


Am I altogether as you like?


No,


Oh, mercy! How am I to alter myself?


Put on the diamonds,


Oh, please not. I don’t think diamonds suit me.


What you think has nothing to do with it. I wish you to wear the diamonds.


Pray excuse me; I like these emeralds,


Oblige me by telling me your reason for not wearing the diamonds when I desire it,


He delights in making the dogs and horses quail: that is half his pleasure in calling them his. It will come to be so with me; and I shall quail. What else is there for me? I will not say to the world, ‘Pity me.’


You want some one to fasten them,


What a privilege this is, to have robbed another woman of!


What makes you so cold? Pray put plenty of furs on. I hate to see a woman come into a room looking frozen. If you are to appear as a bride at all, appear decently.


Oh, yes, mamma, quite happy. Not at all disappointed in Ryelands. It is a much finer place than this—larger in every way. But don’t you want some more money?


Did you not know that Mr. Grandcourt left me a letter on your wedding-day? I am to have eight hundred a year. He wishes me to keep Offendene for the present, while you are at Diplow. But if there were some pretty cottage near the park at Ryelands we might live there without much expense, and I should have you most of the year, perhaps.


We must leave that to Mr. Grandcourt, mamma.


Oh, certainly. It is exceedingly handsome of him to say that he will pay the rent for Offendene till June. And we can go on very well—without any man-servant except Crane, just for out-of-doors. Our good Merry will stay with us and help me to manage everything. It is natural that Mr. Grandcourt should wish me to live in a good style of house in your neighborhood, and I cannot decline. So he said nothing about it to you?


No; he wished me to hear it from you, I suppose. It is very good of you to provide for mamma. You took a great deal on yourself in marrying a girl who had nothing but relations belonging to her.


Of course I was not going to let her live like a gamekeeper’s mother.


At least he is not mean about money, and mamma is the better off for my marriage.


manage differently from mamma;


I wish he could know everything about me without my telling him. I wish he knew that I am not so contemptible as he thinks me; that I am in deep trouble, and want to be something better if I could.


What a washed-out piece of cambric Grandcourt is! But if he is a favorite of yours, I withdraw the remark.


Not the least in the world,


I thought not. One wonders how he came to have a great passion again; and he must have had—to marry in this way. Though Lush, his old chum, hints that he married this girl out of obstinacy. By George! it was a very accountable obstinacy. A man might make up his mind to marry her without the stimulus of contradiction. But he must have made himself a pretty large drain of money, eh?


I know nothing of his affairs.


What! not of the other establishment he keeps up?


Diplow? Of course. He took that of Sir Hugo. But merely for the year.


No, no; not Diplow: Gadsmere. Sir Hugo knows, I’ll answer for it. Lush would not altogether own to it, of course. He’s a confident and go-between of Grandcourt’s. But I have it on the best authority. The fact is, there’s another lady with four children at Gadsmere. She has had the upper hand of him these ten years and more, and by what I can understand has it still—left her husband for him, and used to travel with him everywhere. Her husband’s dead now; I found a fellow who was in the same regiment with him, and knew this Mrs. Glasher before she took wing. A fiery dark-eyed woman—a noted beauty at that time—he thought she was dead. They say she has Grandcourt under her thumb still, and it’s a wonder he didn’t marry her, for there’s a very fine boy, and I understand Grandcourt can do absolutely as he pleases with the estates. Lush told me as much as that.


What right had he to marry this girl? She can know nothing of it,


It’s rather a piquant picture. Grandcourt between two fiery women. For depend upon it this light-haired one has plenty of devil in her. I formed that opinion of her at Leubronn. It’s a sort of Medea and Creüsa business. Fancy the two meeting! Grandcourt is a new kind of Jason: I wonder what sort of a part he’ll make of it. It’s a dog’s part at best. I think I hear Ristori now, saying, ‘Jasone! Jasone!’ These fine women generally get hold of a stick.


Grandcourt can bite, I fancy. He is no stick.


No, no; I meant Jason. I can’t quite make out Grandcourt. But he’s a keen fellow enough—uncommonly well built too. And if he comes into all this property, the estates will bear dividing. This girl, whose friends had come to beggary, I understand, may think herself lucky to get him. I don’t want to be hard on a man because he gets involved in an affair of that sort. But he might make himself more agreeable. I was telling him a capital story last night, and he got up and walked away in the middle. I felt inclined to kick him. Do you suppose that is inattention or insolence, now?


Oh, a mixture. He generally observes the forms: but he doesn’t listen much. I should think there must be some exaggeration or inaccuracy in what you have heard about this lady at Gadsmere.


Not a bit, depend upon it; it has all lain snug of late years. People have forgotten all about it. But there the nest is, and the birds are in it. And I know Grandcourt goes there. I have good evidence that he goes there. However, that’s nobody’s business but his own. The affair has sunk below the surface.


I wonder you could have learned so much about it,


Oh, there are plenty of people who knew all about it; but such stories get packed away like old letters. They interest me. I like to know the manners of my time—contemporary gossip, not antediluvian. These Dryasdust fellows get a reputation by raking up some small scandal about Semiramis or Nitocris, and then we have a thousand and one poems written upon it by all the warblers big and little. But I don’t care a straw about the faux pas of the mummies. You do, though. You are one of the historical men—more interested in a lady when she’s got a rag face and skeleton toes peeping out. Does that flatter your imagination?


Well, if she had any woes in her love, one has the satisfaction of knowing that she’s well out of them.


Ah, you are thinking of the Medea, I see.


Shall I be acceptable? Perhaps I had better go back and look for the others. I suppose they are in the billiard-room.


No, no; stay where you are. They were all getting tired of me; let us hear what you have to say.


That is rather an embarrassing appeal. I think I had better take the opportunity of mentioning our songstress, unless you have done so.


Oh, the little Jewess! No, I have not mentioned her. It never entered my head that any one here wanted singing lessons.


All ladies know some one else who wants singing lessons. I have happened to find an exquisite singer. She is living with some ladies who are friends of mine—the mother and sisters of a man who was my chum at Cambridge. She was on the stage at Vienna; but she wants to leave that life, and maintain herself by teaching.


There are swarms of those people, aren’t there? Are her lessons to be very cheap or very expensive? Those are the two baits I know of.


There is another bait for those who hear her. Her singing is something quite exceptional, I think. She has had such first-rate teaching—or rather first-rate instinct with her teaching—that you might imagine her singing all came by nature.


Why did she leave the stage, then? I’m too old to believe in first-rate people giving up first-rate chances.


Her voice was too weak. It is a delicious voice for a room. You who put up with my singing of Schubert would be enchanted with hers. And I imagine she would not object to sing at private parties or concerts. Her voice is quite equal to that.


I am to have her in my drawing-room when we go up to town. You shall hear her then. I have not heard her myself yet; but I trust Daniel’s recommendation. I mean my girls to have lessons of her.


Is it a charitable affair? I can’t bear charitable music.


It is a charity to those who want to have a good model of feminine singing. I think everybody who has ears would benefit by a little improvement on the ordinary style. If you heard Miss Lapidoth perhaps you would revoke your resolution to give up singing.


I should rather think my resolution would be confirmed. I don’t feel able to follow your advice of enjoying my own middlingness.


For my part, people who do anything finely always inspirit me to try. I don’t mean that they make me believe I can do it as well. But they make the thing, whatever it may be, seem worthy to be done. I can bear to think my own music not good for much, but the world would be more dismal if I thought music itself not good for much. Excellence encourages one about life generally; it shows the spiritual wealth of the world.


But then, if we can’t imitate it, it only makes our own life seem the tamer,


That depends on the point of view, I think. We should have a poor life of it if we were reduced for all our pleasure to our own performances. A little private imitation of what is good is a sort of private devotion to it, and most of us ought to practice art only in the light of private study—preparation to understand and enjoy what the few can do for us. I think Miss Lapidoth is one of the few.


She must be a very happy person, don’t you think?


I don’t know. I must hear more of her before I say that.


It may have been a bitter disappointment to her that her voice failed her for the stage,


I suppose she’s past her best, though,


On the contrary, she has not reached it. She is barely twenty.


And very pretty. And she has very good manners. I’m sorry she’s a bigoted Jewess; I should not like it for anything else, but it doesn’t matter in singing.


Well, since her voice is too weak for her to scream much, I’ll tell Lady Clementina to set her on my nine granddaughters, and I hope she’ll convince eight of them that they have not voice enough to sing anywhere but at church. My notion is, that many of our girls nowadays want lessons not to sing.


I have had my lessons in that. You see Lady Pentreath is on my side.


What imposition is Deronda putting on you, ladies—slipping in among you by himself?


Wanting to pass off an obscurity on us as better than any celebrity, a pretty singing Jewess who is to astonish these young people. You and I, who heard Catalani in her prime, are not so easily astonished.


Well, you know, a Liberal is bound to think that there have been singers since Catalani’s time.


Ah, you are younger than I am. I dare say you are one of the men who ran after Alcharisi. But she married off and left you all in the lurch.


Yes, yes; it’s rather too bad when these great singers marry themselves into silence before they have a crack in their voices. And the husband is a public robber. I remember Leroux saying, ‘A man might as well take down a fine peal of church bells and carry them off to the steppes,’


Are you relenting about the music and looking for something to play or sing?


I am not looking for anything, but I am relenting,


May I know the reason?


I should like to hear Miss Lapidoth and have lessons from her, since you admire her so much—that is, of course, when we go to town. I mean lessons in rejoicing at her excellence and my own deficiency,


I shall be really glad for you to see and hear her,


Is she as perfect in every thing else as in her music?


I can’t vouch for that exactly. I have not seen enough of her. But I have seen nothing in her that I could wish to be different. She has had an unhappy life. Her troubles began in early childhood, and she has grown up among very painful surroundings. But I think you will say that no advantages could have given her more grace and truer refinement.


I wonder what sort of trouble hers were?


I have not any very precise knowledge. But I know that she was on the brink of drowning herself in despair.


And what hindered her?


Some ray or other came—which made her feel that she ought to live—that it was good to live. She is full of piety, and seems capable of submitting to anything when it takes the form of duty.


Those people are not to be pitied. I have no sympathy with women who are always doing right. I don’t believe in their great sufferings.


It is true, that the consciousness of having done wrong is something deeper, more bitter. I suppose we faulty creatures can never feel so much for the irreproachable as for those who are bruised in the struggle with their own faults. It is a very ancient story, that of the lost sheep—but it comes up afresh every day.


That is a way of speaking—it is not acted upon, it is not real. You admire Miss Lapidoth because you think her blameless, perfect. And you know you would despise a woman who had done something you thought very wrong.


That would depend entirely upon her own view of what she had done,


You would be satisfied if she were very wretched, I suppose,


No, not satisfied—full of sorrow for her. It was not a mere way of speaking. I did not mean to say that the finer nature is not more adorable; I meant that those who would be comparatively uninteresting beforehand may become worthier of sympathy when they do something that awakens in them a keen remorse. Lives are enlarged in different ways. I dare say some would never get their eyes opened if it were not for a violent shock from the consequences of their own actions. And when they are suffering in that way one must care for them more than for the comfortably self-satisfied.


Are you persuading Mrs. Grandcourt to play to us, Dan?


I cannot persuade myself,


I shall stand up for one dance, but I shall choose my partner. Mr. Deronda, you are the youngest man, I mean to dance with you. Nobody is old enough to make a good pair with me. I must have a contrast.


Yes; I shall not dance any more. Are you not glad? you might have felt obliged humbly to offer yourself as a partner, and I feel sure you have danced more than you like already.


I will not deny that, since you have danced as much as you like.


But will you take trouble for me in another way, and fetch me a glass of that fresh water?


What is that hideous thing you have got on your wrist?


That? it is an old necklace I like to wear. I lost it once, and someone found it for me.


It is worth while for you to go and look out at one of the windows on that side. You can see the finest possible moonlight on the stone pillars and carving, and shadows waving across it in the wind.


I should like to see it. Will you go?


No, Deronda will take you,


Will you take my arm and go, while only servants are there?


Suppose I had gambled again, and lost the necklace again, what should you have thought of me?


Worse than I do now.


Then you are mistaken about me. You wanted me not to do that—not to make my gain out of another’s loss in that way—and I have done a great deal worse.


I can’t imagine temptations. Perhaps I am able to understand what you mean. At least I understand self-reproach.


What should you do if you were like me—feeling that you were wrong and miserable, and dreading everything to come?


That is not to be amended by doing one thing only—but many,


What?


I mean there are many thoughts and habits that may help us to bear inevitable sorrow. Multitudes have to bear it.


You must tell me then what to think and what to do; else why did you not let me go on doing as I liked and not minding? If I had gone on gambling I might have won again, and I might have got not to care for anything else. You would not let me do that. Why shouldn’t I do as I like, and not mind? Other people do.


I don’t believe you would ever get not to mind. If it were true that baseness and cruelty made an escape from pain, what difference would that make to people who can’t be quite base or cruel? Idiots escape some pain; but you can’t be an idiot. Some may do wrong to another without remorse; but suppose one does feel remorse? I believe you could never lead an injurious life—all reckless lives are injurious, pestilential—without feeling remorse.


Then tell me what better I can do,


Many things. Look on other lives besides your own. See what their troubles are, and how they are borne. Try to care about something in this vast world besides the gratification of small selfish desires. Try to care for what is best in thought and action—something that is good apart from the accidents of your own lot.


You mean that I am selfish and ignorant.


You will not go on being selfish and ignorant! Shall I lead you back?


I am ready to go now. Mr. Deronda will excuse us to Lady Mallinger.


Certainly. Lord and Lady Pentreath disappeared some time ago.


Thanks.


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


What do you mean?


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


You can know all about the necklace,


I don’t want to know. Keep to yourself whatever you like. What I care to know I shall know without your telling me. Only you will please to behave as becomes my wife. And not make a spectacle of yourself.


Do you object to my talking to Mr. Deronda?


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


I never intended anything but to fill my place properly,


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


Shall I ring?


The wrong you have done me will be your own curse. Why did you put your fangs into me and not into him?


Mr. Deronda. Am I wrong to come in?


I thought you were far on your walk,


I turned back,


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


No; I want to say something, and I can’t stay long. I want to tell you that it is really so—I can’t help feeling remorse for having injured others. That was what I meant when I said that I had done worse than gamble again and pawn the necklace again—something more injurious, as you called it. And I can’t alter it. I am punished, but I can’t alter it. You said I could do many things. Tell me again. What should you do—what should you feel if you were in my place?


I should feel something of what you feel—deep sorrow.


But what would you try to do?


Order my life so as to make any possible amends, and keep away from doing any sort of injury again,


But I can’t—I can’t; I must go on,


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


But you have not wronged any one, or spoiled their lives,


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


I think I do—now. I am selfish. I have never thought much of any one’s feelings, except my mother’s. I have not been fond of people. But what can I do?


This good, life would be worth more to you: some real knowledge would give you an interest in the world beyond the small drama of personal desires. It is the curse of your life—forgive me—of so many lives, that all passion is spent in that narrow round, for want of ideas and sympathies to make a larger home for it. Is there any single occupation of mind that you care about with passionate delight or even independent interest? I take what you said of music for a small example—it answers for all larger things—you will not cultivate it for the sake of a private joy in it. What sort of earth or heaven would hold any spiritual wealth in it for souls pauperized by inaction? If one firmament has no stimulus for our attention and awe, I don’t see how four would have it. We should stamp every possible world with the flatness of our own inanity—which is necessarily impious, without faith or fellowship. The refuge you are needing from personal trouble is the higher, the religious life, which holds an enthusiasm for something more than our own appetites and vanities. The few may find themselves in it simply by an elevation of feeling; but for us who have to struggle for our wisdom, the higher life must be a region in which the affections are clad with knowledge.


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


Take the present suffering as a painful letting in of light,


But it is a very cruel form. I am frightened at everything. I am frightened at myself. When my blood is fired I can do daring things—take any leap; but that makes me frightened at myself.


Turn your fear into a safeguard. Keep your dread fixed on the idea of increasing that remorse which is so bitter to you. Fixed meditation may do a great deal toward defining our longing or dread. We are not always in a state of strong emotion, and when we are calm we can use our memories and gradually change the bias of our fear, as we do our tastes. Take your fear as a safeguard. It is like quickness of hearing. It may make consequences passionately present to you. Try to take hold of your sensibility, and use it as if it were a faculty, like vision.


Yes, I know; I understand what you mean. But if feelings rose—there are some feelings—hatred and anger—how can I be good when they keep rising? And if there came a moment when I felt stifled and could bear it no longer——


I am grieving you. I am ungrateful. You can help me. I will think of everything. I will try. Tell me—it will not be a pain to you that I have dared to speak of my trouble to you? You began it, you know, when you rebuked me. It will not be a pain to you?


Not if it does anything to save you from an evil to come,


No—no—it shall not be. It may be—it shall be better with me because I have known you.


Has Mrs. Grandcourt been in here?


Yes, she has.


Where are the others?


I believe she left them somewhere in the grounds.


I hope you are not playing with fire, Dan—you understand me?


I believe I do, sir,


So much the better. For, between ourselves, I fancy there may be some hidden gunpowder in that establishment.


Pardon, my lord—I speak for Sigismund.


For him? Oh, ay—for him I always hold A pardon safe in bank, sure he will draw Sooner or later on me. What his need? Mad project broken? fine mechanic wings That would not fly? durance, assault on watch, Bill for Epernay, not a crust to eat?


Oh, none of these, my lord; he has escaped From Circe’s herd, and seeks to win the love Of your fair ward Cecilia: but would win First your consent. You frown.


Distinguish words. I said I held a pardon, not consent.


I knew you would like to see my casts and antiquities, so I didn’t scruple to unlade my chests here. But I’ve found two rooms at Chelsea not many hundred yards from my mother and sisters, and I shall soon be ready to hang out there—when they’ve scraped the walls and put in some new lights. That’s all I’m waiting for. But you see I don’t wait to begin work: you can’t conceive what a great fellow I’m going to be. The seed of immortality has sprouted within me.


Only a fungoid growth, I dare say—a growing disease in the lungs,


What do you think of them?


The full face looks too massive; otherwise the likenesses are good,


No, it is not too massive. I have noted that. There is always a little surprise when one passes from the profile to the full face. But I shall enlarge her scale for Berenice. I am making a Berenice series—look at the sketches along there—and now I think of it, you are just the model I want for the Agrippa. No, no, I forgot; you don’t like sitting for your portrait, confound you! However, I’ve picked up a capital Titus. There are to be five in the series. The first is Berenice clasping the knees of Gessius Florus and beseeching him to spare her people; I’ve got that on the easel. Then, this, where she is standing on the Xystus with Agrippa, entreating the people not to injure themselves by resistance.


Agrippa’s legs will never do,


The legs are good realistically, public men are often shaky about the legs—’ Their legs, the emblem of their various thought,’ as somebody says in the Rehearsal.


But these are as impossible as the legs of Raphael’s Alcibiades,


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


You must put a scroll in her mouth, else people will not understand that. You can’t tell that in a picture.


It will make them feel their ignorance then—an excellent æsthetic effect. The fourth is, Titus sending Berenice away from Rome after she has shared his palace for ten years—both reluctant, both sad—invitus invitam, as Suetonius hath it. I’ve found a model for the Roman brute.


Shall you make Berenice look fifty? She must have been that.


No, no; a few mature touches to show the lapse of time. Dark-eyed beauty wears well, hers particularly. But now, here is the fifth: Berenice seated lonely on the ruins of Jerusalem. That is pure imagination. That is what ought to have been—perhaps was. Now, see how I tell a pathetic negative. Nobody knows what became of her—that is finely indicated by the series coming to a close. There is no sixth picture. I break off in the Homeric style. The story is chipped off, so to speak, and passes with a ragged edge into nothing—le néant; can anything be more sublime, especially in French? The vulgar would desire to see her corpse and burial—perhaps her will read and her linen distributed. But now come and look at this on the easel. I have made some way there.


That beseeching attitude is really good. You have been very industrious in the Christmas holidays; for I suppose you have taken up the subject since you came to London.


No. I made up my mind to the subject before. I take that lucky chance for an augury that I am going to burst on the world as a great painter. I saw a splendid woman in the Trastevere—the grandest women there are half Jewesses—and she set me hunting for a fine situation of a Jewess at Rome. Like other men of vast learning, I ended by taking what lay on the surface. I’ll show you a sketch of the Trasteverina’s head when I can lay my hands on it.


I should think she would be a more suitable model for Berenice,


Not a bit of it. The model ought to be the most beautiful Jewess in the world, and I have found her.


Have you made yourself sure that she would like to figure in that character? I should think no woman would be more abhorrent to her. Does she quite know what you are doing?


Certainly. I got her to throw herself precisely into this attitude. Little mother sat for Gessius Florus, and Mirah clasped her knees.


I dare say she knows nothing about Berenice’s history,


Oh, yes, she does—ladies’ edition. Berenice was a fervid patriot, but was beguiled by love and ambition into attaching herself to the arch-enemy of her people. Whence the Nemesis. Mirah takes it as a tragic parable, and cries to think what the penitent Berenice suffered as she wandered back to Jerusalem and sat desolate amidst desolation. That was her own phrase. I couldn’t find it in my heart to tell her I invented that part of the story.


Show me your Trasteverina,


Shall you mind turning over that folio? My studies of heads are all there. But they are in confusion. You will perhaps find her next to a crop-eared undergraduate.


These seem to be all Cambridge heads and bits of country. Perhaps I had better begin at the other end.


No; you’ll find her about the middle. I emptied one folio into another.


Is this one of your undergraduates? It’s an unusually agreeable face.


That! Oh, that’s a man named Gascoigne—Rex Gascoigne. An uncommonly good fellow; his upper lip, too, is good. I coached him before he got his scholarship. He ought to have taken honors last Easter. But he was ill, and has had to stay up another year. I must look him up. I want to know how he’s going on.


Here she is, I suppose,


Ah, too coarse. I was unregenerate then.


I dare say my scruples are excessive, Meyrick, but I must ask you to oblige me by giving up this notion.


What! my series—my immortal Berenice series? Think of what you are saying, man—destroying, as Milton says, not a life but an immortality. Wait before you answer, that I may deposit the implements of my art and be ready to uproot my hair.


Paint as many Berenices as you like, but I wish you could feel with me—perhaps you will, on reflection—that you should choose another model.


Why?


Because she may get into such a position that her face is likely to be recognized. Mrs. Meyrick and I are anxious for her that she should be known as an admirable singer. It is right, and she wishes it, that she should make herself independent. And she has excellent chances. One good introduction is secured already, and I am going to speak to Klesmer. Her face may come to be very well known, and—well, it is useless to attempt to explain, unless you feel as I do. I believe that if Mirah saw the circumstances clearly, she would strongly object to being exhibited in this way—to allowing herself to be used as a model for a heroine of this sort.


Excuse my laughing, Deronda. You never gave me an advantage over you before. If it had been about anything but my own pictures, I should have swallowed every word because you said it. And so you actually believe that I should get my five pictures hung on the line in a conspicuous position, and carefully studied by the public? Zounds, man! cider-cup and conceit never gave me half such a beautiful dream. My pictures are likely to remain as private as the utmost hypersensitiveness could desire.


But even supposing I had a public rushing after my pictures as if they were a railway series including nurses, babies and bonnet-boxes, I can’t see any justice in your objection. Every painter worth remembering has painted the face he admired most, as often as he could. It is a part of his soul that goes out into his pictures. He diffuses its influence in that way. He puts what he hates into a caricature. He puts what he adores into some sacred, heroic form. If a man could paint the woman he loves a thousand times as the Stella Maris to put courage into the sailors on board a thousand ships, so much the more honor to her. Isn’t that better than painting a piece of staring immodesty and calling it by a worshipful name?


Every objection can be answered if you take broad ground enough, Hans: no special question of conduct can be properly settled in that way. I might admit all your generalities, and yet be right in saying you ought not to publish Mirah’s face as a model for Berenice. But I give up the question of publicity. I was unreasonable there. Still, even as a private affair, there might be good reasons for your not indulging yourself too much in painting her from the point of view you mention. You must feel that her situation at present is a very delicate one; and until she is in more independence, she should be kept as carefully as a bit of Venetian glass, for fear of shaking her out of the safe place she is lodged in. Are you quite sure of your own discretion? Excuse me, Hans. My having found her binds me to watch over her. Do you understand me?


Perfectly. You have the very justifiable opinion of me that I am likely to shatter all the glass in my way, and break my own skull into the bargain. Quite fair. Since I got into the scrape of being born, everything I have liked best has been a scrape either for myself or somebody else. Everything I have taken to heartily has somehow turned into a scrape. My painting is the last scrape; and I shall be all my life getting out of it. You think now I shall get into a scrape at home. No; I am regenerate. You think I must be over head and ears in love with Mirah. Quite right; so I am. But you think I shall scream and plunge and spoil everything. There you are mistaken—excusably, but transcendently mistaken. I have undergone baptism by immersion. Awe takes care of me. Ask the little mother.


You don’t reckon a hopeless love among your scrapes, then,


I don’t mean to call mine hopeless,


My dear fellow, you are only preparing misery for yourself. She would not marry a Christian, even if she loved him. Have you heard her—of course you have—heard her speak of her people and her religion?


That can’t last. She will see no Jew who is tolerable. Every male of that race is insupportable—‘insupportably advancing’—his nose.


She may rejoin her family. That is what she longs for. Her mother and brother are probably strict Jews.


I’ll turn proselyte, if she wishes it,


Don’t talk nonsense, Hans. I thought you professed a serious love for her,


So I do. You think it desperate, but I don’t.


I know nothing; I can’t tell what has happened. We must be prepared for surprises. But I can hardly imagine a greater surprise to me than that there should have seemed to be anything in Mirah’s sentiments for you to found a romantic hope on.


I don’t found my romantic hopes on a woman’s sentiments. I go to science and philosophy for my romance. Nature designed Mirah to fall in love with me. The amalgamation of races demands it—the mitigation of human ugliness demands it—the affinity of contrasts assures it. I am the utmost contrast to Mirah—a bleached Christian, who can’t sing two notes in tune. Who has a chance against me?


I see now; it was all persiflage. You don’t mean a word you say, Meyrick. I was a wiseacre to answer you seriously.


Upon my honor I do mean it, though. I am at the confessional. I meant to tell you as soon as you came. My mother says you are Mirah’s guardian, and she thinks herself responsible to you for every breath that falls on Mirah in her house. Well, I love her—I worship her—I won’t despair—I mean to deserve her.


My dear fellow, you can’t do it,


I should have said, I mean to try.


You can’t keep your resolve, Hans. You used to resolve what you would do for your mother and sisters.


You have a right to reproach me, old fellow,


Perhaps I am ungenerous. Yet it can’t be ungenerous to warn you that you are indulging mad, Quixotic expectations.


Who will be hurt but myself, then? I am not going to say anything to her unless I felt sure of the answer. I dare not ask the oracles: I prefer a cheerful caliginosity, as Sir Thomas Browne might say. I would rather run my chance there and lose, than be sure of winning anywhere else. And I don’t mean to swallow the poison of despair, though you are disposed to thrust it on me. I am giving up wine, so let me get a little drunk on hope and vanity.


With all my heart, if it will do you any good,


He passes from one figure to another as if he were a bit of flame where you fancied the figures without seeing them, he is so wonderfully quick. I used never to like comic things on the stage—they were dwelt on too long; but all in one minute Mr. Hans makes himself a blind bard, and then Rienzi addressing the Romans, and then an opera-dancer, and then a desponding young gentleman—I am sorry for them all, and yet I laugh, all in one


We hardly thought that Mirah could laugh till Hans came,


Hans seems in great force just now. I don’t wonder at his enlivening you.


He’s been just perfect ever since he came back,


It is a great happiness, to see the son and brother come into this dear home. And I hear them all talk about what they did together when they were little. That seems like heaven, and to have a mother and brother who talk in that way. I have never had it.


Nor I,


No? I wish you had. I wish you had had every good.


But Mr. Hans said yesterday that you thought so much of others you hardly wanted anything for yourself. He told us a wonderful story of Buddha giving himself to the famished tigress to save her and her little ones from starving. And he said you were like Buddha. That is what we all imagine of you.


Pray don’t imagine that. Even if it were true that I thought so much of others, it would not follow that I had no wants for myself. When Buddha let the tigress eat him he might have been very hungry himself.


Perhaps if he was starved he would not mind so much about being eaten,


Please don’t think that, Mab; it takes away the beauty of the action,


But if it were true, Mirah? you always take what is beautiful as if it were true.


So it is. If people have thought what is the most beautiful and the best thing, it must be true. It is always there.


Now, Mirah, what do you mean?


I understand her. It is a truth in thought though it may never have been carried out in action. It lives as an idea. Is that it?


It must be that, because you understand me, but I cannot quite explain,


But was it beautiful for Buddha to let the tiger eat him? It would be a bad pattern.


The world would get full of fat tigers,


It is like a passionate word, the exaggeration is a flash of fervor. It is an extreme image of what is happening every day—the transmutation of self.


I think I can say what I mean, now. When the best thing comes into our thoughts, it is like what my mother has been to me. She has been just as really with me as all the other people about me—often more really with me.


But we must not get too far away from practical matters. I came, for one thing, to tell of an interview I had yesterday, which I hope Mirah will find to have been useful to her. It was with Klesmer, the great pianist.


Ah? You think he will help her?


I hope so. He is very much occupied, but has promised to fix a time for receiving and hearing Miss Lapidoth, as we must learn to call her If she consents to go to him.


I shall be very grateful. He wants to hear me sing, before he can judge whether I ought to be helped.


It will not be at all trying to you, I hope, if Mrs. Meyrick will kindly go with you to Klesmer’s house.


Oh, no, not at all trying. I have been doing that all my life—I mean, told to do things that others may judge of me. And I have gone through a bad trial of that sort. I am prepared to bear it, and do some very small thing. Is Klesmer a severe man?


He is peculiar, but I have not had experience enough of him to know whether he would be what you would call severe.


I know he is kind-hearted—kind in action, if not in speech. I have been used to be frowned at and not praised,


By the by, Klesmer frowns a good deal, but there is often a sort of smile in his eyes all the while. Unhappily he wears spectacles, so you must catch him in the right light to see the smile.


I shall not be frightened. If he were like a roaring lion, he only wants me to sing. I shall do what I can.


Then I feel sure you will not mind being invited to sing in Lady Mallinger’s drawing-room. She intends to ask you next month, and will invite many ladies to hear you, who are likely to want lessons from you for their daughters.


How fast we are mounting! You never thought of getting grand so quickly, Mirah.


I am a little frightened at being called Miss Lapidoth. Might I be called Cohen?


I understand you. But I assure you, you must not be called Cohen. The name is inadmissible for a singer. This is one of the trifles in which we must conform to vulgar prejudice. We could choose some other name, however—such as singers ordinarily choose—an Italian or Spanish name, which would suit your physique.


No. If Cohen will not do, I will keep the name I have been called by. I will not hide myself. I have friends to protect me. And now—if my father were very miserable and wanted help—no. I should think, then, that he was perhaps crying as I used to see him, and had nobody to pity him, and I had hidden myself from him. He had none belonging to him but me. Others that made friends with him always left him.


Keep to what you feel right, my dear child. I would not persuade you to the contrary.


I sleep, but my heart waketh


If not I, then another. I am lord of this moment’s change, and will charge it with my soul.


The boy will get them engraved within him, it is a way of printing.


My words may rule him some day. Their meaning may flash out on him. It is so with a nation—after many days.


Away from me the garment of forgetfulness. Withering the heart; The oil and wine from presses of the Goyim, Poisoned with scorn. Solitude is on the sides of Mount Nebo, In its heart a tomb: There the buried ark and golden cherubim Make hidden light: There the solemn gaze unchanged, The wings are spread unbroken: Shut beneath in silent awful speech The Law lies graven. Solitude and darkness are my covering, And my heart a tomb; Smite and shatter it, O Gabriel! Shatter it as the clay of the founder Around the golden image.


Child! child!


What?


A curse is on your generation, child. They will open the mountain and drag forth the golden wings and coin them into money, and the solemn faces they will break up into earrings for wanton women! And they shall get themselves a new name, but the angel of ignominy, with the fiery brand, shall know them, and their heart shall be the tomb of dead desires that turn their life to rottenness.


Our sick eyes make it.


Vor den Wissenden sich stellen, Sicher ist’s in allen Fällen! Wenn du lange dich gequälet, Weiß er gleich, wo dir es fehlet. Auch auf Beifall darfst du hoffen; Denn er weiß, wo du’s getroffen.


Dear me! can it be Lady Mallinger? Is there a grand carriage, Amy?


No—only a hansom cab. It must be a gentleman.


The Prime Minister, I should think. Hans says the greatest man in London may get into a hansom cab.


Oh, oh, oh! Suppose it should be Lord Russell!


I hope I have not taken too great a freedom. Being in the neighborhood, I ventured to save time by calling. Our friend, Mr. Deronda, mentioned to me an understanding that I was to have the honor of becoming acquainted with a young lady here—Miss Lapidoth.


Those are my daughters: this is Miss Lapidoth,


Ah. You will not object to beginning our acquaintance by singing to me,


I shall be very glad. It is good of you to be willing to listen to me. Shall I accompany myself?


By all means,


He will like her singing better if he sees her.


That is old Leo’s music.


Yes, he was my last master—at Vienna: so fierce and so good. He prophesied that my voice would not do for the stage. And he was right.


Continue, if you please,


Let us shake hands: you are a musician. Not for great tasks. No high roofs. We are no skylarks. We must be modest. I would not advise—I would not further your singing in any larger space than a private drawing-room. But you will do there. And here in London that is one of the best careers open. Lessons will follow. Will you come and sing at a private concert at my house on Wednesday?


Oh, I shall be grateful. I would rather get my bread in that way than by anything more public. I will try to improve. What should I work at most?


I shall introduce you to Astorga: he is the foster-father of good singing and will give you advice. Mrs. Klesmer will call before Wednesday, with your permission.


We shall feel that to be a great kindness,


You will sing to her. She is a thorough musician, and has a soul with more ears to it than you will often get in a musician. Your singing will satisfy her:


Vor den Wissenden sich stellen;


you know the rest?


Sicher ist’s in allen Fällen.


Schön! That young lady is musical, I see!


Yes. And she has a touch.


Oh, please, Mirah—a scramble, not a touch,


Will she like to accompany Miss Lapidoth and hear the music on Wednesday?


There could hardly be a greater pleasure for her. She will be most glad and grateful.


She will do: if she doesn’t attempt too much and her voice holds out, she can make an income. I know that is the great point: Deronda told me. You are taking care of her. She looks like a good girl.


She is an angel,


No, she is a pretty Jewess: the angels must not get the credit of her. But I think she has found a guardian angel,


We can never get her a new dress before Wednesday!


Thank heaven my table is not knocked over!


Now, now, Mab! come and sit down reasonably and let us talk?


Yes, let us talk. I am beginning to feel large again. Hans said he was coming this afternoon. I wish he had been here—only there would have been no room for him. Mirah, what are you looking sad for?


I am too happy. I feel so full of gratitude to you all; and he was so very kind.


Yes, at last. But he might have said something encouraging sooner. I thought him dreadfully ugly when he sat frowning, and only said, ‘Continue.’ I hated him all the long way from the top of his hair to the toe of his polished boot.


Nonsense, Mab; he has a splendid profile,


Now, but not then. I cannot bear people to keep their minds bottled up for the sake of letting them off with a pop. They seem to grudge making you happy unless they can make you miserable beforehand. However, I forgive him everything, but he has invited me. I wonder why he fixed on me as the musical one? Was it because I have a bulging forehead, ma, and peep from under it like a newt from under a stone?


It was your way of listening to the singing, child. He has magic spectacles and sees everything through them, depend upon it. But what was that German quotation you were so ready with, Mirah—you learned puss?


Oh, that was not learning. I said it so many times for a lesson. It means that it is safer to do anything—singing or anything else—before those who know and understand all about it.


That was why you were not one bit frightened, I suppose. But now, what we have to talk about is a dress for you on Wednesday.


I don’t want anything better than this black merino. Some white gloves and some new bottines.


There comes Hans. Stand still, and let us hear what he says about the dress. Artists are the best people to consult about such things.


You don’t consult me, ma. I notice mothers are like the people I deal with—the girls’ doings are always priced low.


My dear child, the boys are such a trouble—we could never put up with them, if we didn’t make believe they were worth more. Hans, we want your opinion about Mirah’s dress. A great event has happened. Klesmer has been here, and she is going to sing at his house on Wednesday among grand people. She thinks this dress will do.


Let me see,


This would be thought a very good stage-dress for me, in a part where I was to come on as a poor Jewess and sing to fashionable Christians.


It would be effective, it would stand out well among the fashionable chiffons.


But you ought not to claim all the poverty on your side, Mirah. There are plenty of poor Christians and dreadfully rich Jews and fashionable Jewesses.


I didn’t mean any harm. Only I have been used to thinking about my dress for parts in plays. And I almost always had a part with a plain dress.


That makes me think it questionable. It looks a little too theatrical. We must not make you a rôle of the poor Jewess—or of being a Jewess at all.


But it is what I am really. I am not pretending anything. I shall never be anything else. I always feel myself a Jewess.


But we can’t feel that about you. What does it signify whether a perfect woman is a Jewess or not?


That is your kind way of praising me; I never was praised so before,


People don’t think of me as a British Christian. They think of me as an imperfectly handsome young man and an unpromising painter.


But you are wandering from the dress. If that will not do, how are we to get another before Wednesday? and to-morrow Sunday?


Indeed this will do. It is all real, you know, even if it seemed theatrical. Poor Berenice sitting on the ruins—any one might say that was theatrical, but I know that this is just what she would do.


I am a scoundrel. That is my invention. Nobody knows that she did that. Shall you forgive me for not saying so before?


Oh, yes. You knew it was what she would be sure to do—a Jewess who had not been faithful—who had done what she did and was penitent. She could have no joy but to afflict herself; and where else would she go? I think it is very beautiful that you should enter so into what a Jewess would feel.


The Jewesses of that time sat on ruins. That makes them convenient for pictures.


But the dress—the dress, is it settled?


Yes; is it not?


What do you think, Hans?


That dress will not do. She is not going to sit on ruins. You must jump into a cab with her, little mother, and go to Regent Street. It’s plenty of time to get anything you like—a black silk dress such as ladies wear. She must not be taken for an object of charity. She has talents to make people indebted to her.


I think it is what Mr. Deronda would like—for her to have a handsome dress,


Of course it is. You may take my word for what a gentleman would feel.


I wish to do what Mr. Deronda would like me to do,


Shouldn’t you like to make a study of Klesmer’s head, Hans? I suppose you have often seen him?


Seen him! Perhaps you don’t like this mimicry; you must always stop my nonsense when you don’t like it.


Thank you. But you have never done anything I did not like. I hardly think he could, belonging to you,


I suppose if I got from this man the information I am most anxious about. I should be contented enough if he felt no disposition to tell me more of himself, or why he seemed to have some expectation from me which was disappointed. The sort of curiosity he stirs would die out; and yet it might be that he had neared and parted as one can imagine two ships doing, each freighted with an exile who would have recognized the other if the two could have looked out face to face. Not that there is any likelihood of a peculiar tie between me and this poor fellow, whose voyage, I fancy, must soon be over. But I wonder whether there is much of that momentous mutual missing between people who interchange blank looks, or even long for one another’s absence in a crowded place. However, one makes one’s self chances of missing by going on the recruiting sergeant’s plan.


I was very glad to see you standing here, for I was intending to go on to the book-shop and look for you again. I was there yesterday—perhaps they mentioned it to you?


Yes, that was the reason I came to the bridge.


You knew nothing of my being at Chelsea?


No; but I expected you to come down the river. I have been waiting for you these five years.


It will be a satisfaction to me if I can be of any real use to you. Shall we get into a cab and drive to—wherever you wish to go? You have probably had walking enough with your short breath.


Let us go to the book-shop. It will soon be time for me to be there. But now look up the river. See the sky, how it is slowly fading. I have always loved this bridge: I stood on it when I was a little boy. It is a meeting-place for the spiritual messengers. It is true—what the Masters said—that each order of things has its angel: that means the full message of each from what is afar. Here I have listened to the messages of earth and sky; when I was stronger I used to stay and watch for the stars in the deep heavens. But this time just about sunset was always what I loved best. It has sunk into me and dwelt with me—fading, slowly fading: it was my own decline: it paused—it waited, till at last it brought me my new life—my new self—who will live when this breath is all breathed out.


Let us go now. We will get down at the end of the street and walk to the shop. You can look at the books, and Mr. Ram will be going away directly and leave us alone.


I suppose I am in a state of complete superstition, just as if I were awaiting the destiny that could interpret the oracle. But some strong relation there must be between me and this man, since he feels it strongly. Great heaven! what relation has proved itself more potent in the world than faith even when mistaken—than expectation even when perpetually disappointed? Is my side of the relation to be disappointing or fulfilling?—well, if it is ever possible for me to fulfill I will not disappoint.


You cannot know what has guided me to you and brought us together at this moment. You are wondering.


I am not impatient. I am ready to listen to whatever you may wish to disclose.


You see some of the reasons why I needed you. You see that I am dying. You see that I am as one shut up behind bars by the wayside, who if he spoke to any would be met only by head-shaking and pity. The day is closing—the light is fading—soon we should not have been able to discern each other. But you have come in time.


I rejoice that I am come in time,


But the hidden reasons why I need you began afar off, began in my early years when I was studying in another land. Then ideas, beloved ideas, came to me, because I was a Jew. They were a trust to fulfill, because I was a Jew. They were an inspiration, because I was a Jew, and felt the heart of my race beating within me. They were my life; I was not fully born till then. I counted this heart, and this breath, and this right hand I counted my sleep and my waking, and the work I fed my body with, and the sights that fed my eyes—I counted them but as fuel to the divine flame. But I had done as one who wanders and engraves his thought in rocky solitudes, and before I could change my course came care and labor and disease, and blocked the way before me, and bound me with the iron that eats itself into the soul. Then I said, ‘How shall I save the life within me from being stifled with this stifled breath?’ How shall I save the life within me from being stifled with this stifled breath? But you may misunderstand me. I speak not as an ignorant dreamer—as one bred up in the inland valleys, thinking ancient thoughts anew, and not knowing them ancient, never having stood by the great waters where the world’s knowledge passes to and fro. English is my mother-tongue, England is the native land of this body, which is but as a breaking pot of earth around the fruit-bearing tree, whose seed might make the desert rejoice. But my true life was nourished in Holland at the feet of my mother’s brother, a Rabbi skilled in special learning: and when he died I went to Hamburg to study, and afterwards to Göttingen, that I might take a larger outlook on my people, and on the Gentile world, and drank knowledge at all sources. I was a youth; I felt free; I saw our chief seats in Germany; I was not then in utter poverty. And I had possessed myself of a handicraft. For I said, I care not if my lot be as that of Joshua ben Chananja: after the last destruction he earned his bread by making needles, but in his youth he had been a singer on the steps of the Temple, and had a memory of what was before the glory departed. I said, let my body dwell in poverty, and my hands be as the hands of the toiler: but let my soul be as a temple of remembrance where the treasures of knowledge enter and the inner sanctuary is hope. I knew what I chose. They said, ‘He feeds himself on visions,’ and I denied not; for visions are the creators and feeders of the world. I see, I measure the world as it is, which the vision will create anew. You are not listening to one who raves aloof from the lives of his fellows. I care not if my lot be as that of Joshua ben Chananja: after the last destruction he earned his bread by making needles, but in his youth he had been a singer on the steps of the Temple, and had a memory of what was before the glory departed. I said, let my body dwell in poverty, and my hands be as the hands of the toiler: but let my soul be as a temple of remembrance where the treasures of knowledge enter and the inner sanctuary is hope. I knew what I chose. He feeds himself on visions,


Do me the justice to believe that I was not inclined to call your words raving. I listen that I may know, without prejudgment. I have had experience which gives me a keen interest in the story of a spiritual destiny embraced willingly, and embraced in youth.


A spiritual destiny embraced willingly—in youth? It was the soul fully born within me, and it came in my boyhood. It brought its own world—a mediaeval world, where there are men who made the ancient language live again in new psalms of exile. They had absorbed the philosophy of the Gentile into the faith of the Jew, and they still yearned toward a center for our race. One of their souls was born again within me, and awakened amid the memories of their world. It traveled into Spain and Provence; it debated with Aben-Ezra; it took ship with Jehuda ha-Levi; it heard the roar of the Crusaders and the shrieks of tortured Israel. And when its dumb tongue was loosed, it spoke the speech they had made alive with the new blood of their ardor, their sorrow, and their martyred trust: it sang with the cadence of their strain. While it is imprisoned in me, it will never learn another.


Have you written entirely in Hebrew, then?


Yes—yes, in my youth I wandered toward that solitude, not feeling that it was a solitude. I had the ranks of the great dead around me; the martyrs gathered and listened. But soon I found that the living were deaf to me. At first I saw my life spread as a long future: I said part of my Jewish heritage is an unbreaking patience; part is skill to seek divers methods and find a rooting-place where the planters despair. But there came new messengers from the Eternal. I had to bow under the yoke that presses on the great multitude born of woman: family troubles called me—I had to work, to care, not for myself alone. I was left solitary again; but already the angel of death had turned to me and beckoned, and I felt his skirts continually on my path. I loosed not my effort. I besought hearing and help. I spoke; I went to men of our people—to the rich in influence or knowledge, to the rich in other wealth. But I found none to listen with understanding. I was rebuked for error; I was offered a small sum in charity. No wonder. I looked poor; I carried a bundle of Hebrew manuscript with me; I said, our chief teachers are misleading the hope of our race. Scholar and merchant were both too busy to listen. Scorn stood as interpreter between me and them. One said, ‘The book of Mormon would never have answered in Hebrew; and if you mean to address our learned men, it is not likely you can teach them anything.’ He touched a truth there. The book of Mormon would never have answered in Hebrew; and if you mean to address our learned men, it is not likely you can teach them anything.


But though you had accustomed yourself to write in Hebrew, few, surely, can use English better,


Too late—too late. I can write no more. My writing would be like this gasping breath. But the breath may wake the fount of pity—the writing not. If I could write now and used English, I should be as one who beats a board to summon those who have been used to no signal but a bell. My soul has an ear to hear the faults of its own speech. New writing of mine would be like this body within it there might be the Ruach-ha-kodesh—the breath of divine thought—but, men would smile at it and say, ‘A poor Jew!’ and the chief smilers would be of my own people.


I feel with you—I feel strongly with you. But forgive me if I speak hastily—for what you have actually written there need be no utter burial. The means of publication are within reach. If you will rely on me, I can assure you of all that is necessary to that end.


That is not enough. That is not all my trust in you. You must be not only a hand to me, but a soul—believing my belief—being moved by my reasons—hoping my hope—seeing the vision I point to—beholding a glory where I behold it! You will be my life: it will be planted afresh; it will grow. You shall take the inheritance; it has been gathering for ages. The generations are crowding on my narrow life as a bridge: what has been and what is to be are meeting there; and the bridge is breaking. But I have found you. You have come in time. You will take the inheritance which the base son refuses because of the tombs which the plow and harrow may not pass over or the gold-seeker disturb: you will take the sacred inheritance of the Jew.


Do you forget what I told you when we first saw each other? Do you remember that I said I was not of your race?


It can’t be true,


You are not sure of your own origin.


How do you know that?


I know it—I know it; what is my life else? Tell me everything: tell me why you deny.


I have never known my mother. I have no knowledge about her. I have never called any man father. But I am convinced that my father is an Englishman.


It will be seen—it will be declared. The world grows, and its frame is knit together by the growing soul; dim, dim at first, then clearer and more clear, the consciousness discerns remote stirrings. As thoughts move within us darkly, and shake us before they are fully discerned—so events—so beings: they are knit with us in the growth of the world. You have risen within me like a thought not fully spelled; my soul is shaken before the words are all there. The rest will come—it will come.


We must not lose sight of the fact that the outward event has not always been a fulfillment of the firmest faith,


You would remind me that I may be under an illusion—that the history of our people’s trust has been full of illusion. I face it all. So it might be with my trust, if you would make it an illusion. But you will not.


What my birth was does not lie in my will. My sense of claims on me cannot be independent of my knowledge there. And I cannot promise you that I will try to hasten a disclosure. Feelings which have struck root through half my life may still hinder me from doing what I have never been able to do. Everything must be waited for. I must know more of the truth about my own life, and I must know more of what it would become if it were made a part of yours.


You shall know. What are we met for, but that you should know. Your doubts lie as light as dust on my belief. I know the philosophies of this time and of other times; if I chose I could answer a summons before their tribunals. I could silence the beliefs which are the mother-tongue of my soul and speak with the rote-learned language of a system, that gives you the spelling of all things, sure of its alphabet covering them all. I could silence them: may not a man silence his awe or his love, and take to finding reasons, which others demand? But if his love lies deeper than any reasons to be found? Man finds his pathways: at first they were foot tracks, as those of the beast in the wilderness: now they are swift and invisible: his thought dives through the ocean, and his wishes thread the air: has he found all the pathways yet? What reaches him, stays with him, rules him: he must accept it, not knowing its pathway. Say, my expectation of you has grown but as false hopes grow. That doubt is in your mind? Well, my expectation was there, and you are come. Men have died of thirst. But I was thirsty, and the water is on my lips! What are doubts to me? In the hour when you come to me and say, ‘I reject your soul: I know that I am not a Jew: we have no lot in common’—I shall not doubt. I shall be certain—certain that I have been deluded. That hour will never come!


It is my wish to meet and satisfy your wishes wherever that is possible to me. It is certain to me at least that I desire not to undervalue your toil and your suffering. Let me know your thoughts. But where can we meet?


I have thought of that. It is not hard for you to come into this neighborhood later in the evening? You did so once.


I can manage it very well occasionally. You live under the same roof with the Cohens, I think?


We can’t meet there: my room is too narrow. But there is a tavern not far from here where I sometimes go to a club. It is the Hand and Banner, in the street at the next turning, five doors down. We can have the parlor there any evening.


We can try that for once. But you will perhaps let me provide you with some lodging, which would give you more freedom and comfort than where you are.


No; I need nothing. My outer life is as nought. I will take nothing less precious from you than your soul’s brotherhood. I will think of nothing else yet. But I am glad you are rich. You did not need money on that diamond ring. You had some other motive for bringing it. it is all one. Had you been in need of the money, the great end would have been that we should meet again. But you are rich?


Not rich, except in the sense that every one is rich who has more than he needs for himself.


I desired that your life should be free, mine has been a bondage.


Can you tell me why Mrs. Cohen, the mother, must not be spoken to about her daughter?


I know the reason. But I will not speak even of trivial family affairs which I have heard in the privacy of the family. I dwell in their tent as in a sanctuary. Their history, so far as they injure none other, is their own possession.


I will part from you now,


When will you come back?


May I leave that unfixed? May I ask for you at the Cohens’ any evening after your hour at the book-shop? There is no objection, I suppose, to their knowing that you and I meet in private?


None. But the days I wait now are longer than the years of my strength. Life shrinks: what was but a tithe is now the half. My hope abides in you.


I will be faithful. I will come the first evening I can after seven: on Saturday or Monday, if possible. Trust me.


This is come to pass, and the rest will come.