Already and without effort rather queenly in her air as she stood in her white lace and green leaves she threw a royal permissiveness into her way of saying, "I wish you would come and see me to-morrow between five and six, Mr. Deronda."
There could be but one answer at that moment: "Certainly," with a tone of obedience.
Afterward it occurred to Deronda that he would write a note to excuse himself. He had always avoided making a call at Grandcourt's. He could not persuade himself to any step that might hurt her, and whether his excuse were taken for indifference or for the affectation of indifference it would be equally wounding. He kept his promise. Gwendolen had declined to ride out on the plea of not feeling well enough having left her refusal to the last moment when the horses were soon to be at the door--not without alarm lest her husband should say that he too would stay at home. Become almost superstitious about his power of suspicious divination, she had a glancing forethought of what she would do in that case--namely, have herself denied as not well. But Grandcourt accepted her excuse without remark, and rode off.

Standing rather queenly in her white lace and green leaves she threw a royal permissiveness into her request, "I wish you would come and see me tomorrow between five and six, Mr. Deronda."
There could be but one answer: "Certainly."
Afterward it occurred to Deronda that he would write a note to excuse himself. He had always avoided making a call at Grandcourt's. But his excuse might be taken as an indifference that would hurt her, so he kept his promise.
Gwendolen had declined to ride out on the last-minute plea of not feeling well - not without alarm lest her husband should say that he too would stay at home. But Grandcourt accepted her excuse without remark, and rode off.


Nevertheless when Gwendolen found herself alone, and had sent down the order that only Mr. Deronda was to be admitted, she began to be alarmed at what she had done, and to feel a growing agitation in the thought that he would soon appear, and she should soon be obliged to speak: not of trivialities, as if she had no serious motive in asking him to come: and yet what she had been for hours determining to say began to seem impossible. For the first time the impulse of appeal to him was being checked by timidity, and now that it was too late she was shaken by the possibility that he might think her invitation unbecoming. If so, she would have sunk in his esteem. But immediately she resisted this intolerable fear as an infection from her husband's way of thinking. That _he_ would say she was making a fool of herself was rather a reason why such a judgment would be remote from Deronda's mind. But that she could not rid herself from this sudden invasion of womanly reticence was manifest in a kind of action which had never occurred to her before. In her struggle between agitation and the effort to suppress it, she was walking up and down the length of the two drawing-rooms, where at one end a long mirror reflected her in her black dress, chosen in the early morning with a half-admitted reference to this hour. But above this black dress her head on its white pillar of a neck showed to advantage. Some consciousness of this made her turn hastily and hurry to the boudoir, where again there was a glass, but also, tossed over a chair, a large piece of black lace which she snatched and tied over her crown of hair so as completely to conceal her neck, and leave only her face looking out from the black frame. In this manifest contempt of appearance, she thought it possible to be freer from nervousness, but the black lace did not take away the uneasiness from her eyes and lips.

When Gwendolen found herself alone, and had sent down the order that only Mr. Deronda was to be admitted, she began to feel a growing agitation in the thought that he would soon appear, and she should be obliged to speak: yet what she had been for hours determining to say seemed impossible. For the first time, she felt timid, and was shaken by the possibility that he might think her invitation unbecoming. If so, she would have sunk in his esteem. But immediately she resisted this fear as an infection from her husband's way of thinking.
In her struggle between agitation and the effort to suppress it, she was walking up and down the length of two drawing-rooms, where at one end a long mirror reflected her in her black dress, with her white pillar of a neck shown to advantage. Some consciousness of this made her turn hastily and hurry to the boudoir, where she tied a large piece of black lace so as completely to conceal her neck, and leave only her face looking out from the black frame. However, the lace did not take away the uneasiness from her eyes and lips.


She was standing in the middle of the room when Deronda was announced, and as he approached her she perceived that he too for some reason was not his usual self. She could not have defined the change except by saying that he looked less happy than usual, and appeared to be under some effort in speaking to her. And yet the speaking was the slightest possible. They both said, "How do you do?" quite curtly; and Gwendolen, instead of sitting down, moved to a little distance, resting her arms slightly on the tall back of a chair, while Deronda stood where he was,--both feeling it difficult to say any more, though the preoccupation in his mind could hardly have been more remote than it was from Gwendolen's conception. She naturally saw in his embarrassment some reflection of her own. Forced to speak, she found all her training in concealment and self-command of no use to her and began with timid awkwardness,

She was standing in the middle of the room when Deronda was announced, and as he approached her she perceived that he too for some reason was not his usual self. He looked less happy than usual, and appeared to be under some effort in speaking to her. They both said, "How do you do?" quite curtly; and Gwendolen moved to a little distance, while Deronda stood where he was,- both feeling it difficult to say any more, though the preoccupation in his mind could hardly have been more remote from Gwendolen's idea. She naturally saw in his embarrassment some reflection of her own. Forced to speak, she began with unusually timid awkwardness-


"You will wonder why I begged you to come. I wanted to ask you something. You said I was ignorant. That is true. And what can I do but ask you?"
And at this moment she was feeling it utterly impossible to put the questions she had intended. Something new in her nervous manner roused Deronda's anxiety lest there might be a new crisis. He said with the sadness of affection in his voice,
"My only regret is, that I can be of so little use to you." The words and the tone touched a new spring in her, and she went on with more sense of freedom, yet still not saying anything she had designed to say, and beginning to hurry, that she might somehow arrive at the right words.

"You will wonder why I begged you to come. I wanted to ask you something. You said I was ignorant. That is true. And what can I do but ask you?"
At this moment she was feeling it utterly impossible to put the questions she had intended. Something new in her nervous manner roused Deronda's anxiety lest there might be a new crisis. He said with sad affection in his voice-
"My only regret is, that I can be of so little use to you."
The words touched a new spring in her, and she went on with more sense of freedom, yet still not saying anything she had designed to say.


"I wanted to tell you that I have always been thinking of your advice, but is it any use?--I can't make myself different, because things about me raise bad feelings--and I must go on--I can alter nothing--it is no use."

"I wanted to tell you that I have always been thinking of your advice, but is it any use? I can't make myself different, because things give me bad feelings - and I must go on - I can alter nothing - it is no use."


She paused an instant, with the consciousness that she was not finding the right words, but began again hurriedly, "But if I go on I shall get worse. I want not to get worse. I should like to be what you wish. There are people who are good and enjoy great things--I know there are. I am a contemptible creature. I feel as if I should get wicked with hating people. I have tried to think that I would go away from everybody. But I can't. There are so many things to hinder me. You think, perhaps, that I don't mind.

She paused, conscious that she was not finding the right words, but began again hurriedly, "But if I go on I shall get worse. I want not to get worse. I should like to be what you wish. There are people who are good and enjoy great things - I know there are. I am a contemptible creature. I feel as if I should get wicked with hating people. I have tried to think that I would go away from everybody. But I can't. You think, perhaps, that I don't mind.


But I do mind. I am afraid of everything. I am afraid of getting wicked. Tell me what I can do."
She had forgotten everything but that image of her helpless misery which she was trying to make present to Deronda in broken allusive speech--wishing to convey but not express all her need. Her eyes were tearless, and had a look of smarting in their dilated brilliancy; there was a subdued sob in her voice which was more and more veiled, till it was hardly above a whisper. She was hurting herself with the jewels that glittered on her tightly-clasped fingers pressed against her heart.

But I do mind. I am afraid of everything. I am afraid of getting wicked. Tell me what I can do."
She had forgotten everything but that helpless misery which she was trying to convey to Deronda. Her brilliant, tearless eyes had a look of smarting; there was a subdued sob in her voice, which sank to hardly above a whisper. Her tightly-clasped fingers pressed against her heart.


The feeling Deronda endured in these moments he afterward called horrible. Words seemed to have no more rescue in them than if he had been beholding a vessel in peril of wreck--the poor ship with its many-lived anguish beaten by the inescapable storm. How could he grasp the long-growing process of this young creature's wretchedness?--how arrest and change it with a sentence? He was afraid of his own voice. The words that rushed into his mind seemed in their feebleness nothing better than despair made audible, or than that insensibility to another's hardship which applies precept to soothe pain. He felt himself holding a crowd of words imprisoned within his lips, as if the letting them escape would be a violation of awe before the mysteries of our human lot. The thought that urged itself foremost was--"Confess everything to your husband; have nothing concealed:"--the words carried in his mind a vision of reasons which would have needed much fuller expressions for Gwendolen to apprehend them, but before he had begun those brief sentences, the door opened and the husband entered.
Grandcourt had deliberately gone out and turned back to satisfy a suspicion. What he saw was Gwendolen's face of anguish framed black like a nun's, and Deronda standing three yards from her with a look of sorrow such as he might have bent on the last struggle of life in a beloved object. Without any show of surprise Grandcourt nodded to Deronda, gave a second look at Gwendolen, passed on, and seated himself easily at a little distance crossing his legs, taking out his handkerchief and trifling with it elegantly.

The feeling Deronda endured in these moments was horrible. Words seemed to have no more rescue in them than if he had been beholding a vessel in peril of wreck, beaten by an inescapable storm. How could he grasp her wretchedness? - how change it with a sentence? He was afraid of his own voice. The words that rushed into his mind seemed feeble and trite. The thought that urged itself foremost was- "Confess everything to your husband; conceal nothing:" - but before he had begun to speak, the door opened and the husband entered.
Grandcourt had deliberately gone out and turned back to satisfy a suspicion. What he saw was Gwendolen's face of anguish, framed black like a nun's, and Deronda standing three yards from her with a look of deep sorrow. Without any show of surprise Grandcourt nodded to Deronda, gave a second look at Gwendolen, passed on, and seated himself easily at a little distance, crossing his legs, and trifling elegantly with his handkerchief.


Gwendolen had shrunk and changed her attitude on seeing him, but she did not turn or move from her place. It was not a moment in which she could feign anything, or manifest any strong revulsion of feeling: the passionate movement of her last speech was still too strong within her. What she felt beside was a dull despairing sense that her interview with Deronda was at an end: a curtain had fallen. But he, naturally, was urged into self-possession and effort by susceptibility to what might follow for her from being seen by her husband in this betrayal of agitation; and feeling that any pretense of ease in prolonging his visit would only exaggerate Grandcourt's possible conjectures of duplicity, he merely said,
"I will not stay longer now. Good bye."
He put out his hand, and she let him press her poor little chill fingers; but she said no good-bye.
When he had left the room, Gwendolen threw herself into a seat, with an expectation as dull as her despair--the expectation that she was going to be punished. But Grandcourt took no notice: he was satisfied to have let her know that she had not deceived him, and to keep a silence which was formidable with omniscience. He went out that evening, and her plea of feeling ill was accepted without even a sneer.

Gwendolen had shrunk on seeing him, but she did not move from her place. She could not feign anything: the passion of her last speech was still too strong within her. She felt a dull despairing sense that her interview with Deronda was at an end.
But he, naturally, was urged into self-possession and effort by thinking of what might follow for her from being seen by her husband in this agitation; and as any pretence of ease would only exaggerate Grandcourt's possible conjectures, he merely said-
"I will not stay longer now. Good bye."
He put out his hand, and she let him press her poor little chill fingers; but she said no good-bye.
When he had left, Gwendolen threw herself into a seat, with a dull expectation that she was going to be punished. But Grandcourt took no notice: he was satisfied to have let her know that she had not deceived him, and to keep an omniscient silence. He went out that evening, and her plea of feeling ill was accepted without even a sneer.


The next morning at breakfast he said, "I am going yachting to the Mediterranean."
"When?" said Gwendolen, with a leap of heart which had hope in it.
"The day after to-morrow. The yacht is at Marseilles. Lush is gone to get everything ready."
"Shall I have mamma to stay with me, then?" said Gwendolen, the new sudden possibility of peace and affection filling her mind like a burst of morning light.
"No; you will go with me."

The next morning at breakfast he said, "I am going yachting to the Mediterranean."
"When?" said Gwendolen, with a leap of hope.
"The day after tomorrow. The yacht is at Marseilles. Lush is gone to get everything ready."
"Shall I have mamma to stay with me, then?" said Gwendolen, the new sudden possibility of peace and affection filling her mind like a burst of morning light.
"No; you will go with me."


"My desolation does begin to make A better life." --SHAKESPEARE: _Antony and Cleopatra._
Before Deronda was summoned to a second interview with his mother, a day had passed in which she had only sent him a message to say that she was not yet well enough to receive him again; but on the third morning he had a note saying, "I leave to-day. Come and see me at once."
He was shown into the same room as before; but it was much darkened with blinds and curtains. The Princess was not there, but she presently entered, dressed in a loose wrap of some soft silk, in color a dusky orange, her head again with black lace floating about it, her arms showing themselves bare from under her wide sleeves. Her face seemed even more impressive in the sombre light, the eyes larger, the lines more vigorous. You might have imagined her a sorceress who would stretch forth her wonderful hand and arm to mix youth-potions for others, but scorned to mix them for herself, having had enough of youth.
She put her arms on her son's shoulders at once, and kissed him on both cheeks, then seated herself among her cushions with an air of assured firmness and dignity unlike her fitfulness in their first interview, and told Deronda to sit down by her. He obeyed, saying, "You are quite relieved now, I trust?"

On the third morning after his meeting with his mother, Deronda had a note from her saying, "I leave today. Come and see me at once."
He was shown into the same room as before, but darkened with blinds. The Princess presently entered, dressed in a loose wrap of dusky orange silk, with black lace about her head. Her face seemed even more impressive in the sombre light, the eyes larger, the lines more vigorous. You might have imagined her a sorceress.
She kissed Deronda on both cheeks, then seated herself among her cushions, and told Deronda to sit down by her.


"Yes, I am at ease again. Is there anything more that you would like to ask me?" she said, with the matter of a queen rather than of a mother.
"Can I find the house in Genoa where you used to live with my grandfather?" said Deronda.

"Is there anything more that you would like to ask me?" she said with a queenly air.
"Can I find the house in Genoa where you used to live with my grandfather?" said Deronda.


"No," she answered, with a deprecating movement of her arm, "it is pulled down--not to be found. But about our family, and where my father lived at various times--you will find all that among the papers in the chest, better than I can tell you. My father, I told you, was a physician. My mother was a Morteira. I used to hear all those things without listening. You will find them all. I was born amongst them without my will. I banished them as soon as I could."
Deronda tried to hide his pained feeling, and said, "Anything else that I should desire to know from you could only be what it is some satisfaction to your own feeling to tell me."

"No, it is pulled down. But you will find out about our family from the papers in the chest. My father was a physician. My mother was a Morteira. You will find all these things. I was born amongst them without my will. I banished them as soon as I could."
Deronda tried to hide his pained feeling, and said, "Is there anything else you wish to tell me?"


"I think I have told you everything that could be demanded of me," said the Princess, looking coldly meditative. It seemed as if she had exhausted her emotion in their former interview. The fact was, she had said to herself, "I have done it all. I have confessed all. I will not go through it again. I will save myself from agitation." And she was acting out that scheme.
But to Deronda's nature the moment was cruel; it made the filial yearning of his life a disappointed pilgrimage to a shrine where there were no longer the symbols of sacredness. It seemed that all the woman lacking in her was present in him, as he said, with some tremor in his voice,
"Then are we to part and I never be anything to you?"

"I think I have told you everything that could be demanded of me," said the Princess coldly. It seemed as if she had exhausted her emotion in their former interview. The fact was, she had said to herself, "I have confessed all. I will not go through it again."
But to Deronda the moment was cruel; it made the filial yearning of his life a disappointed pilgrimage to a ruined shrine. He said, with some tremor in his voice-
"Then are we to part and I never to be anything to you?"


"It is better so," said the Princess, in a softer, mellower voice. "There could be nothing but hard duty for you, even if it were possible for you to take the place of my son. You would not love me. Don't deny it," she said, abruptly, putting up her hand. "I know what is the truth. You don't like what I did. You are angry with me. You think I robbed you of something. You are on your grandfather's side, and you will always have a condemnation of me in your heart."

"It is better so," said the Princess, in a softer voice. "There could be nothing but hard duty for you. You would not love me. Don't deny it," she said, abruptly, putting up her hand. "I know the truth. You are angry with me. You think I robbed you of something. You are on your grandfather's side, and you will always condemn me in your heart."


Deronda felt himself under a ban of silence. He rose from his seat by her, preferring to stand, if he had to obey that imperious prohibition of any tenderness. But his mother now looked up at him with a new admiration in her glance, saying,
"You are wrong to be angry with me. You are the better for what I did." After pausing a little, she added, abruptly, "And now tell me what you shall do?"
"Do you mean now, immediately," said Deronda; "or as to the course of my future life?"
"I mean in the future. What difference will it make to you that I have told you about your birth?"

Deronda stood up in silence. But his mother now looked at him with a new admiration in her glance, saying-
"You are wrong to be angry. You are the better for what I did. What shall you do? What difference will it make that I have told you about your birth?"


"A very great difference," said Deronda, emphatically. "I can hardly think of anything that would make a greater difference."
"What shall you do then?" said the Princess, with more sharpness. "Make yourself just like your grandfather--be what he wished you--turn yourself into a Jew like him?"
"That is impossible. The effect of my education can never be done away with. The Christian sympathies in which my mind was reared can never die out of me," said Deronda, with increasing tenacity of tone. "But I consider it my duty--it is the impulse of my feeling--to identify myself, as far as possible, with my hereditary people, and if I can see any work to be done for them that I can give my soul and hand to I shall choose to do it."

"A very great difference," said Deronda, emphatically.
"What shall you do then?" said the Princess, more sharply. "Make yourself into a Jew just like your grandfather?"
"That is impossible. The effect of my education can never be done away with," said Deronda. "But it is my duty and my impulse to identify myself, as far as possible, with my hereditary people, and if I can do any work for them that I can give my soul and hand to, I shall do it."


His mother had her eyes fixed on him with a wondering speculation, examining his face as if she thought that by close attention she could read a difficult language there. He bore her gaze very firmly, sustained by a resolute opposition, which was the expression of his fullest self. She bent toward him a little, and said, with a decisive emphasis,
"You are in love with a Jewess."
Deronda colored and said, "My reasons would be independent of any such fact."
"I know better. I have seen what men are," said the Princess, peremptorily. "Tell me the truth. She is a Jewess who will not accept any one but a Jew. There _are_ a few such," she added, with a touch of scorn.

His mother studied him with a wondering speculation, as if she could read a difficult language in his face, while he bore her gaze with firm resolution. She said-
"You are in love with a Jewess."
Deronda coloured. "My reasons would be independent of any such fact."
"I know better. I have seen what men are," said the Princess. "Tell me the truth. She is a Jewess who will not accept anyone but a Jew. There are a few such," she added, with a touch of scorn.


Deronda had that objection to answer which we all have known in speaking to those who are too certain of their own fixed interpretations to be enlightened by anything we may say. But besides this, the point immediately in question was one on which he felt a repugnance either to deny or affirm. He remained silent, and she presently said,
"You love her as your father loved me, and she draws you after her as I drew him."
Those words touched Deronda's filial imagination, and some tenderness in his glance was taken by his mother as an assent. She went on with rising passion: "But I was leading him the other way. And now your grandfather is getting his revenge."

Deronda remained silent, and she presently said, with rising passion-
"You love her as your father loved me, and she draws you after her as I drew him. But I was leading him the other way. And now your grandfather is getting his revenge."


"Mother," said Deronda, remonstrantly, "don't let us think of it in that way. I will admit that there may come some benefit from the education you chose for me. I prefer cherishing the benefit with gratitude, to dwelling with resentment on the injury. I think it would have been right that I should have been brought up with the consciousness that I was a Jew, but it must always have been a good to me to have as wide an instruction and sympathy as possible. And now, you have restored me my inheritance--events have brought a fuller restitution than you could have made--you have been saved from robbing my people of my service and me of my duty: can you not bring your whole soul to consent to this?"
Deronda paused in his pleading: his mother looked at him listeningly, as if the cadence of his voice were taking her ear, yet she shook her head slowly. He began again, even more urgently.
"You have told me that you sought what you held the best for me: open your heart to relenting and love toward my grandfather, who sought what he held the best for you."

"Mother, don't let us think of it in that way. I admit that there may come some benefit from the education you chose for me. I prefer cherishing the benefit, to dwelling with resentment on the injury. I think it would have been right that I should have been brought up knowing that I was a Jew, but I had a good upbringing. And now, you have restored my inheritance - you have been saved from robbing me of my duty: can you not bring yourself to consent to this?"
His mother slowly shook her head, and he said, more urgently,
"You have told me that you sought what you held the best for me: open your heart and relent toward my grandfather, who sought what he held the best for you."


"Not for me, no," she said, shaking her head with more absolute denial, and folding her arms tightly. "I tell you, he never thought of his daughter except as an instrument. Because I had wants outside his purpose, I was to be put in a frame and tortured. If that is the right law for the world, I will not say that I love it. If my acts were wrong--if it is God who is exacting from me that I should deliver up what I withheld--who is punishing me because I deceived my father and did not warn him that I should contradict his trust--well, I have told everything. I have done what I could. And _your_ soul consents. That is enough. I have after all been the instrument my father wanted.--'I desire a grandson who shall have a true Jewish heart. Every Jew should rear his family as if he hoped that a Deliverer might spring from it.'"

"Not for me, no," she said, shaking her head, and folding her arms tightly. "He never thought of his daughter except as an instrument. Because I had wishes outside his purpose, I was to be put in a frame and tortured. If that is the right law for the world, I will not say that I love it. If my acts were wrong - well, I have told everything. I have done what I could. I have after all been the instrument my father wanted - 'I desire a grandson who shall have a true Jewish heart.'"


In uttering these last sentences the Princess narrowed her eyes, waved her head up and down, and spoke slowly with a new kind of chest-voice, as if she were quoting unwillingly.
"Were those my grandfather's words?" said Deronda.


"Yes, yes; and you will find them written. I wanted to thwart him," said the Princess, with a sudden outburst of the passion she had shown in the former interview. Then she added more slowly, "You would have me love what I have hated from the time I was so high"--here she held her left hand a yard from the floor.--"That can never be. But what does it matter? His yoke has been on me, whether I loved it or not. You are the grandson he wanted. You speak as men do--as if you felt yourself wise. What does it all mean?"

"Yes, yes. I wanted to thwart him," said the Princess, with a sudden outburst of passion. "You would have me love what I have hated since I was small. But what does it matter? His yoke has been on me, whether I loved it or not. You are the grandson he wanted. You speak as men do - as if you felt yourself wise. What does it all mean?"


Her tone was abrupt and scornful. Deronda, in his pained feeling, and under the solemn urgency of the moment, had to keep a clutching remembrance of their relationship, lest his words should become cruel. He began in a deep entreating tone:
"Mother, don't say that I feel myself wise. We are set in the midst of difficulties. I see no other way to get any clearness than by being truthful--not by keeping back facts which may--which should carry obligation within them--which should make the only guidance toward duty. No wonder if such facts come to reveal themselves in spite of concealments. The effects prepared by generations are likely to triumph over a contrivance which would bend them all to the satisfaction of self. Your will was strong, but my grandfather's trust which you accepted and did not fulfill--what you call his yoke--is the expression of something stronger, with deeper, farther-spreading roots, knit into the foundations of sacredness for all men. You renounced me--you still banish me--as a son"--there was an involuntary movement of indignation in Deronda's voice--"But that stronger Something has determined that I shall be all the more the grandson whom also you willed to annihilate."

Her tone was abrupt and scornful. Deronda, pained, had to remember their relationship, lest his words should become cruel.
"Mother, don't say that I feel myself wise. I think only the truth can bring us guidance toward duty. Your will was strong, but my grandfather's trust in you - what you call his yoke - is the expression of something stronger, with deeper roots. You renounced me - you banish me as a son"- there was an involuntary indignation in Deronda's voice- "but that stronger Something has determined that I shall be the grandson whom you willed to annihilate."


His mother was watching him fixedly, and again her face gathered admiration. After a moment's silence she said, in a low, persuasive tone,
"Sit down again," and he obeyed, placing himself beside her. She laid her hand on his shoulder and went on,

His mother was watching him fixedly, and again her face gathered admiration.
"Sit down again," she said, and he obeyed. She laid her hand on his shoulder and went on-


"You rebuke me. Well--I am the loser. And you are angry because I banish you. What could you do for me but weary your own patience? Your mother is a shattered woman. My sense of life is little more than a sense of what was--except when the pain is present. You reproach me that I parted with you. I had joy enough without you then. Now you are come back to me, and I cannot make you a joy. Have you the cursing spirit of the Jew in you?

"You rebuke me. You are angry because I banish you. What could you do for me but weary your own patience? Your mother is a shattered woman. You reproach me that I parted with you. I had joy enough without you. Now you are come back to me, and I cannot make you a joy. Have you the cursing spirit of the Jew in you?


Are you not able to forgive me? Shall you be glad to think that I am punished because I was not a Jewish mother to you?"
"How can you ask me that?" said Deronda, remonstrantly. "Have I not besought you that I might now at least be a son to you? My grief is that you have declared me helpless to comfort you. I would give up much that is dear for the sake of soothing your anguish."

Are you not able to forgive me? Shall you be glad to think that I am punished?"
"How can you ask me that?" said Deronda, remonstrantly. "Have I not sought to be a son to you? My grief is that you have declared me helpless to comfort you. I would give up much to soothe your anguish."


"You shall give up nothing," said his mother, with the hurry of agitation. "You shall be happy. You shall let me think of you as happy. I shall have done you no harm. You have no reason to curse me. You shall feel for me as they feel for the dead whom they say prayers for--you shall long that I may be freed from all suffering--from all punishment. And I shall see you instead of always seeing your grandfather. Will any harm come to me because I broke his trust in the daylight after he was gone into darkness? I cannot tell:--if you think _Kaddish_ will help me--say it, say it. You will come between me and the dead.

"You shall give up nothing," said his mother, agitated. "You shall be happy. I shall have done you no harm. You have no reason to curse me. You shall pray that I may be freed from suffering. And I shall see you instead of always seeing your grandfather. If you think Kaddish will help me, say it. You will come between me and the dead.


When I am in your mind, you will look as you do now--always as if you were a tender son--always--as if I had been a tender mother."
She seemed resolved that her agitation should not conquer her, but he felt her hand trembling on his shoulder. Deep, deep compassion hemmed in all words. With a face of beseeching he put his arm around her and pressed her head tenderly under his. They sat so for some moments. Then she lifted her head again and rose from her seat with a great sigh, as if in that breath she were dismissing a weight of thoughts. Deronda, standing in front of her, felt that the parting was near. But one of her swift alternations had come upon his mother.
"Is she beautiful?" she said, abruptly.

When I am in your mind, you will look as you do now - as if you were a tender son - as if I had been a tender mother."
Her hand trembled on his shoulder. Deep compassion hemmed in his words. Putting his arm around her, he pressed her head tenderly to his. They sat so for some moments. Then she lifted her head and rose from her seat with a sigh.
"Is she beautiful?" she said, abruptly.


"Who?" said Deronda, changing color.
"The woman you love."
It was not a moment for deliberate explanation. He was obliged to say, "Yes."
"Not ambitious?"
"No, I think not."
"Not one who must have a path of her own?"
"I think her nature is not given to make great claims."

"Who?"
"The woman you love."
He was obliged to say, "Yes."
"Not ambitious?"
"No, I think not."


"She is not like that?" said the Princess, taking from her wallet a miniature with jewels around it, and holding it before her son. It was her own in all the fire of youth, and as Deronda looked at it with admiring sadness, she said, "Had I not a rightful claim to be something more than a mere daughter and mother? The voice and the genius matched the face. Whatever else was wrong, acknowledge that I had a right to be an artist, though my father's will was against it. My nature gave me a charter."
"I do acknowledge that," said Deronda, looking from the miniature to her face, which even in its worn pallor had an expression of living force beyond anything that the pencil could show.
"Will you take the portrait?" said the Princess, more gently. "If she is a kind woman, teach her to think of me kindly."

"She is not like that?" said the Princess, taking from her wallet a miniature. It was her own portrait in youth, and as Deronda looked at it with admiring sadness, she said, "Had I not a rightful claim to be more than a mere daughter and mother? The voice and the genius matched the face. Whatever else was wrong, acknowledge that I had a right to be an artist."
"I do acknowledge that," said Deronda.
"Will you take the portrait?" said the Princess, more gently. "Teach her to think of me kindly."


"I shall be grateful for the portrait," said Deronda, "but--I ought to say, I have no assurance that she whom I love will have any love for me. I have kept silence."
"Who and what is she?" said the mother. The question seemed a command.
"She was brought up as a singer for the stage," said Deronda, with inward reluctance. "Her father took her away early from her mother, and her life has been unhappy. She is very young--only twenty. Her father wished to bring her up in disregard--even in dislike of her Jewish origin, but she has clung with all her affection to the memory of her mother and the fellowship of her people."

"I shall be grateful for the portrait," said Deronda, "but I have no assurance that she whom I love will have any love for me. I have kept silence."
"Who and what is she?"
"She was brought up as a singer for the stage," he said reluctantly. "Her father took her away early from her mother, and her life has been unhappy. She is only twenty. Her father wished to bring her up in disregard of her Jewish origin, but she has clung with affection to the memory of her mother and her people."


"Ah, like you. She is attached to the Judaism she knows nothing of," said the Princess, peremptorily. "That is poetry--fit to last through an opera night. Is she fond of her artist's life--is her singing worth anything?"
"Her singing is exquisite. But her voice is not suited to the stage. I think that the artist's life has been made repugnant to her."
"Why, she is made for you then. Sir Hugo said you were bitterly against being a singer, and I can see that you would never have let yourself be merged in a wife, as your father was."

"Ah, like you. She is attached to the Judaism she knows nothing of," said the Princess, peremptorily. "Is her singing worth anything?"
"Her singing is exquisite. But her voice is not suited to the stage, and the artist's life has been made repugnant to her."
"Why, she is made for you then. Sir Hugo said you were bitterly against being a singer."


"I repeat," said Deronda, emphatically--"I repeat that I have no assurance of her love for me, of the possibility that we can ever be united. Other things--painful issues may lie before me. I have always felt that I should prepare myself to renounce, not cherish that prospect. But I suppose I might feel so of happiness in general. Whether it may come or not, one should try and prepare one's self to do without it."
"Do you feel in that way?" said his mother, laying her hands on his shoulders, and perusing his face, while she spoke in a low meditative tone, pausing between her sentences. "Poor boy!----I wonder how it would have been if I had kept you with me----whether you would have turned your heart to the old things against mine----and we should have quarreled----your grandfather would have been in you----and you would have hampered my life with your young growth from the old root."
"I think my affection might have lasted through all our quarreling," said Deronda, saddened more and more, "and that would not have hampered--surely it would have enriched your life."
"Not then, not then----I did not want it then----I might have been glad of it now," said the mother, with a bitter melancholy, "if I could have been glad of anything."

"I repeat," said Deronda, emphatically, "that I have no assurance of her love for me. Other painful issues lie before me. I have always felt that I should prepare myself to renounce, not cherish that prospect. But whether happiness may come or not, one should prepare one's self to do without it."
"Do you feel in that way?" said his mother. "Poor boy! I wonder how it would have been if I had kept you with me - whether we should have quarrelled - your grandfather would have been in you - and you would have hampered my life."
"I think my affection might have lasted through our quarrelling," said Deronda, saddened, "and that surely would have enriched your life."
"Not then, I did not want it then. I might have been glad of it now," said the mother, with a bitter melancholy.


"But you love your other children, and they love you?" said Deronda, anxiously.


"Oh, yes," she answered, as to a question about a matter of course, while she folded her arms again. "But,"----she added in a deeper tone,----"I am not a loving woman. That is the truth. It is a talent to love--I lack it. Others have loved me--and I have acted their love. I know very well what love makes of men and women--it is subjection. It takes another for a larger self, enclosing this one,"--she pointed to her own bosom. "I was never willingly subject to any man. Men have been subject to me."
"Perhaps the man who was subject was the happier of the two," said Deronda--not with a smile, but with a grave, sad sense of his mother's privation.

"Oh, yes. But I am not a loving woman. That is the truth. I know what love makes of men and women - it is subjection. I was never willingly subject to any man. Men have been subject to me.


"Perhaps--but I _was_ happy--for a few years I was happy. If I had not been afraid of defeat and failure, I might have gone on. I miscalculated. What then? It is all over. Another life! Men talk of 'another life,' as if it only began on the other side of the grave. I have long entered on another life." With the last words she raised her arms till they were bare to the elbow, her brow was contracted in one deep fold, her eyes were closed, her voice was smothered: in her dusky flame-colored garment, she looked like a dreamed visitant from some region of departed mortals.

For a few years I was happy. What then? It is all over. Another life! Men talk of 'another life,' as if it only began on the other side of the grave. I have long entered on another life." Her eyes were closed, her voice was smothered: in her dusky flame-coloured garment, she looked like a visitant from some land of the dead.


Deronda's feeling was wrought to a pitch of acuteness in which he was no longer quite master of himself. He gave an audible sob. His mother opened her eyes, and letting her hands again rest on his shoulders, said,
"Good-bye, my son, good-bye. We shall hear no more of each other. Kiss me."
He clasped his arms round her neck, and they kissed each other.

Deronda was no longer quite master of himself. He gave an audible sob. His mother, opening her eyes, said-
"Good-bye, my son, good-bye. We shall hear no more of each other. Kiss me."
He clasped his arms round her neck, and they kissed each other.


Deronda did not know how he got out of the room. He felt an older man. All his boyish yearnings and anxieties about his mother had vanished. He had gone through a tragic experience which must forever solemnize his life and deepen the significance of the acts by which he bound himself to others.

Deronda did not know how he got out of the room. He felt an older man. All his boyish yearnings about his mother had vanished. He had gone through a tragic experience which must forever solemnize his life.


"Her wit Values itself so highly, that to her All matter else seems weak." --_Much Ado About Nothing._
Gwendolen's reception in the neighborhood fulfilled her uncle's expectations. From Brackenshaw Castle to the Firs at Wanchester, where Mr. Quallon the banker kept a generous house, she was welcomed with manifest admiration, and even those ladies who did not quite like her, felt a comfort in having a new, striking girl to invite; for hostesses who entertain much must make up their parties as ministers make up their cabinets, on grounds other than personal liking. Then, in order to have Gwendolen as a guest, it was not necessary to ask any one who was disagreeable, for Mrs. Davilow always made a quiet, picturesque figure as a chaperon, and Mr. Gascoigne was everywhere in request for his own sake.
Among the houses where Gwendolen was not quite liked, and yet invited, was Quetcham Hall. One of her first invitations was to a large dinner-party there, which made a sort of general introduction for her to the society of the neighborhood; for in a select party of thirty and of well-composed proportions as to age, few visitable families could be entirely left out. No youthful figure there was comparable to Gwendolen's as she passed through the long suite of rooms adorned with light and flowers, and, visible at first as a slim figure floating along in white drapery, approached through one wide doorway after another into fuller illumination and definiteness. She had never had that sort of promenade before, and she felt exultingly that it befitted her: any one looking at her for the first time might have supposed that long galleries and lackeys had always been a matter of course in her life; while her cousin Anna, who was really more familiar with these things, felt almost as much embarrassed as a rabbit suddenly deposited in that well-lit-space.

Gwendolen's reception in the neighbourhood fulfilled her uncle's expectations. She was welcomed with admiration, and even those ladies who did not quite like her felt a comfort in having a new, striking girl to invite to their parties. In addition, Mrs. Davilow always made a quiet, picturesque figure as a chaperon, and Mr. Gascoigne was everywhere in demand for his own sake.
Among the houses where Gwendolen was not quite liked, and yet invited, was Quetcham Hall. One of her first invitations was to a large dinner-party there, which introduced her to the society of the neighbourhood.
No figure there compared to Gwendolen's as she passed through the long suite of rooms adorned with light and flowers. Visible at first as a slim figure floating in white drapery, she approached through one wide doorway after another into fuller illumination. She had never had that sort of promenade before, and she felt exultingly that it befitted her: while her cousin Anna felt as embarrassed as a rabbit suddenly deposited in that well-lit-space.


"Who is that with Gascoigne?" said the archdeacon, neglecting a discussion of military manoeuvres on which, as a clergyman, he was naturally appealed to. And his son, on the other side of the room--a hopeful young scholar, who had already suggested some "not less elegant than ingenious," emendations of Greek texts--said nearly at the same time, "By George! who is that girl with the awfully well-set head and jolly figure?"
But to a mind of general benevolence, wishing everybody to look well, it was rather exasperating to see how Gwendolen eclipsed others: how even the handsome Miss Lawe, explained to be the daughter of Lady Lawe, looked suddenly broad, heavy and inanimate; and how Miss Arrowpoint, unfortunately also dressed in white, immediately resembled a _carte-de-visite_ in which one would fancy the skirt alone to have been charged for. Since Miss Arrowpoint was generally liked for the amiable unpretending way in which she wore her fortunes, and made a softening screen for the oddities of her mother, there seemed to be some unfitness in Gwendolen's looking so much more like a person of social importance.
"She is not really so handsome if you come to examine her features," said Mrs. Arrowpoint, later in the evening, confidentially to Mrs. Vulcany. "It is a certain style she has, which produces a great effect at first, but afterward she is less agreeable."

"By George!" said the Archdeacon's son. "Who is that girl with the awfully well-set head and jolly figure?"
But to some onlookers, it was rather exasperating to see how Gwendolen eclipsed others, including Miss Arrowpoint, unfortunately also dressed in white. Since Miss Arrowpoint was generally liked for the amiable unpretending way in which she wore her fortunes, and softened the oddities of her mother, it did not seem fitting for Gwendolen to look so much more important.
"She is not really so handsome," said Mrs. Arrowpoint, later in the evening, confidentially to Mrs. Vulcany. "She has a certain style, which produces a great effect at first, but afterward she is less agreeable."


In fact, Gwendolen, not intending it, but intending the contrary, had offended her hostess, who, though not a splenetic or vindictive woman, had her susceptibilities. Several conditions had met in the Lady of Quetcham which to the reasoners in that neighborhood seemed to have an essential connection with each other. It was occasionally recalled that she had been the heiress of a fortune gained by some moist or dry business in the city, in order fully to account for her having a squat figure, a harsh parrot-like voice, and a systematically high head-dress; and since these points made her externally rather ridiculous, it appeared to many only natural that she should have what are called literary tendencies. A little comparison would have shown that all these points are to be found apart; daughters of aldermen being often well-grown and well-featured, pretty women having sometimes harsh or husky voices, and the production of feeble literature being found compatible with the most diverse forms of _physique_, masculine as well as feminine.
Gwendolen, who had a keen sense of absurdity in others, but was kindly disposed toward any one who could make life agreeable to her, meant to win Mrs. Arrowpoint by giving her an interest and attention beyond what others were probably inclined to show. But self-confidence is apt to address itself to an imaginary dullness in others; as people who are well off speak in a cajoling tone to the poor, and those who are in the prime of life raise their voice and talk artificially to seniors, hastily conceiving them to be deaf and rather imbecile. Gwendolen, with all her cleverness and purpose to be agreeable, could not escape that form of stupidity: it followed in her mind, unreflectingly, that because Mrs. Arrowpoint was ridiculous she was also likely to be wanting in penetration, and she went through her little scenes without suspicion that the various shades of her behavior were all noted.
"You are fond of books as well as of music, riding, and archery, I hear," Mrs. Arrowpoint said, going to her for a _tete--tete_ in the drawing-room after dinner. "Catherine will be very glad to have so sympathetic a neighbor." This little speech might have seemed the most graceful politeness, spoken in a low, melodious tone; but with a twang, fatally loud, it gave Gwendolen a sense of exercising patronage when she answered, gracefully:

In fact, Gwendolen had unintentionally offended her hostess. The lady of Quetcham had a squat figure, a harsh parrot-like voice, and a high head-dress; and since these points made her appear rather ridiculous, it seemed only natural that she should have literary tendencies.
Gwendolen, who was kindly disposed toward anyone who could make life agreeable to her, meant to win Mrs. Arrowpoint by showing her more interest and attention than other people were likely to. But self-confidence is apt to imagine dullness in others; as people who are well off speak in a cajoling tone to the poor, and the young raise their voice and talk artificially to seniors, assuming them to be deaf and slow. Gwendolen, with all her cleverness, could not escape that form of stupidity: she thought, unreflectingly, that because Mrs. Arrowpoint was ridiculous she was also likely to be lacking in penetration, and she went through her little scenes without suspicion that her behaviour was noted.
"You are fond of books, I hear," Mrs. Arrowpoint said to her after dinner. "Catherine will be very glad to have so sympathetic a neighbour." This little speech might have seemed gracefully polite if spoken in a low, melodious tone; but with a twang, fatally loud, it gave Gwendolen a sense of exercising patronage when she answered:


"It is I who am fortunate. Miss Arrowpoint will teach me what good music is. I shall be entirely a learner. I hear that she is a thorough musician."


"Catherine has certainly had every advantage. We have a first-rate musician in the house now--Herr Klesmer; perhaps you know all his compositions. You must allow me to introduce him to you. You sing, I believe. Catherine plays three instruments, but she does not sing. I hope you will let us hear you. I understand you are an accomplished singer."
"Oh, no!--'die Kraft ist schwach, allein die Lust ist gross,' as Mephistopheles says."

"Catherine has certainly had every advantage. We have a first-rate musician in the house - Herr Klesmer; perhaps you know his compositions. You sing, I believe. Catherine plays three instruments, but she does not sing. I hope you will let us hear you. I understand you are an accomplished singer."
"Oh, no! - 'die Kraft ist schwach, allein die Lust ist gross,' as Mephistopheles says."


"Ah, you are a student of Goethe. Young ladies are so advanced now. I suppose you have read everything."
"No, really. I shall be so glad if you will tell me what to read. I have been looking into all the books in the library at Offendene, but there is nothing readable. The leaves all stick together and smell musty. I wish I could write books to amuse myself, as you can! How delightful it must be to write books after one's own taste instead of reading other people's! Home-made books must be so nice."

"Ah, you are a student of Goethe. Young ladies are so advanced now. I suppose you have read everything."
"No, really. I shall be so glad if you will tell me what to read. There is nothing readable in the library at Offendene; the books smell musty. I wish I could write books to amuse myself, as you can! How delightful it must be to write books after one's own taste instead of reading other people's! Home-made books must be so nice."


For an instant Mrs. Arrowpoint's glance was a little sharper, but the perilous resemblance to satire in the last sentence took the hue of girlish simplicity when Gwendolen added,
"I would give anything to write a book!"
"And why should you not?" said Mrs. Arrowpoint, encouragingly. "You have but to begin as I did. Pen, ink, and paper are at everybody's command. But I will send you all I have written with pleasure."

For an instant Mrs. Arrowpoint's glance was a little sharper, but Gwendolen appeared more simple than satirical when she added, "I would give anything to write a book!"
"And why should you not?" said Mrs. Arrowpoint, encouragingly. "Pen and paper are at everybody's command. But I will send you all I have written with pleasure."


"Thanks. I shall be so glad to read your writings. Being acquainted with authors must give a peculiar understanding of their books: one would be able to tell then which parts were funny and which serious. I am sure I often laugh in the wrong place." Here Gwendolen herself became aware of danger, and added quickly, "In Shakespeare, you know, and other great writers that we can never see. But I always want to know more than there is in the books."
"If you are interested in any of my subjects I can lend you many extra sheets in manuscript," said Mrs. Arrowpoint--while Gwendolen felt herself painfully in the position of the young lady who professed to like potted sprats.
"These are things I dare say I shall publish eventually: several friends have urged me to do so, and one doesn't like to be obstinate. My Tasso, for example--I could have made it twice the size."
"I dote on Tasso," said Gwendolen.

"Thanks. I shall be so glad to read your writings. Knowing authors must give a special understanding of their books: one would be able to tell then which parts were funny and which serious. I am sure I often laugh in the wrong place." Here Gwendolen became aware of danger, and added quickly, "In Shakespeare, you know, and other great writers. But I always want to know more than there is in the books."
"If you are interested in any of my subjects I can lend you many extra sheets in manuscript," said Mrs. Arrowpoint - while Gwendolen felt herself painfully in the position of the young lady who pretended to like potted sprats. "These are things I dare say I shall publish eventually: my Tasso, for example."
"I dote on Tasso," said Gwendolen.


"Well, you shall have all my papers, if you like. So many, you know, have written about Tasso; but they are all wrong. As to the particular nature of his madness, and his feelings for Leonora, and the real cause of his imprisonment, and the character of Leonora, who, in my opinion, was a cold-hearted woman, else she would have married him in spite of her brother--they are all wrong. I differ from everybody."

"Well, you shall have my papers, if you like. So many have written about Tasso; but as to the nature of his madness, and his feelings for Leonora, they are all wrong. I differ from everybody."


"How very interesting!" said Gwendolen. "I like to differ from everybody. I think it is so stupid to agree. That is the worst of writing your opinions; you make people agree with you." This speech renewed a slight suspicion in Mrs. Arrowpoint, and again her glance became for a moment examining. But Gwendolen looked very innocent, and continued with a docile air:
"I know nothing of Tasso except the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, which we read and learned by heart at school."
"Ah, his life is more interesting than his poetry, I have constructed the early part of his life as a sort of romance. When one thinks of his father Bernardo, and so on, there is much that must be true."

"How very interesting!" said Gwendolen. "I like to differ from everybody. I think it is so stupid to agree. That is the worst of writing your opinions; you make people agree with you."
This speech renewed a slight suspicion in Mrs. Arrowpoint. But Gwendolen looked very innocent, and continued with a docile air:
"I know nothing of Tasso except the Gerusalemme Liberata, which we read at school."
"Ah, his life is more interesting than his poetry. I have constructed the early part of his life as a sort of romance."


"Imagination is often truer than fact," said Gwendolen, decisively, though she could no more have explained these glib words than if they had been Coptic or Etruscan. "I shall be so glad to learn all about Tasso--and his madness especially. I suppose poets are always a little mad."
"To be sure--'the poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling'; and somebody says of Marlowe,
'For that fine madness still he did maintain, Which always should possess the poet's brain.'"
"But it was not always found out, was it?" said Gwendolen innocently. "I suppose some of them rolled their eyes in private. Mad people are often very cunning."
Again a shade flitted over Mrs. Arrowpoint's face; but the entrance of the gentlemen prevented any immediate mischief between her and this too quick young lady, who had over-acted her _navet_.

"Imagination is often truer than fact," said Gwendolen, decisively, though she could no more have explained these glib words than if they had been Coptic or Etruscan. "I shall be so glad to learn all about Tasso - and his madness especially. I suppose poets are always a little mad, although they are not always found out. Mad people are often very cunning."
Again a shade flitted over Mrs. Arrowpoint's face; but then the gentlemen came in.


"Ah, here comes Herr Klesmer," said Mrs. Arrowpoint, rising; and presently bringing him to Gwendolen, she left them to a dialogue which was agreeable on both sides, Herr Klesmer being a felicitous combination of the German, the Sclave and the Semite, with grand features, brown hair floating in artistic fashion, and brown eyes in spectacles. His English had little foreignness except its fluency; and his alarming cleverness was made less formidable just then by a certain softening air of silliness which will sometimes befall even Genius in the desire of being agreeable to Beauty.
Music was soon begun. Miss Arrowpoint and Herr Klesmer played a four-handed piece on two pianos, which convinced the company in general that it was long, and Gwendolen in particular that the neutral, placid-faced Miss Arrowpoint had a mastery of the instrument which put her own execution out of question--though she was not discouraged as to her often-praised touch and style. After this every one became anxious to hear Gwendolen sing; especially Mr. Arrowpoint; as was natural in a host and a perfect gentleman, of whom no one had anything to say but that he married Miss Cuttler and imported the best cigars; and he led her to the piano with easy politeness. Herr Klesmer closed the instrument in readiness for her, and smiled with pleasure at her approach; then placed himself at a distance of a few feet so that he could see her as she sang.
Gwendolen was not nervous; what she undertook to do she did without trembling, and singing was an enjoyment to her. Her voice was a moderately powerful soprano (some one had told her it was like Jenny Lind's), her ear good, and she was able to keep in tune, so that her singing gave pleasure to ordinary hearers, and she had been used to unmingled applause. She had the rare advantage of looking almost prettier when she was singing than at other times, and that Herr Klesmer was in front of her seemed not disagreeable. Her song, determined on beforehand, was a favorite aria of Belini's, in which she felt quite sure of herself.

"Ah, here is Herr Klesmer," said Mrs. Arrowpoint, rising; and introducing him to Gwendolen, she left them together. Herr Klesmer had a happy combination of German, Slav and Semitic looks, with grand features, brown hair floating in artistic fashion, and brown eyes in spectacles. His English had little foreignness; and his alarming cleverness was made less formidable by a softening air of silliness which will sometimes befall even Genius in the desire of being agreeable to Beauty.
Music was soon begun. Miss Arrowpoint and Herr Klesmer played a four-handed piece on two pianos, which convinced the company in general that it was long, and Gwendolen in particular that the placid-faced Miss Arrowpoint had a mastery of the instrument which put her own performance out of the question.
After this everyone became anxious to hear Gwendolen sing; and Mr. Arrowpoint led her to the piano. Herr Klesmer smiled with pleasure at her approach; then placed himself a few feet away so that he could see her as she sang.
Gwendolen was not nervous: she enjoyed singing. Her voice was a moderately powerful soprano, her ear good, and she was able to keep in tune, so that her singing gave pleasure to ordinary hearers, and she had been used to unmingled applause. She had the rare advantage of looking almost prettier when she was singing than at other times, and to have Herr Klesmer in front of her was not disagreeable. Her song was an aria of Bellini's, in which she felt quite sure of herself.


"Charming!" said Mr. Arrowpoint, who had remained near, and the word was echoed around without more insincerity than we recognize in a brotherly way as human. But Herr Klesmer stood like a statue--if a statue can be imagined in spectacles; at least, he was as mute as a statue. Gwendolen was pressed to keep her seat and double the general pleasure, and she did not wish to refuse; but before resolving to do so, she moved a little toward Herr Klesmer, saying with a look of smiling appeal, "It would be too cruel to a great musician. You cannot like to hear poor amateur singing."
"No, truly; but that makes nothing," said Herr Klesmer, suddenly speaking in an odious German fashion with staccato endings, quite unobservable in him before, and apparently depending on a change of mood, as Irishmen resume their strongest brogue when they are fervid or quarrelsome. "That makes nothing. It is always acceptable to see you sing."
Was there ever so unexpected an assertion of superiority--at least before the late Teutonic conquest? Gwendolen colored deeply, but, with her usual presence of mind, did not show an ungraceful resentment by moving away immediately; and Miss Arrowpoint, who had been near enough to overhear (and also to observe that Herr Klesmer's mode of looking at Gwendolen was more conspicuously admiring than was quite consistent with good taste), now with the utmost tact and kindness came close to her and said,

"Charming!" said Mr. Arrowpoint, and the word was echoed around the room. But Herr Klesmer stood as mute as a statue. Gwendolen was pressed to sing again, and she did not wish to refuse; but first she said to Herr Klesmer, with a smiling appeal, "It would be cruel to a great musician. You cannot like to hear poor amateur singing."
"No, truly; but that makes nothing," said Herr Klesmer, suddenly speaking in an odious German fashion with staccato endings, just as Irishmen resume their strongest brogue when they are agitated. "That makes nothing. It is always acceptable to see you sing."
Was there ever so unexpected an assertion of superiority? Gwendolen coloured deeply, but, with her usual presence of mind, did not show an ungraceful resentment by moving away immediately; and Miss Arrowpoint, who had been near enough to overhear (and also to see that Herr Klesmer was looking at Gwendolen with more conspicuous admiration than was quite consistent with good taste), now with the utmost tact and kindness came up and said-


"Imagine what I have to go through with this professor! He can hardly tolerate anything we English do in music. We can only put up with his severity, and make use of it to find out the worst that can be said of us. It is a little comfort to know that; and one can bear it when every one else is admiring."
"I should be very much obliged to him for telling me the worst," said Gwendolen, recovering herself. "I dare say I have been extremely ill taught, in addition to having no talent--only liking for music." This was very well expressed considering that it had never entered her mind before.

"Imagine what I have to go through with this professor! He can hardly tolerate anything we English do in music. We can only put up with his severity. One can bear it when everyone else is admiring."
Gwendolen, recovering herself, answered, "I dare say I have been extremely ill taught, in addition to having no talent - only liking for music." This was very well expressed considering that it had never entered her mind before.


"Yes, it is true: you have not been well taught," said Herr Klesmer, quietly. Woman was dear to him, but music was dearer. "Still, you are not quite without gifts. You sing in tune, and you have a pretty fair organ. But you produce your notes badly; and that music which you sing is beneath you. It is a form of melody which expresses a puerile state of culture--a dawdling, canting, see-saw kind of stuff--the passion and thought of people without any breadth of horizon. There is a sort of self-satisfied folly about every phrase of such melody; no cries of deep, mysterious passion--no conflict--no sense of the universal. It makes men small as they listen to it. Sing now something larger. And I shall see."

"Yes, it is true: you have not been well taught," said Herr Klesmer, quietly. Woman was dear to him, but music was dearer. "Still, you are not quite without gifts. You sing in tune, and you have a pretty fair voice. But you produce your notes badly; and that dawdling, see-saw kind of music is beneath you. It has no breadth of horizon. There is a self-satisfied folly about such melody; no deep, mysterious passion - no conflict - no sense of the universal. It makes men small as they listen to it. Sing now something larger."


"Oh, not now--by-and-by," said Gwendolen, with a sinking of heart at the sudden width of horizon opened round her small musical performance. For a lady desiring to lead, this first encounter in her campaign was startling. But she was bent on not behaving foolishly, and Miss Arrowpoint helped her by saying, "Yes, by-and-by. I always require half an hour to get up my courage after being criticised by Herr Klesmer. We will ask him to play to us now: he is bound to show us what is good music."
To be quite safe on this point Herr Klesmer played a composition of his own, a fantasia called _Freudvoll, Leidvoll, Gedankenvoll_--an extensive commentary on some melodic ideas not too grossly evident; and he certainly fetched as much variety and depth of passion out of the piano as that moderately responsive instrument lends itself to, having an imperious magic in his fingers that seem to send a nerve-thrill through ivory key and wooden hammer, and compel the strings to make a quivering lingering speech for him. Gwendolen, in spite of her wounded egoism, had fullness of nature enough to feel the power of this playing, and it gradually turned her inward sob of mortification into an excitement which lifted her for the moment into a desperate indifference about her own doings, or at least a determination to get a superiority over them by laughing at them as if they belonged to somebody else. Her eyes had become brighter, her cheeks slightly flushed, and her tongue ready for any mischievous remarks.

"Oh, not now. By-and-by," said Gwendolen, with a sinking heart. For a lady desiring to lead, this first encounter in her campaign was startling. But she was bent on not behaving foolishly, and Miss Arrowpoint helped her by saying,
"Yes, by-and-by. I always require half an hour to get up my courage after being criticised by Herr Klesmer. We will ask him to play to us now: he will show us what is good music."
To be quite safe on this point Herr Klesmer played a composition of his own; and he certainly fetched as much passion out of the piano as that instrument lends itself to, having an imperious magic in his fingers that drew a quivering lingering speech from the strings. Gwendolen, despite her wounded egoism, could feel the power of this playing, and it gradually turned her mortification into an excitement which lifted her for the moment into a desperate indifference to her own shortcomings, or at least a determination to laugh at them. Her eyes had become brighter, her cheeks flushed, and her tongue ready for any mischief.


"I wish you would sing to us again, Miss Harleth," said young Clintock, the archdeacon's classical son, who had been so fortunate as to take her to dinner, and came up to renew conversation as soon as Herr Klesmer's performance was ended, "That is the style of music for me. I never can make anything of this tip-top playing. It is like a jar of leeches, where you can never tell either beginnings or endings. I could listen to your singing all day."
"Yes, we should be glad of something popular now--another song from you would be a relaxation," said Mrs. Arrowpoint, who had also come near with polite intentions.
"That must be because you are in a puerile state of culture, and have no breadth of horizon. I have just learned that. I have been taught how bad my taste is, and am feeling growing pains. They are never pleasant," said Gwendolen, not taking any notice of Mrs. Arrowpoint, and looking up with a bright smile at young Clintock.
Mrs. Arrowpoint was not insensible to this rudeness, but merely said, "Well, we will not press anything disagreeably," and as there was a perceptible outburst of imprisoned conversation just then, and a movement of guests seeking each other, she remained seated where she was, and looked around her with the relief of a hostess at finding she is not needed.

"I wish you would sing to us again, Miss Harleth," said Clintock, the Archdeacon's son, as soon as Herr Klesmer's performance was ended. "That is the style of music for me. I never can make anything of this tip-top playing, but I could listen to your singing all day."
"Yes, we should be glad of something popular now - another song from you would be a relaxation," said Mrs. Arrowpoint politely.
"That must be because you have no breadth of horizon. I have just been taught how bad my taste is, and am feeling growing pains. They are never pleasant," said Gwendolen, ignoring Mrs. Arrowpoint, and smiling at young Clintock.
Mrs. Arrowpoint was not insensible to this rudeness, but merely said, "Well, we will not press you."


"I am glad you like this neighborhood," said young Clintock, well-pleased with his station in front of Gwendolen.
"Exceedingly. There seems to be a little of everything and not much of anything."
"That is rather equivocal praise."
"Not with me. I like a little of everything; a little absurdity, for example, is very amusing. I am thankful for a few queer people; but much of them is a bore."
(Mrs. Arrowpoint, who was hearing this dialogue, perceived quite a new tone in Gwendolen's speech, and felt a revival of doubt as to her interest in Tasso's madness.)

"I am glad you like this neighbourhood," said young Clintock, well-pleased to be with Gwendolen.
"Exceedingly. There seems to be a little of everything, and not too much of anything. I like a little of everything; a little absurdity, for example, is very amusing."


"I think there should be more croquet, for one thing," said young Clintock; "I am usually away, but if I were more here I should go in for a croquet club. You are one of the archers, I think. But depend upon it croquet is the game of the future. It wants writing up, though. One of our best men has written a poem on it, in four cantos;--as good as Pope. I want him to publish it--You never read anything better."
"I shall study croquet to-morrow. I shall take to it instead of singing."


"No, no, not that; but do take to croquet. I will send you Jenning's poem if you like. I have a manuscript copy."
"Is he a great friend of yours?"
"Well, rather."
"Oh, if he is only rather, I think I will decline. Or, if you send it to me, will you promise not to catechise me upon it and ask me which part I like best? Because it is not so easy to know a poem without reading it as to know a sermon without listening."
"Decidedly," Mrs. Arrowpoint thought, "this girl is double and satirical. I shall be on my guard against her."

"Decidedly," Mrs. Arrowpoint thought, "this girl is satirical. I shall be on my guard against her."


But Gwendolen, nevertheless, continued to receive polite attentions from the family at Quetcham, not merely because invitations have larger grounds than those of personal liking, but because the trying little scene at the piano had awakened a kindly solicitude toward her in the gentle mind of Miss Arrowpoint, who managed all the invitations and visits, her mother being otherwise occupied.

But Gwendolen, nevertheless, continued to receive polite attentions from the family at Quetcham; the trying scene at the piano had awakened a kindly solicitude toward her in the gentle mind of Miss Arrowpoint, who managed all the invitations and visits, her mother being otherwise occupied.


Behold my lady's carriage stop the way. With powdered lacquey and with charming bay; She sweeps the matting, treads the crimson stair. Her arduous function solely "to be there." Like Sirius rising o'er the silent sea. She hides her heart in lustre loftily.
So the Grandcourts were in Grosvenor Square in time to receive a card for the musical party at Lady Mallinger's, there being reasons of business which made Sir Hugo know beforehand that his ill-beloved nephew was coming up. It was only the third evening after their arrival, and Gwendolen made rather an absent-minded acquaintance with her new ceilings and furniture, preoccupied with the certainty that she was going to speak to Deronda again, and also to see the Miss Lapidoth who had gone through so much, and was "capable of submitting to anything in the form of duty." For Gwendolen had remembered nearly every word that Deronda had said about Mirah, and especially that phrase, which she repeated to herself bitterly, having an ill-defined consciousness that her own submission was something very different. She would have been obliged to allow, if any one had said it to her, that what she submitted to could not take the shape of duty, but was submission to a yoke drawn on her by an action she was ashamed of, and worn with a strength of selfish motives that left no weight for duty to carry.

The Grandcourts were in Grosvenor Square in time to receive a card for the musical party at Lady Mallinger's. It was only the third evening after their arrival, and Gwendolen made rather an absent-minded acquaintance with her new ceilings and furniture, preoccupied with the certainty that she was going to speak to Deronda again, and also to see the Miss Lapidoth who had gone through so much, and was "capable of submitting to any duty." For Gwendolen remembered nearly every word that Deronda had said about Mirah, and repeated that phrase to herself bitterly, conscious that her own submission was very different. What she submitted to was not duty, but a yoke laid on her by an action she was ashamed of, and worn with selfish motives.


The drawing-rooms in Park Lane, all white, gold, and pale crimson, were agreeably furnished, and not crowded with guests, before Mr. and Mrs. Grandcourt entered; and more than half an hour of instrumental music was being followed by an interval of movement and chat. Klesmer was there with his wife, and in his generous interest for Mirah he proposed to accompany her singing of Leo's "_O patria mia_," which he had before recommended her to choose, as more distinctive of her than better known music. He was already at the piano, and Mirah was standing there conspicuously, when Gwendolen, magnificent in her pale green velvet and poisoned diamonds, was ushered to a seat of honor well in view of them. With her long sight and self-command she had the rare power of quickly distinguishing persons and objects on entering a full room, and while turning her glance toward Mirah she did not neglect to exchange a bow with Klesmer as she passed. The smile seemed to each a lightning-flash back on that morning when it had been her ambition to stand as the "little Jewess" was standing, and survey a grand audience from the higher rank of her talent--instead of which she was one of the ordinary crowd in silk and gems, whose utmost performance it must be to admire or find fault. "He thinks I am in the right road now," said the lurking resentment within her.

The drawing-rooms in Park Lane, white, gold, and pale crimson, were not crowded when Mr. and Mrs. Grandcourt entered. Half an hour of instrumental music was being followed by an interval of movement and chat. Klesmer was there with his wife, and he generously proposed to accompany Mirah's singing of Leo's "O patria mia."
He was already at the piano, and Mirah was standing there, when Gwendolen, magnificent in her pale green velvet and poisoned diamonds, was ushered to a seat of honour well in view of them. While turning her glance toward Mirah, she did not neglect to exchange a bow with Klesmer as she passed. The smile seemed to each to flash back to that morning when it had been her ambition to stand as the "little Jewess" was standing - instead of which she was one of the ordinary crowd in silk and gems, whose performance must be to admire or find fault. "He thinks I am in the right road now," said the lurking resentment within her.


Gwendolen had not caught sight of Deronda in her passage, and while she was seated acquitting herself in chat with Sir Hugo, she glanced round her with careful ease, bowing a recognition here and there, and fearful lest an anxious-looking exploration in search of Deronda might be observed by her husband, and afterward rebuked as something "damnably vulgar." But all traveling, even that of a slow gradual glance round a room, brings a liability to undesired encounters, and amongst the eyes that met Gwendolen's, forcing her into a slight bow, were those of the "amateur too fond of Meyerbeer," Mr. Lush, whom Sir Hugo continued to find useful as a half-caste among gentlemen. He was standing near her husband, who, however, turned a shoulder toward him, and was being understood to listen to Lord Pentreath. How was it that at this moment, for the first time, there darted through Gwendolen, like a disagreeable sensation, the idea that this man knew all about her husband's life? He had been banished from her sight, according to her will, and she had been satisfied; he had sunk entirely into the background of her thoughts, screened away from her by the agitating figures that kept up an inward drama in which Lush had no place. Here suddenly he reappeared at her husband's elbow, and there sprang up in her, like an instantaneously fabricated memory in a dream, the sense of his being connected with the secrets that made her wretched. She was conscious of effort in turning her head away from him, trying to continue her wandering survey as if she had seen nothing of more consequence than the picture on the wall, till she discovered Deronda. But he was not looking toward her, and she withdrew her eyes from him, without having got any recognition, consoling herself with the assurance that he must have seen her come in. In fact, he was not standing far from the door with Hans Meyrick, whom he had been careful to bring into Lady Mallinger's list. They were both a little more anxious than was comfortable lest Mirah should not be heard to advantage.

Gwendolen had not seen Deronda, and while she was seated in chat with Sir Hugo, she glanced round her with careful ease, bowing a recognition here and there, and fearful lest a search for Deronda might be observed by her husband, and afterward rebuked as "damnably vulgar." Amongst the eyes that met Gwendolen's, forcing her into a slight bow, were those of Mr. Lush, who was standing near her husband.
At this moment, for the first time, there darted through Gwendolen the disagreeable idea that this man knew all about her husband's life. When banished from her sight, he had sunk into the background of her thoughts; but now there sprang up in her, like an instantaneously fabricated memory in a dream, the sense of his being connected with the secrets that made her wretched. With an effort she turned her head away from him, trying to continue her survey with an indifferent manner, till she discovered Deronda. But he was not looking toward her, and she withdrew her eyes, consoling herself with the assurance that he must have seen her come in.
He was standing by Hans Meyrick; and they were both anxious that Mirah should be heard to advantage.


Deronda even felt himself on the brink of betraying emotion, Mirah's presence now being linked with crowding images of what had gone before and was to come after--all centering in the brother he was soon to reveal to her; and he had escaped as soon as he could from the side of Lady Pentreath, who had said in her violoncello voice,
"Well, your Jewess is pretty--there's no denying that. But where is her Jewish impudence? She looks as demure as a nun. I suppose she learned that on the stage."
He was beginning to feel on Mirah's behalf something of what he had felt for himself in his seraphic boyish time, when Sir Hugo asked him if he would like to be a great singer--an indignant dislike to her being remarked on in a free and easy way, as if she were an imported commodity disdainfully paid for by the fashionable public, and he winced the more because Mordecai, he knew, would feel that the name "Jewess" was taken as a sort of stamp like the lettering of Chinese silk. In this susceptible mood he saw the Grandcourts enter, and was immediately appealed to by Hans about "that Vandyke duchess of a beauty." Pray excuse Deronda that in this moment he felt a transient renewal of his first repulsion from Gwendolen, as if she and her beauty and her failings were to blame for the undervaluing of Mirah as a woman--a feeling something like class animosity, which affection for what is not fully recognized by others, whether in persons or in poetry, rarely allows us to escape. To Hans admiring Gwendolen with his habitual hyperbole, he answered, with a sarcasm that was not quite good-natured,
"I thought you could admire no style of woman but your Berenice."

Deronda felt on the brink of betraying emotion. He had escaped as soon as he could from Lady Pentreath, who had said in her deep voice-
"Well, your Jewess is pretty - there's no denying that. But where is her Jewish impudence? She looks as demure as a nun. I suppose she learned that on the stage."
He was beginning to feel on Mirah's behalf what he had felt as a boy, when Sir Hugo asked him if he would like to be a great singer - an indignant dislike to her being remarked on in a free and easy way, as if she were a commodity disdainfully paid for by the fashionable public. In this susceptible mood he saw the Grandcourts enter, and was immediately appealed to by Hans about "that Vandyke duchess of a beauty." Deronda felt a momentary renewal of his first repulsion from Gwendolen, as if she and her beauty and her failings were to blame for the undervaluing of Mirah. To Hans he answered sarcastically-
"I thought you could admire no style of woman but your Berenice."


"That is the style I worship--not admire," said Hans. "Other styles of women I might make myself wicked for, but for Berenice I could make myself--well, pretty good, which is something much more difficult."
"Hush," said Deronda, under the pretext that the singing was going to begin. He was not so delighted with the answer as might have been expected, and was relieved by Hans's movement to a more advanced spot.
Deronda had never before heard Mirah sing "_O patria mia_." He knew well Leopardi's fine Ode to Italy (when Italy sat like a disconsolate mother in chains, hiding her face on her knees and weeping), and the few selected words were filled for him with the grandeur of the whole, which seemed to breathe an inspiration through the music. Mirah singing this, made Mordecai more than ever one presence with her. Certain words not included in the song nevertheless rang within Deronda as harmonies from the invisible,

"That is the style I worship - not admire," said Hans. "Other styles of women I might make myself wicked for, but for Berenice I could make myself - well, pretty good, which is much more difficult."
"Hush," said Deronda, for the singing was going to begin.
He had never before heard Mirah sing "O patria mia." He knew well Leopardi's fine Ode to Italy (when Italy sat like a disconsolate mother in chains, hiding her face and weeping), and the words were filled for him with an inspiring grandeur. Mirah singing this, made Mordecai more than ever one presence with her.


"Non ti difende Nessun d tuoi! L'armi, qua l'armi: io solo Combatter, procomber sol io"-- [Footnote: Do none of thy children defend thee? Arms! bring me arms! alone I will fight, alone I will fall.]
they seemed the very voice of that heroic passion which is falsely said to devote itself in vain when it achieves the god-like end of manifesting unselfish love. And that passion was present to Deronda now as the vivid image of a man dying helplessly away from the possibility of battle.


Mirah was equal to his wishes. While the general applause was sounding, Klesmer gave a more valued testimony, audible to her only--"Good, good--the crescendo better than before." But her chief anxiety was to know that she had satisfied Mr. Deronda: any failure on her part this evening would have pained her as an especial injury to him. Of course all her prospects were due to what he had done for her; still, this occasion of singing in the house that was his home brought a peculiar demand. She looked toward him in the distance, and he saw that she did; but he remained where he was, and watched the streams of emulous admirers closing round her, till presently they parted to make way for Gwendolen, who was taken up to be introduced by Mrs. Klesmer. Easier now about "the little Jewess," Daniel relented toward poor Gwendolen in her splendor, and his memory went back, with some penitence for his momentary hardness, over all the signs and confessions that she too needed a rescue, and one much more difficult than that of the wanderer by the river--a rescue for which he felt himself helpless. The silent question--"But is it not cowardly to make that a reason for turning away?" was the form in which he framed his resolve to go near her on the first opportunity, and show his regard for her past confidence, in spite of Sir Hugo's unwelcome hints.
Klesmer, having risen to Gwendolen as she approached, and being included by her in the opening conversation with Mirah, continued near them a little while, looking down with a smile, which was rather in his eyes than on his lips, at the piquant contrast of the two charming young creatures seated on the red divan. The solicitude seemed to be all on the side of the splendid one.

Her singing was equal to his wishes. During the general applause, Klesmer gave a more valued testimony, audible to her only- "Good, good - the crescendo better than before." But her chief anxiety was to know that she had satisfied Mr. Deronda. She looked toward him in the distance; but he remained where he was, while streams of admirers closed round her.
Gwendolen was taken up to be introduced by Mrs. Klesmer. Easier now about "the little Jewess," Daniel relented toward poor Gwendolen in her splendour, and his memory went back over all the confessions that she too needed a rescue, and one much more difficult than that of the wanderer by the river - a rescue for which he felt himself helpless. He resolved not to turn away from her, but to show his regard for her past confidences at the first opportunity, in spite of Sir Hugo's hints.
Klesmer stood near Gwendolen and Mirah for a little while, smiling at the piquant contrast of the two charming young creatures seated on the red divan.


"You must let me say how much I am obliged to you," said Gwendolen. "I had heard from Mr. Deronda that I should have a great treat in your singing, but I was too ignorant to imagine how great."
"You are very good to say so," answered Mirah, her mind chiefly occupied in contemplating Gwendolen. It was like a new kind of stage-experience to her to be close to genuine grand ladies with genuine brilliants and complexions, and they impressed her vaguely as coming out of some unknown drama, in which their parts perhaps got more tragic as they went on.
"We shall all want to learn of you--I, at least," said Gwendolen. "I sing very badly, as Herr Klesmer will tell you,"--here she glanced upward to that higher power rather archly, and continued--"but I have been rebuked for not liking to be middling, since I can be nothing more. I think that is a different doctrine from yours?" She was still looking at Klesmer, who said quickly,
"Not if it means that it would be worth while for you to study further, and for Miss Lapidoth to have the pleasure of helping you." With that he moved away, and Mirah taking everything with _nave_ seriousness, said,

"I must say how much I am obliged to you," said Gwendolen to Mirah. "I had heard from Mr. Deronda that I should have a great treat in your singing, but I was too ignorant to imagine how great."
"You are very good to say so," answered Mirah, contemplating this genuine grand lady with genuine jewels.
"We shall all want to learn of you - I, at least," said Gwendolen. "I sing very badly, as Herr Klesmer will tell you,"- here she glanced at him rather archly.
Mirah said with nave seriousness-


"If you think I could teach you, I shall be very glad. I am anxious to teach, but I have only just begun. If I do it well, it must be by remembering how my master taught me."
Gwendolen was in reality too uncertain about herself to be prepared for this simple promptitude of Mirah's, and in her wish to change the subject, said, with some lapse from the good taste of her first address,
"You have not been long in London, I think?--but you were perhaps introduced to Mr. Deronda abroad?"
"No," said Mirah; "I never saw him before I came to England in the summer."
"But he has seen you often and heard you sing a great deal, has he not?" said Gwendolen, led on partly by the wish to hear anything about Deronda, and partly by the awkwardness which besets the readiest person, in carrying on a dialogue when empty of matter. "He spoke of you to me with the highest praise. He seemed to know you quite well."

"If you think I could teach you, I shall be very glad. I am anxious to teach, but I have only just begun."
Gwendolen was too uncertain about herself to be prepared for this simple promptitude of Mirah's, and in her wish to change the subject, said, with some lapse from good taste-
"You have not been long in London, I think?- but you were perhaps introduced to Mr. Deronda abroad?"
"No," said Mirah; "I never saw him before I came to England in the summer."
"But he has seen you often and heard you sing a great deal, has he not?" said Gwendolen, led on partly by the wish to hear anything about Deronda, and partly by the common awkwardness of making small talk. "He spoke of you to me with the highest praise. He seemed to know you quite well."


"Oh, I was poor and needed help," said Mirah, in a new tone of feeling, "and Mr. Deronda has given me the best friends in the world. That is the only way he came to know anything about me--because he was sorry for me. I had no friends when I came. I was in distress. I owe everything to him."
Poor Gwendolen, who had wanted to be a struggling artist herself, could nevertheless not escape the impression that a mode of inquiry which would have been rather rude toward herself was an amiable condescension to this Jewess who was ready to give her lessons. The only effect on Mirah, as always on any mention of Deronda, was to stir reverential gratitude and anxiety that she should be understood to have the deepest obligation to him.
But both he and Hans, who were noticing the pair from a distance, would have felt rather indignant if they had known that the conversation had led up to Mirah's representation of herself in this light of neediness. In the movement that prompted her, however, there was an exquisite delicacy, which perhaps she could not have stated explicitly--the feeling that she ought not to allow any one to assume in Deronda a relation of more equality or less generous interest toward her than actually existed. Her answer was delightful to Gwendolen: she thought of nothing but the ready compassion which in another form she had trusted in and found herself; and on the signals that Klesmer was about to play she moved away in much content, entirely without presentiment that this Jewish _protg_ would ever make a more important difference in her life than the possible improvement of her singing--if the leisure and spirits of a Mrs. Grandcourt would allow of other lessons than such as the world was giving her at rather a high charge.

"I was poor and needed help," said Mirah, with feeling, "and Mr. Deronda has given me the best friends in the world. That is the only way he came to know me - because he was sorry for me. I had no friends when I came. I was in distress. I owe everything to him."
Poor Gwendolen, who had wanted to be a struggling artist herself, could nevertheless not help feeling that her questions bordered on the rude. The only effect on Mirah, as on any mention of Deronda, was to stir her reverential gratitude towards him.
But both he and Hans, who were noticing the pair from a distance, would have felt rather indignant if they had known that Mirah had been led to represent herself in this light of neediness. However, she was prompted by the delicate feeling, which perhaps she could not have stated explicitly, that she ought not to allow anyone to assume that Deronda had a less generous interest in her than actually existed. Her answer was delightful to Gwendolen, who found Deronda's ready compassion confirmed; and with the signals that Klesmer was about to play she moved away in much content.


With her wonted alternation from resolute care of appearances to some rash indulgence of an impulse, she chose, under the pretext of getting farther from the instrument, not to go again to her former seat, but placed herself on a settee where she could only have one neighbor. She was nearer to Deronda than before: was it surprising that he came up in time to shake hands before the music began--then, that after he had stood a little while by the elbow of the settee at the empty end, the torrent-like confluences of bass and treble seemed, like a convulsion of nature, to cast the conduct of petty mortals into insignificance, and to warrant his sitting down?
But when at the end of Klesmer's playing there came the outburst of talk under which Gwendolen had hoped to speak as she would to Deronda, she observed that Mr. Lush was within hearing, leaning against the wall close by them. She could not help her flush of anger, but she tried to have only an air of polite indifference in saying,
"Miss Lapidoth is everything you described her to be."
"You have been very quick in discovering that," said Deronda, ironically.
"I have not found out all the excellencies you spoke of--I don't mean that," said Gwendolen; "but I think her singing is charming, and herself, too. Her face is lovely--not in the least common; and she is such a complete little person. I should think she will be a great success."

With her usual alternation from resolute care of appearances to the rash indulgence of an impulse, she did not go to her former seat, but placed herself on a settee where she could only have one neighbour. She was near to Deronda: was it surprising that he came up to shake hands before the music began - and that after a little while, he sat down?
But when at the end of Klesmer's playing there came the outburst of talk under which Gwendolen had hoped to speak freely to Deronda, she observed that Mr. Lush was within hearing, leaning against the wall. Despite her flush of anger, she tried to assume an air of polite indifference in saying-
"Miss Lapidoth is everything you described her to be."
"You have been very quick in discovering that," said Deronda, ironically.
"I have not found out all the excellencies you spoke of - I don't mean that," said Gwendolen; "but her singing is charming, and herself, too. Her face is lovely - not in the least common; and she is such a complete little person. I should think she will be a great success."