Not only the Meyricks, whose various knowledge had been acquired by the irregular foraging to which clever girls have usually been reduced, but Deronda himself, with all his masculine instruction, had been roused by this apparition of Mirah to the consciousness of knowing hardly anything about modern Judaism or the inner Jewish history. The Chosen People have been commonly treated as a people chosen for the sake of somebody else; and their thinking as something (no matter exactly what) that ought to have been entirely otherwise; and Deronda, like his neighbors, had regarded Judaism as a sort of eccentric fossilized form which an accomplished man might dispense with studying, and leave to specialists. But Mirah, with her terrified flight from one parent, and her yearning after the other, had flashed on him the hitherto neglected reality that Judaism was something still throbbing in human lives, still making for them the only conceivable vesture of the world; and in the idling excursion on which he immediately afterward set out with Sir Hugo he began to look for the outsides of synagogues, and the title of books about the Jews. This awakening of a new interest--this passing from the supposition that we hold the right opinions on a subject we are careless about, to a sudden care for it, and a sense that our opinions were ignorance--is an effectual remedy for _ennui_, which, unhappily, cannot be secured on a physician's prescription; but Deronda had carried it with him, and endured his weeks of lounging all the better. It was on this journey that he first entered a Jewish synagogue--at Frankfort--where his party rested on a Friday. In exploring the Juden-gasse, which he had seen long before, he remembered well enough its picturesque old houses; what his eyes chiefly dwelt on now were the human types there; and his thought, busily connecting them with the past phases of their race, stirred that fibre of historic sympathy which had helped to determine in him certain traits worth mentioning for those who are interested in his future. True, when a young man has a fine person, no eccentricity of manners, the education of a gentleman, and a present income, it is not customary to feel a prying curiosity about his way of thinking, or his peculiar tastes. He may very well be settled in life as an agreeable clever young fellow without passing a special examination on those heads. Later, when he is getting rather slovenly and portly, his peculiarities are more distinctly discerned, and it is taken as a mercy if they are not highly objectionable. But any one wishing to understand the effect of after-events on Deronda should know a little more of what he was at five-and-twenty than was evident in ordinary intercourse.

Not only the Meyricks, whose knowledge had been acquired by the irregular foraging to which clever girls have usually been reduced, but Deronda himself, with all his masculine instruction, had been made aware by Mirah's coming that they knew hardly anything about modern Judaism or Jewish history. Deronda, like his neighbours, had regarded Judaism as a sort of eccentric fossilized form which an accomplished man might dispense with studying, and leave to specialists. But Mirah, with her terrified flight from one parent, and her yearning after the other, had flashed on him the fact that Judaism was something still central in human lives; and while travelling with Sir Hugo he began to look for synagogues and books about the Jews.
It was on this journey that he first entered a Jewish synagogue, at Frankfort, where his group rested one Friday. In exploring the Judengasse, the Jewish ghetto, which he had seen long before, he remembered well enough its picturesque old houses; what his eyes chiefly dwelt on now were the human types there; and his thought, busily connecting them with the past of their race, stirred that fibre of historic sympathy which had grown within him.


It happened that the very vividness of his impressions had often made him the more enigmatic to his friends, and had contributed to an apparent indefiniteness in his sentiments. His early-wakened sensibility and reflectiveness had developed into a many-sided sympathy, which threatened to hinder any persistent course of action: as soon as he took up any antagonism, though only in thought, he seemed to himself like the Sabine warriors in the memorable story--with nothing to meet his spear but flesh of his flesh, and objects that he loved. His imagination had so wrought itself to the habit of seeing things as they probably appeared to others, that a strong partisanship, unless it were against an immediate oppression, had become an insincerity for him. His plenteous, flexible sympathy had ended by falling into one current with that reflective analysis which tends to neutralize sympathy. Few men were able to keep themselves clearer of vices than he; yet he hated vices mildly, being used to think of them less in the abstract than as a part of mixed human natures having an individual history, which it was the bent of his mind to trace with understanding and pity. With the same innate balance he was fervidly democratic in his feeling for the multitude, and yet, through his affections and imagination, intensely conservative; voracious of speculations on government and religion, yet loth to part with long-sanctioned forms which, for him, were quick with memories and sentiments that no argument could lay dead. We fall on the leaning side; and Deronda suspected himself of loving too well the losing causes of the world. Martyrdom changes sides, and he was in danger of changing with it, having a strong repugnance to taking up that clue of success which the order of the world often forces upon us and makes it treason against the common weal to reject. And yet his fear of falling into an unreasoning narrow hatred made a check for him: he apologized for the heirs of privilege; he shrank with dislike from the loser's bitterness and the denunciatory tone of the unaccepted innovator. A too reflective and diffusive sympathy was in danger of paralyzing in him that indignation against wrong and that selectness of fellowship which are the conditions of moral force; and in the last few years of confirmed manhood he had become so keenly aware of this that what he most longed for was either some external event, or some inward light, that would urge him into a definite line of action, and compress his wandering energy. He was ceasing to care for knowledge--he had no ambition for practice--unless they could both be gathered up into one current with his emotions; and he dreaded, as if it were a dwelling-place of lost souls, that dead anatomy of culture which turns the universe into a mere ceaseless answer to queries, and knows, not everything, but everything else about everything--as if one should be ignorant of nothing concerning the scent of violets except the scent itself for which one had no nostril. But how and whence was the needed event to come?--the influence that would justify partiality, and make him what he longed to be, yet was unable to make himself--an organic part of social life, instead of roaming in it like a yearning disembodied spirit, stirred with a vague social passion, but without fixed local habitation to render fellowship real? To make a little difference for the better was what he was not contented to live without; but how to make it? It is one thing to see your road, another to cut it. He found some of the fault in his birth and the way he had been brought up, which had laid no special demands on him and had given him no fixed relationship except one of a doubtful kind; but he did not attempt to hide from himself that he had fallen into a meditative numbness, and was gliding farther and farther from that life of practically energetic sentiment which he would have proclaimed (if he had been inclined to proclaim anything) to be the best of all life, and for himself the only way worth living. He wanted some way of keeping emotion and its progeny of sentiments--which make the savors of life--substantial and strong in the face of a reflectiveness that threatened to nullify all differences. To pound the objects of sentiment into small dust, yet keep sentiment alive and active, was something like the famous recipe for making cannon--to first take a round hole and then enclose it with iron; whatever you do keeping fast hold of your round hole. Yet how distinguish what our will may wisely save in its completeness, from the heaping of cat-mummies and the expensive cult of enshrined putrefactions?

His early-wakened sensibility and reflectiveness had developed into a many-sided sympathy. The indefiniteness of his sentiments threatened to hinder any persistent course of action: as soon as he took up any side, he began to see things as they probably appeared to others; so that any strong partisanship, unless it were against oppression, seemed insincere to him. He tended to fall into that reflective analysis which neutralizes sympathy. Few men were able to keep themselves clearer of vices than he; yet he hated vices only mildly, thinking of them as part of human nature, which he should trace with understanding and pity. He was fervidly democratic in his feeling for the multitude, and yet, through his affections, intensely conservative, loath to part with ancient forms which, for him, were alive with memory and sentiment.
He suspected himself of loving too well the losing causes of the world. And yet his fear of falling into an unreasoning narrow hatred constrained him: he apologized for the heirs of privilege; he shrank with dislike from the loser's bitterness. His too diffusive sympathy was in danger of paralyzing the force of his indignation against wrong; and he had become so keenly aware of this that he longed for some event, or inward light, to urge him into action, and focus his energy. He was ceasing to care for knowledge unless it spoke to his emotions; and he dreaded, as if it were a dwelling-place of lost souls, that dead anatomy of culture which turns the universe into a mere ceaseless answer to queries, and knows, not everything, but everything else about everything - as if one should know everything about the scent of violets while being unable to detect it oneself.
But how and whence was the needed event to come? - the influence that would make him what he longed to be - an organic part of social life, instead of roaming in it like a yearning disembodied spirit, stirred with a vague social passion, but without a home to render fellowship real? It is one thing to see your road, another to cut it.
He found some of the fault in the way he had been brought up, which had laid no special demands on him and had given him no fixed relationship except a doubtful one; but he also knew that he had fallen into a meditative numbness, and was gliding farther and farther from that energetic life which he would have proclaimed to be the best of all life, and the only way worth living. He wanted some way of keeping emotion strong. To pound the objects of sentiment into small dust, yet keep sentiment alive and active, was something like the famous recipe for making cannon - first take a round hole and then enclose it with iron; whatever you do holding fast to the hole.

Book 4 - GWENDOLEN GETS HER CHOICE | Chapter 32


Something like this was the common under-current in Deronda's mind while he was reading law or imperfectly attending to polite conversation. Meanwhile he had not set about one function in particular with zeal and steadiness. Not an admirable experience, to be proposed as an ideal; but a form of struggle before break of day which some young men since the patriarch have had to pass through, with more or less of bruising if not laming.

This was the under-current in Deronda's mind while he was reading law or imperfectly attending to polite conversation. Meanwhile he had not set about any function in particular with zeal and steadiness.


I have said that under his calm exterior he had a fervor which made him easily feel the presence of poetry in everyday events; and the forms of the Juden-gasse, rousing the sense of union with what is remote, set him musing on two elements of our historic life which that sense raises into the same region of poetry;--the faint beginnings of faiths and institutions, and their obscure lingering decay; the dust and withered remnants with which they are apt to be covered, only enhancing for the awakened perception the impressiveness either of a sublimely penetrating life, as in the twin green leaves that will become the sheltering tree, or of a pathetic inheritance in which all the grandeur and the glory have become a sorrowing memory.

Under his calm exterior he felt the presence of poetry in everyday events. The Judengasse set him musing on two poetic elements of our historic life: the faint beginnings of faiths and institutions; and their obscure lingering decay, the dust with which they are covered only enhancing their former grandeur and glory.


This imaginative stirring, as he turned out of the Juden-gasse, and continued to saunter in the warm evening air, meaning to find his way to the synagogue, neutralized the repellent effect of certain ugly little incidents on his way. Turning into an old book-shop to ask the exact time of service at the synagogue, he was affectionately directed by a precocious Jewish youth, who entered cordially into his wanting, not the fine new building of the Reformed but the old Rabbinical school of the orthodox; and then cheated him like a pure Teuton, only with more amenity, in his charge for a book quite out of request as one "nicht so leicht zu bekommen." Meanwhile at the opposite counter a deaf and grisly tradesman was casting a flinty look at certain cards, apparently combining advantages of business with religion, and shoutingly proposed to him in Jew-dialect by a dingy man in a tall coat hanging from neck to heel, a bag in hand, and a broad low hat surmounting his chosen nose--who had no sooner disappeared than another dingy man of the same pattern issued from the background glooms of the shop and also shouted in the same dialect. In fact, Deronda saw various queer-looking Israelites not altogether without guile, and just distinguishable from queer-looking Christians of the same mixed _morale_. In his anxiety about Mirah's relatives, he had lately been thinking of vulgar Jews with a sort of personal alarm. But a little comparison will often diminish our surprise and disgust at the aberrations of Jews and other dissidents whose lives do not offer a consistent or lovely pattern of their creed; and this evening Deronda, becoming more conscious that he was falling into unfairness and ridiculous exaggeration, began to use that corrective comparison: he paid his thaler too much, without prejudice to his interests in the Hebrew destiny, or his wish to find the _Rabbinische Schule_, which he arrived at by sunset, and entered with a good congregation of men.

This imaginative stirring, as he left the Judengasse and sauntered in the warm evening air, meaning to find his way to the synagogue, neutralized the repellent effect of certain ugly little incidents on his way. Turning into an old book-shop to ask the time of service at the old orthodox synagogue, he was affectionately directed by a precocious Jewish youth, who then cheated him in charging him for a book. Meanwhile at the opposite counter a deaf tradesman was conversing with a dingy man in a tall coat hanging from neck to heel, a bag in hand, who shouted at him in Jew-dialect, and who had no sooner disappeared than another dingy man of the same pattern issued from the gloom of the shop and shouted in the same dialect.
In fact, Deronda saw various queer-looking Israelites just distinguishable from queer-looking Christians of the same mixed morals. In his anxiety about Mirah's relatives, he had lately been thinking of vulgar Jews with a sort of personal alarm. But this evening, conscious that he was falling into an unfair and ridiculous exaggeration, he began to correct his own prejudices. At sunset, he arrived at the Rabbinische Schule, and entered with a good congregation of men.


He happened to take his seat in a line with an elderly man from whom he was distant enough to glance at him more than once as rather a noticeable figure--his ample white beard and felt hat framing a profile of that fine contour which may as easily be Italian as Hebrew. He returned Deronda's notice till at last their eyes met; an undesirable chance with unknown persons, and a reason to Deronda for not looking again; but he immediately found an open prayer-book pushed toward him and had to bow his thanks. However, the congregation had mustered, the reader had mounted to the _almemor_ or platform, and the service began. Deronda, having looked enough at the German translation of the Hebrew in the book before him to know that he was chiefly hearing Psalms and Old Testament passages or phrases, gave himself up to that strongest effect of chanted liturgies which is independent of detailed verbal meaning--like the effect of an Allegri's _Miserere_ or a Palestrina's _Magnificat_. The most powerful movement of feeling with a liturgy is the prayer which seeks for nothing special, but is a yearning to escape from the limitations of our own weakness and an invocation of all Good to enter and abide with us; or else a self-oblivious lifting up of Gladness, a _Gloria in excelsis_ that such Good exists; both the yearning and the exaltation gathering their utmost force from the sense of communion in a form which has expressed them both, for long generations of struggling fellow-men. The Hebrew liturgy, like others, has its transitions of litany, lyric, proclamation, dry statement and blessing; but this evening, all were one for Deronda: the chant of the _Chazaris_ or Reader's grand wide-ranging voice with its passage from monotony to sudden cries, the outburst of sweet boys' voices from the little choir, the devotional swaying of men's bodies backward and forward, the very commonness of the building and shabbiness of the scene where a national faith, which had penetrated the thinking of half the world, and moulded the splendid forms of that world's religion, was finding a remote, obscure echo--all were blent for him as one expression of a binding history, tragic and yet glorious. He wondered at the strength of his own feeling; it seemed beyond the occasion--what one might imagine to be a divine influx in the darkness, before there was any vision to interpret. The whole scene was a coherent strain, its burden a passionate regret, which, if he had known the liturgy for the Day of Reconciliation, he might have clad in its autithetic burden; "Happy the eye which saw all these things; but verily to hear only of them afflicts our soul. Happy the eye that saw our temple and the joy of our congregation; but verily to hear only of them afflicts our soul. Happy the eye that saw the fingers when tuning every kind of song; but verily to hear only of them afflicts our soul."

He happened to take his seat in a line with an elderly man, whose ample white beard and felt hat framed a fine profile which might as easily be Italian as Hebrew. Their eyes met; an undesirable chance with unknown persons, and a reason to Deronda for not looking again; but he immediately found an open prayer-book pushed toward him and had to bow his thanks.
The reader had mounted to the almemor or platform, and the service began. Deronda, having looked enough at the German translation of the Hebrew in the book before him to know that he was hearing Psalms and Old Testament passages, gave himself up to that strong effect of chanted liturgies which is independent of meaning - like the effect of an Allegri's Miserere or a Palestrina's Magnificat. The most powerful feeling with a liturgy is the prayer which yearns to escape from the limitations of our own weakness and asks Good to enter and abide with us; or else a lifting up of Gladness, a Gloria in excelsis that such Good exists; both the yearning and the exultation gathering force from the sense of communion which has lasted through long generations of struggling fellow-men.
The Hebrew liturgy, like others, has its transitions of litany, lyric, proclamation, dry statement and blessing; but this evening, all were one for Deronda: the chant of the Chazan's or Reader's grand wide-ranging voice with its passage from monotony to sudden cries, the outburst of sweet boys' voices from the little choir, the devotional swaying of men's bodies backward and forward, the very shabbiness of the building where a national faith which had penetrated the thinking of half the world was finding a remote echo: all were blended for him as one expression of a tragic, glorious history.
He wondered at the strength of his own feeling. The service embodied a passionate regret, which, if he had known the liturgy for the Day of Reconciliation, he might have understood as; "Happy the eye which saw all these things; but verily to hear only of them afflicts our soul. Happy the eye that saw our temple and the joy of our congregation; but verily to hear only of them afflicts our soul. Happy the eye that saw the fingers when tuning every kind of song; but verily to hear only of them afflicts our soul."


But with the cessation of the devotional sounds and the movement of many indifferent faces and vulgar figures before him there darted into his mind the frigid idea that he had probably been alone in his feeling, and perhaps the only person in the congregation for whom the service was more than a dull routine. There was just time for this chilling thought before he had bowed to his civil neighbor and was moving away with the rest--when he felt a hand on his arm, and turning with the rather unpleasant sensation which this abrupt sort of claim is apt to bring, he saw close to him the white-bearded face of that neighbor, who said to him in German, "Excuse me, young gentleman--allow me--what is your parentage--your mother's family--her maiden name?"

But with the end of the service and the movement of many indifferent faces there darted into his mind the frigid idea that he had probably been alone in his feeling, and perhaps the only person in the congregation for whom the service was more than a dull routine. He was moving away with the rest, when he felt a hand on his arm, and turning saw the white-bearded face of his neighbour, who said to him in German, "Excuse me, young gentleman - what is your parentage - your mother's family - her maiden name?"


Deronda had a strongly resistant feeling: he was inclined to shake off hastily the touch on his arm; but he managed to slip it away and said coldly, "I am an Englishman."

Deronda felt resistant, and inclined to shake off the touch on his arm. He said coldly, "I am an Englishman."


The questioner looked at him dubiously still for an instant, then just lifted his hat and turned away; whether under a sense of having made a mistake or of having been repulsed, Deronda was uncertain. In his walk back to the hotel he tried to still any uneasiness on the subject by reflecting that he could not have acted differently. How could he say that he did not know the name of his mother's family to that total stranger?--who indeed had taken an unwarrantable liberty in the abruptness of his question, dictated probably by some fancy of likeness such as often occurs without real significance. The incident, he said to himself, was trivial; but whatever import it might have, his inward shrinking on the occasion was too strong for him to be sorry that he had cut it short. It was a reason, however, for his not mentioning the synagogue to the Mallingers--in addition to his usual inclination to reticence on anything that the baronet would have been likely to call Quixotic enthusiasm. Hardly any man could be more good-natured than Sir Hugo; indeed in his kindliness especially to women, he did actions which others would have called romantic; but he never took a romantic view of them, and in general smiled at the introduction of motives on a grand scale, or of reasons that lay very far off. This was the point of strongest difference between him and Deronda, who rarely ate at breakfast without some silent discursive flight after grounds for filling up his day according to the practice of his contemporaries.

The questioner looked at him dubiously for an instant, and then lifted his hat and turned away; whether under a sense of having made a mistake or of having been repulsed, Deronda was uncertain. In his walk back to the hotel he reflected that he could not have acted differently. How could he say that he did not know the name of his mother's family to that total stranger?- who indeed had taken a liberty in asking the abrupt question, probably thinking he saw some likeness. The incident, he told himself, was trivial; but it was a reason, however, for his not mentioning the synagogue to the Mallingers.


This halt at Frankfort was taken on their way home, and its impressions were kept the more actively vibrating in him by the duty of caring for Mirah's welfare. That question about his parentage, which if he had not both inwardly and outwardly shaken it off as trivial, would have seemed a threat rather than a promise of revelation, and reinforced his anxiety as to the effect of finding Mirah's relatives and his resolve to proceed with caution. If he made any unpleasant discovery, was he bound to a disclosure that might cast a new net of trouble around her? He had written to Mrs. Meyrick to announce his visit at four o'clock, and he found Mirah seated at work with only Mrs. Meyrick and Mab, the open piano, and all the glorious company of engravings. The dainty neatness of her hair and dress, the glow of tranquil happiness in a face where a painter need have changed nothing if he had wanted to put it in front of the host singing "peace on earth and good will to men," made a contrast to his first vision of her that was delightful to Deronda's eyes. Mirah herself was thinking of it, and immediately on their greeting said,

This halt at Frankfort was taken on their way home, and its impressions were kept alive in him by the duty of caring for Mirah's welfare. That question about his parentage, though trivial, reinforced his anxiety as to the effect of finding Mirah's relatives, and his resolve to proceed with caution. If he made any unpleasant discovery, was he bound to tell her and perhaps cast a new net of trouble around her?
When he visited the Meyricks at four o'clock, he found Mirah seated with Mrs. Meyrick and Mab by the open piano, with all the glorious company of engravings. The dainty neatness of her hair and dress, and the glow of tranquil happiness in her face, made a contrast to his first vision of her that was delightful to Deronda's eyes. Mirah herself was thinking of it, and on their greeting said-


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

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


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


"That is not the right way to be thinking about it," said Mirah, shaking her head with decisive gravity, "I think of what really was. It was you, and not another, who found me and were good to me."

"That is not the right way to think about it," said Mirah, shaking her head with decisive gravity, "It was you, and not another, who found me and were good to me."


"I agree with Mirah," said Mrs. Meyrick. "Saint Anybody is a bad saint to pray to."


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

"Besides, Anybody could not have brought me to you," said Mirah, smiling at Mrs. Meyrick. "And I would rather be with you than with anyone in the world except my mother. I feel like a lost bird put into a warm nest. I hardly thought before that the world could ever be as happy and without fear as it is to me now." She looked meditative a moment, and then said plaintively, "Sometimes I am a little afraid


"What is it you are afraid of?" said Deronda with anxiety.


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

that I may meet my father in the street. It seems dreadful that I should be afraid of meeting him. That is my only sorrow."


"It is surely not very probable," said Deronda, wishing that it were less so; then, not to let the opportunity escape--"Would it be a great grief to you now if you were never to meet your mother?"

"It is not very probable," said Deronda, wishing that it were less so; then, not to let the opportunity escape- "Would it be a great grief to you if you were never to meet your mother?"


She did not answer immediately, but meditated again, with her eyes fixed on the opposite wall. Then she turned them on Deronda and said firmly, as if she had arrived at the exact truth, "I want her to know that I have always loved her, and if she is alive I want to comfort her. She may be dead. If she were I should long to know where she was buried; and to know whether my brother lives, to say Kaddish in memory of her. But I will try not to grieve. I have thought much for so many years of her being dead. And I shall have her with me in my mind, as I have always had. We can never be really parted. I think I have never sinned against her. I have always tried not to do what would hurt her. Only, she might be sorry that I was not a good Jewess."

She did not answer immediately. Then she said firmly, "I want her to know that I have always loved her, and if she is alive I want to comfort her. She may be dead. If she were, I should long to know where she was buried; and to know whether my brother lives, so that we can remember her together. But I would try not to grieve. I shall have her with me in my mind, as I have always had. We can never be really parted. I have always tried not to do what would hurt her. Only, she might be sorry that I was not a good Jewess."


"In what way are you not a good Jewess?" said Deronda.

"In what way are you not a good Jewess?" asked Deronda.


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

"I am ignorant, and we never observed the laws, but lived among Christians just as they did. I have heard my father laugh at the strictness of the Jews about their food and customs, and not liking Christians. I think my mother was strict; but she could never want me not to like people who have been so good to me.


"Ah, you know it. But I do not believe that my mother would wish me not to love my best friends. She would be grateful to them." Here Mirah had turned to Mrs. Meyrick, and with a sudden lighting up of her whole countenance, she said, "Oh, if we ever do meet and know each other as we are now, so that I could tell what would comfort her--I should be so full of blessedness my soul would know no want but to love her!"

I do not believe that my mother would wish me not to love my best friends. She would be grateful to them." Here Mirah turned to Mrs. Meyrick, and with a sudden lighting up of her face, said, "Oh, if we ever do meet, I should be so full of blessedness my soul would know no want but to love her!"


"God bless you, child!" said Mrs. Meyrick, the words escaping involuntarily from her motherly heart. But to relieve the strain of feeling she looked at Deronda and said, "It is curious that Mirah, who remembers her mother so well it is as if she saw her, cannot recall her brother the least bit--except the feeling of having been carried by him when she was tired, and of his being near her when she was in her mother's lap. It must be that he was rarely at home. He was already grown up. It is a pity her brother should be quite a stranger to her."

"God bless you, child!" said Mrs. Meyrick involuntarily. Looking at Deronda, she said, "It is curious that Mirah, who remembers her mother so well, cannot recall her brother the least bit - except the feeling of having been carried by him when she was tired, and of his being near when she was in her mother's lap. It must be that he was rarely at home. He was already grown up."


"He is good; I feel sure Ezra is good," said Mirah, eagerly. "He loved my mother--he would take care of her. I remember more of him than that. I remember my mother's voice once calling, 'Ezra!' and then his answering from a distance 'Mother!'"--Mirah had changed her voice a little in each of these words and had given them a loving intonation--"and then he came close to us. I feel sure he is good. I have always taken comfort from that."

"He is good; I feel sure Ezra is good," said Mirah, eagerly. "He loved my mother. I remember more of him than that. I remember my mother's voice once calling, 'Ezra!' and then his answering from a distance 'Mother!' I feel sure he is good. I have always taken comfort from that."


It was impossible to answer this either with agreement or doubt. Mrs. Meyrick and Deronda exchanged a quick glance: about this brother she felt as painfully dubious as he did. But Mirah went on, absorbed in her memories,

It was impossible to answer this either with agreement or doubt. Mrs. Meyrick and Deronda exchanged a quick glance: about this brother she felt as painfully dubious as he did. But Mirah went on, absorbed in her memories-


"Is it not wonderful how I remember the voices better than anything else? I think they must go deeper into us than other things. I have often fancied heaven might be made of voices."

"Is it not wonderful how I remember voices better than anything else? I think they must go deeper into us than other things. I have often fancied heaven might be made of voices."


"Like your singing--yes," said Mab, who had hitherto kept a modest silence, and now spoke bashfully, as was her wont in the presence of Prince Camaralzaman--"Ma, do ask Mirah to sing. Mr. Deronda has not heard her."

"Like your singing - yes," said Mab, who spoke bashfully, as was her wont in the presence of Prince Camaralzaman. "Ma, do ask Mirah to sing. Mr. Deronda has not heard her."


"Would it be disagreeable to you to sing now?" said Deronda, with a more deferential gentleness than he had ever been conscious of before.


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


Perhaps her ease of manner was due to something more than the simplicity of her nature. The circumstances of her life made her think of everything she did as work demanded from her, in which affectation had nothing to do; and she had begun her work before self-consciousness was born.

Perhaps her ease of manner was due to something more than the simplicity of her nature. The circumstances of her life made her think of it as work, which she had begun before self-consciousness was born.


She immediately rose and went to the piano--a somewhat worn instrument that seemed to get the better of its infirmities under the firm touch of her small fingers as she preluded. Deronda placed himself where he could see her while she sang; and she took everything as quietly as if she had been a child going to breakfast.

She immediately rose and went to the piano.


Imagine her--it is always good to imagine a human creature in whom bodily loveliness seems as properly one with the entire being as the bodily loveliness of those wondrous transparent orbs of life that we find in the sea--imagine her with her dark hair brushed from her temples, but yet showing certain tiny rings there which had cunningly found their own way back, the mass of it hanging behind just to the nape of the little neck in curly fibres, such as renew themselves at their own will after being bathed into straightness like that of water-grasses. Then see the perfect cameo her profile makes, cut in a duskish shell, where by some happy fortune there pierced a gem-like darkness for the eye and eyebrow; the delicate nostrils defined enough to be ready for sensitive movements, the finished ear, the firm curves of the chin and neck, entering into the expression of a refinement which was not feebleness.

Imagine her with her dark hair brushed from her temples, yet showing tiny ringlets which had cunningly found their own way back. Then see the perfect cameo of her profile, cut in a dusky shell; the dark eye, delicate nostrils, the finished ear, the firm curves of the chin and neck, all the expression of a refinement which was not feebleness.


She sang Beethoven's "Per piet non dirmi addio" with a subdued but searching pathos which had that essential of perfect singing, the making one oblivious of art or manner, and only possessing one with the song. It was the sort of voice that gives the impression of being meant like a bird's wooing for an audience near and beloved. Deronda began by looking at her, but felt himself presently covering his eyes with his hand, wanting to seclude the melody in darkness; then he refrained from what might seem oddity, and was ready to meet the look of mute appeal which she turned toward him at the end.

She sang Beethoven's "Per piet non dirmi addio," with a subdued but searching pathos which, like all perfect singing, made one oblivious of art or manner, and only possessed one with the song. Deronda began by looking at her, but felt himself presently covering his eyes with his hand, wanting to seclude the melody in darkness; but he was ready to meet the look of appeal which she turned toward him at the end.


"I think I never enjoyed a song more than that," he said, gratefully.

"I think I never enjoyed a song more than that," he said gratefully.


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

"You like my singing? I am so glad," she said, with a smile of delight. "It has been painful to me that it failed in what it was wanted for. But now I can use it to get my bread. I have really been taught well. And I have two pupils, that Miss Meyrick found for me. They pay me nearly two crowns for their lessons."


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

"I think I know some ladies who would find you many pupils after Christmas," said Deronda. "You would not mind singing before anyone who wished to hear you?"


"Oh no, I want to do something to get money. I could teach reading and speaking, Mrs. Meyrick thinks. But if no one would learn of me, that is difficult." Mirah smiled with a touch of merriment he had not seen in her before. "I dare say I should find her poor--I mean my mother. I should want to get money for her. And I can not always live on charity; though"--here she turned so as to take all three of her companions in one glance--"it is the sweetest charity in all the world."

"Oh no, I want to do something to get money for my mother. And I can not always live on charity; though" - here she glanced at her companions - "it is the sweetest charity in all the world."


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

"I should think you can get rich by teaching," said Deronda, smiling. "But now do sing again to us."


She went on willingly, singing with ready memory various things by Gordigiani and Schubert; then, when she had left the piano, Mab said, entreatingly, "Oh, Mirah, if you would not mind singing the little hymn."

She went on willingly, singing with ready memory various things by Gordigiani and Schubert; and then Mab said entreatingly, "Oh, Mirah, if you would not mind singing the little hymn


"It is too childish," said Mirah. "It is like lisping."


"It is the Hebrew hymn she remembers her mother singing over her when she lay in her cot," said Mrs. Meyrick.

- the Hebrew hymn you remember your mother singing."


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

"I should like very much to hear that," said Deronda, "if you think I am worthy to hear what is so sacred."


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

"I will sing it if you like," said Mirah, "but I don't sing real words - only here and there - the rest is childish lisping. Do you know Hebrew? because if you do, it will seem childish nonsense."


Deronda shook his head. "It will be quite good Hebrew to me."


Mirah crossed her little feet and hands in her easiest attitude, and then lifted up her head at an angle which seemed to be directed to some invisible face bent over her, while she sang a little hymn of quaint melancholy intervals, with syllables that really seemed childish lisping to her audience; the voice in which she gave it forth had gathered even a sweeter, more cooing tenderness than was heard in her other songs.

Mirah crossed her little feet and hands, and then lifted up her head at an angle which seemed to be directed to some invisible face bent over her, while she sang a little hymn of quaint melancholy intervals, with lisping syllables; her voice held an even sweeter tenderness than in her other songs.


"If I were ever to know the real words, I should still go on in my old way with them," said Mirah, when she had repeated the hymn several times.


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

"It is very full of meaning," said Deronda.


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


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


The little woman shook her head over her darning.


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


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

"Even if I had known the words, I don't think it would have had more expression for me. I went to the synagogue at Frankfort, and the service impressed me just as much as if I had followed the words."


"Oh, was it great to you? Did it go to your heart?" said Mirah, eagerly. "I thought none but our people would feel that. I thought it was all shut away like a river in a deep valley, where only heaven saw--I mean---" she hesitated, feeling that she could not disentangle her thought from its imagery.

"Oh, did it go to your heart?" said Mirah, eagerly. "I thought none but our people would feel that. I thought it was all shut away like a river in a deep valley, where only heaven saw - I mean-" She hesitated.


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

"I understand," said Deronda. "But our religion is chiefly a Hebrew religion; and all religious feelings must have much in common. Still it is to be expected that a Jew would feel the forms of his people's religion more than that of another race - and yet" - here he hesitated in his turn - "that is perhaps not always so."


"Ah no," said Mirah, sadly. "I have seen that. I have seen them mock. Is it not like mocking your parents?--like rejoicing in your parents' shame?"

"No," said Mirah, sadly. "I have seen that. I have seen them mock."


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

"Some minds naturally rebel against whatever they were brought up to," said Deronda apologetically.


"But you are not like that," said Mirah, looking at him with unconscious fixedness.

"But you are not like that," said Mirah.


"No, I think not," said Deronda; "but you know I was not brought up as a Jew."

"No, I think not; but I was not brought up as a Jew."


"Ah, I am always forgetting," said Mirah, with a look of disappointed recollection, and slightly blushing.

"Ah, I am always forgetting," said Mirah, with a disappointed look, and slightly blushing.


Deronda also felt rather embarrassed, and there was an awkward pause, which he put an end to by saying playfully,


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


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

Mrs Meyrick said- "I think it is weak-minded to make your creed up by the rule of the contrary. One may honour one's parents, without following their notions exactly. My father was a Scotch Calvinist and my mother was a French Calvinist; I am neither Scotch, nor French, nor two Calvinists rolled into one, yet I honour my parents' memory."


"But I could not make myself not a Jewess," said Mirah, insistently, "even if I changed my belief."

"But I could not make myself not a Jewess," said Mirah insistently, "even if I changed my belief."


"No, my dear. But if Jews and Jewesses went on changing their religion, and making no difference between themselves and Christians, there would come a time when there would be no Jews to be seen," said Mrs. Meyrick, taking that consummation very cheerfully.

"No, my dear. But if Jews and Jewesses changed their religion, and made no difference between themselves and Christians, there would be no Jews to be seen," said Mrs. Meyrick cheerfully.


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

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


As Mirah had gone on speaking she had become possessed with a sorrowful passion--fervent, not violent. Holding her little hands tightly clasped and looking at Mrs. Meyrick with beseeching, she seemed to Deronda a personification of that spirit which impelled men after a long inheritance of professed Catholicism to leave wealth and high place and risk their lives in flight, that they might join their own people and say, "I am a Jew."

She clasped her hands with a sorrowful passion.


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

"My dear child, you mistake me!" said Mrs. Meyrick, alarmed. "God forbid I should want you to do anything against your conscience. Forgive me, come!"


"I would do anything else for you. I owe you my life," said Mirah, not yet quite calm.


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

"Hush, hush, now," said Mrs. Meyrick. "I have been punished enough for wagging my tongue foolishly."


"But everything in the world must come to an end some time. We must bear to think of that," said Mab, unable to hold her peace on this point. She had already suffered from a bondage of tongue which threatened to become severe if Mirah were to be too much indulged in this inconvenient susceptibility to innocent remarks.


Deronda smiled at the irregular, blonde face, brought into strange contrast by the side of Mirah's--smiled, Mab thought, rather sarcastically as he said, "That prospect of everything coming to an end will not guide us far in practice. Mirah's feelings, she tells us, are concerned with what is."


Mab was confused and wished she had not spoken, since Mr. Deronda seemed to think that she had found fault with Mirah; but to have spoken once is a tyrannous reason for speaking again, and she said,


"I only meant that we must have courage to hear things, else there is hardly anything we can talk about." Mab felt herself unanswerable here, inclining to the opinion of Socrates: "What motive has a man to live, if not for the pleasure of discourse?"


Deronda took his leave soon after, and when Mrs. Meyrick went outside with him to exchange a few words about Mirah, he said, "Hans is to share my chambers when he comes at Christmas."

Deronda took his leave soon after, and when Mrs. Meyrick went outside with him, he said, "Hans is to share my chambers when he comes at Christmas."


"You have written to Rome about that?" said Mrs. Meyrick, her face lighting up. "How very good and thoughtful of you! You mentioned Mirah, then?"

"You have written to him about that?" said Mrs. Meyrick, her face lighting up. "How very good and thoughtful of you! You mentioned Mirah, then?"


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

"Yes, I concluded he knew everything from you."


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

"I must confess my folly. I have not yet written a word about her. I have been meaning to do it, and yet have ended my letter without saying a word. However! Thank you a thousand times."


Deronda divined something of what was in the mother's mind, and his divination reinforced a certain anxiety already present in him. His inward colloquy was not soothing. He said to himself that no man could see this exquisite creature without feeling it possible to fall in love with her; but all the fervor of his nature was engaged on the side of precaution. There are personages who feel themselves tragic because they march into a palpable morass, dragging another with them, and then cry out against all the gods. Deronda's mind was strongly set against imitating them.

Deronda divined something of what was in the mother's mind. He had the same anxiety about Hans: no man could see this exquisite creature without feeling it possible to fall in love with her. But he urged himself to caution.


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

"I must exercise control. I shall see Mirah as little as possible," he thought.


He saw the reasons acting themselves out before him. How could he be Mirah's guardian and claim to unite with Mrs. Meyrick, to whose charge he had committed her, if he showed himself as a lover--whom she did not love--whom she would not marry? And if he encouraged any germ of lover's feeling in himself it would lead up to that issue. Mirah's was not a nature that would bear dividing against itself; and even if love won her consent to marry a man who was not of her race and religion, she would never be happy in acting against that strong native bias which would still reign in her conscience as remorse.

How could he be Mirah's guardian, if he showed himself as a lover - whom she did not love - whom she would not marry? And if he encouraged any germ of lover's feeling in himself it would lead up to that issue. Even if Mirah consented to marry a man who was not of her race and religion, her conscience would always feel remorse.


Deronda saw these consequences as we see any danger of marring our own work well begun. It was a delight to have rescued this child acquainted with sorrow, and to think of having placed her little feet in protected paths. The creature we help to save, though only a half-reared linnet, bruised and lost by the wayside--how we watch and fence it, and dote on its signs of recovery! Our pride becomes loving, our self is a not-self for whose sake we become virtuous, when we set to some hidden work of reclaiming a life from misery and look for our triumph in the secret joy--"This one is the better for me."

Deronda saw these consequences as we see any danger of marring our own work. It was a delight to have rescued this child, and to think of having placed her little feet in protected paths. The creature we help to save, how we watch it and dote on its recovery!


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

"I would as soon hold out my finger to be bitten off as spoil her peace," said Deronda to himself. "It was the rarest fortune that I have friends like the Meyricks to place her with - generous, delicate friends with whom she can be not only safe but happy. There could be no refuge to replace that, if it were broken up. But what is the use of my taking the vows, if that marplot Hans comes and upsets it all?"


Few things were more likely. Hans was made for mishaps: his very limbs seemed more breakable than other people's--his eyes more of a resort for uninvited flies and other irritating guests. But it was impossible to forbid Hans's coming to London. He was intending to get a studio there and make it his chief home; and to propose that he should defer coming on some ostensible ground, concealing the real motive of winning time for Mirah's position to become more confirmed and independent, was impracticable. Having no other resource Deronda tried to believe that both he and Mrs. Meyrick were foolishly troubling themselves about one of those endless things called probabilities, which never occur; but he did not quite succeed in his trying; on the contrary, he found himself going inwardly through a scene where on the first discovery of Hans's inclination he gave him a very energetic warning--suddenly checked, however, by the suspicion of personal feeling that his warmth might be creating in Hans. He could come to no result, but that the position was peculiar, and that he could make no further provision against dangers until they came nearer. To save an unhappy Jewess from drowning herself, would not have seemed a startling variation among police reports; but to discover in her so rare a creature as Mirah, was an exceptional event which might well bring exceptional consequences. Deronda would not let himself for a moment dwell on any supposition that the consequences might enter deeply into his own life. The image of Mirah had never yet had that penetrating radiation which would have been given to it by the idea of her loving him. When this sort of effluence is absent from the fancy (whether from the fact or not) a man may go far in devotedness without perturbation.

Few things were more likely. Hans was made for mishaps: his very limbs seemed more breakable than other people's. But it was impossible to forbid Hans's coming to London, where he intended to get a studio. To propose that he should defer coming on some ground or other, concealing the real motive of winning time for Mirah's position to become more independent, was impracticable.
Deronda tried to believe that both he and Mrs. Meyrick were foolishly troubling themselves about something which would probably not happen, but he did not quite succeed. The position was peculiar, and he could make no further provision against dangers until they came nearer. To discover so rare a creature as Mirah, was an exceptional event which might well bring exceptional consequences. Deronda would not let himself for a moment dwell on any thought that the consequences might enter deeply into his own life. Mirah would have no idea of loving him.


As to the search for Mirah's mother and brother, Deronda took what she had said to-day as a warrant for deferring any immediate measures. His conscience was not quite easy in this desire for delay, any more than it was quite easy in his not attempting to learn the truth about his own mother: in both cases he felt that there might be an unfulfilled duty to a parent, but in both cases there was an overpowering repugnance to the possible truth, which threw a turning weight into the scale of argument.

As to the search for Mirah's mother and brother, he put off any immediate measures. His conscience was not quite easy in this desire for delay, any more than it was quite easy in his not attempting to learn the truth about his own mother: in both cases he felt that there might be an unfulfilled duty to a parent, but in both cases there was an overpowering repugnance to the possible truth.


"At least, I will look about," was his final determination. "I may find some special Jewish machinery. I will wait till after Christmas."

"At least, I will look about," he thought. "But I will not act till after Christmas."


What should we all do without the calendar, when we want to put off a disagreeable duty? The admirable arrangements of the solar system, by which our time is measured, always supply us with a term before which it is hardly worth while to set about anything we are disinclined to.

Like many of us, he found the calendar a convenient excuse.


"_Festina lente_--celerity should be contempered with cunctation."--SIR THOMAS BROWNE.


Gwendolen, we have seen, passed her time abroad in the new excitement of gambling, and in imagining herself an empress of luck, having brought from her late experience a vague impression that in this confused world it signified nothing what any one did, so that they amused themselves. We have seen, too, that certain persons, mysteriously symbolized as Grapnell & Co., having also thought of reigning in the realm of luck, and being also bent on amusing themselves, no matter how, had brought about a painful change in her family circumstances; whence she had returned home--carrying with her, against her inclination, a necklace which she had pawned and some one else had redeemed.

Gwendolen, we have seen, passed her time abroad in the new excitement of gambling, and in imagining herself an empress of luck, having brought from her late experience an impression that in this confused world nothing mattered but to enjoy oneself. We have seen, too, that Grapnell & Co, being also bent on amusing themselves, no matter how, had brought about a painful change in her family circumstances; whence she had returned home - carrying with her a necklace which she had pawned and someone else had redeemed.


While she was going back to England, Grandcourt was coming to find her; coming, that is, after his own manner--not in haste by express straight from Diplow to Leubronn, where she was understood to be; but so entirely without hurry that he was induced by the presence of some Russian acquaintances to linger at Baden-Baden and make various appointments with them, which, however, his desire to be at Leubronn ultimately caused him to break. Grandcourt's passions were of the intermittent, flickering kind: never flaming out strongly. But a great deal of life goes on without strong passion: myriads of cravats are carefully tied, dinners attended, even speeches made proposing the health of august personages without the zest arising from a strong desire. And a man may make a good appearance in high social positions--may be supposed to know the classics, to have his reserves on science, a strong though repressed opinion on politics, and all the sentiments of the English gentleman, at a small expense of vital energy. Also, he may be obstinate or persistent at the same low rate, and may even show sudden impulses which have a false air of daemonic strength because they seem inexplicable, though perhaps their secret lies merely in the want of regulated channels for the soul to move in--good and sufficient ducts of habit without which our nature easily turns to mere ooze and mud, and at any pressure yields nothing but a spurt or a puddle.

While she was going back to England, Grandcourt was coming to find her at Leubronn; coming so entirely without hurry that he was induced to linger at Baden-Baden. Grandcourt's passions were of the intermittent, flickering kind, never flaming out strongly. But a great deal of life goes on without strong passion, and a man may be obstinate at the same low rate, and even show sudden impulses which have an air of daemonic strength because they seem inexplicable.


Grandcourt had not been altogether displeased by Gwendolen's running away from the splendid chance he was holding out to her. The act had some piquancy for him. He liked to think that it was due to resentment of his careless behavior in Cardell Chase, which, when he came to consider it, did appear rather cool. To have brought her so near a tender admission, and then to have walked headlong away from further opportunities of winning the consent which he had made her understand him to be asking for, was enough to provoke a girl of spirit; and to be worth his mastering it was proper that she should have some spirit. Doubtless she meant him to follow her, and it was what he meant too. But for a whole week he took no measures toward starting, and did not even inquire where Miss Harleth was gone. Mr. Lush felt a triumph that was mingled with much distrust; for Grandcourt had said no word to him about her, and looked as neutral as an alligator; there was no telling what might turn up in the slowly-churning chances of his mind. Still, to have put off a decision was to have made room for the waste of Grandcourt's energy.

Grandcourt had not been altogether displeased by Gwendolen's running away. The act had some piquancy for him. He liked to think that it was due to resentment of his cool and careless behaviour in Cardell Chase. To have brought her so near a tender admission, and then to have walked away, was enough to provoke a girl of spirit; and to be worth his mastering it was proper that she should have some spirit. Doubtless she meant him to follow her, and it was what he meant too.
But for a whole week he took no measures toward starting, and did not even inquire where Miss Harleth was gone. Mr. Lush felt a triumph mingled with distrust; for Grandcourt said no word to him about her, and looked as neutral as an alligator; there was no telling what might turn up in the slowly-churning chances of his mind.


The guests at Diplow felt more curiosity than their host. How was it that nothing more was heard of Miss Harleth? Was it credible that she had refused Mr. Grandcourt? Lady Flora Hollis, a lively middle-aged woman, well endowed with curiosity, felt a sudden interest in making a round of calls with Mrs. Torrington, including the rectory, Offendene, and Quetcham, and thus not only got twice over, but also discussed with the Arrowpoints, the information that Miss Harleth was gone to Leubronn, with some old friends, the Baron and Baroness von Langen; for the immediate agitation and disappointment of Mrs. Davilow and the Gascoignes had resolved itself into a wish that Gwendolen's disappearance should not be interpreted as anything eccentric or needful to be kept secret. The rector's mind, indeed, entertained the possibility that the marriage was only a little deferred, for Mrs. Davilow had not dared to tell him of the bitter determination with which Gwendolen had spoken. And in spite of his practical ability, some of his experience had petrified into maxims and quotations. Amaryllis fleeing desired that her hiding-place should be known; and that love will find out the way "over the mountain and over the wave" may be said without hyperbole in this age of steam. Gwendolen, he conceived, was an Amaryllis of excellent sense but coquettish daring; the question was whether she had dared too much.

The guests at Diplow were curious. How was it that nothing more was heard of Miss Harleth? Was it credible that she had refused Mr. Grandcourt? Lady Flora Hollis, a lively middle-aged woman, learnt that Miss Harleth was gone to Leubronn with some old friends, and mentioned this to


Lady Flora, coming back charged with news about Miss Harleth, saw no good reason why she should not try whether she could electrify Mr. Grandcourt by mentioning it to him at the table; and in doing so shot a few hints of a notion having got abroad that he was a disappointed adorer. Grandcourt heard with quietude, but with attention; and the next day he ordered Lush to bring about a decent reason for breaking up the party at Diplow by the end of another week, as he meant to go yachting to the Baltic or somewhere--it being impossible to stay at Diplow as if he were a prisoner on parole, with a set of people whom he had never wanted. Lush needed no clearer announcement that Grandcourt was going to Leubronn; but he might go after the manner of a creeping billiard-ball and stick on the way. What Mr. Lush intended was to make himself indispensable so that he might go too, and he succeeded; Gwendolen's repulsion for him being a fact that only amused his patron, and made him none the less willing to have Lush always at hand.

 Mr. Grandcourt. The next day Grandcourt ordered Lush to break up the party at Diplow by the end of another week, as he meant to go yachting to the Baltic or somewhere.
Lush needed no clearer announcement that Grandcourt was going to Leubronn; but he might go in the manner of a creeping billiard-ball, and stick on the way. Mr. Lush intended to make himself indispensable in order to go too, and he succeeded; Gwendolen's repulsion for him being a fact that merely amused his patron, and made him none the less willing to have Lush always at hand.


This was how it happened that Grandcourt arrived at the _Czarina_ on the fifth day after Gwendolen had left Leubronn, and found there his uncle, Sir Hugo Mallinger, with his family, including Deronda. It is not necessarily a pleasure either to the reigning power or the heir presumptive when their separate affairs--a touch of gout, say, in the one, and a touch of willfulness in the other--happen to bring them to the same spot. Sir Hugo was an easy-tempered man, tolerant both of differences and defects; but a point of view different from his own concerning the settlement of the family estates fretted him rather more than if it had concerned Church discipline or the ballot, and faults were the less venial for belonging to a person whose existence was inconvenient to him. In no case could Grandcourt have been a nephew after his own heart; but as the presumptive heir to the Mallinger estates he was the sign and embodiment of a chief grievance in the baronet's life--the want of a son to inherit the lands, in no portion of which had he himself more than a life-interest. For in the ill-advised settlement which his father, Sir Francis, had chosen to make by will, even Diplow with its modicum of land had been left under the same conditions as the ancient and wide inheritance of the two Toppings--Diplow, where Sir Hugo had lived and hunted through many a season in his younger years, and where his wife and daughters ought to have been able to retire after his death.

This was how it happened that Grandcourt arrived at the Czarina Hotel on the fifth day after Gwendolen had left Leubronn, and found there his uncle, Sir Hugo Mallinger, with his family, including Deronda. The meeting was not necessarily a pleasure to either. Sir Hugo was an easy-tempered, tolerant man, but Grandcourt was not a nephew after his own heart; and as the presumptive heir to the Mallinger estates he was the embodiment of Sir Hugo's chief grievance - the lack of a son. For Diplow would not go to his wife and daughters after his death.


This grievance had naturally gathered emphasis as the years advanced, and Lady Mallinger, after having had three daughters in quick succession, had remained for eight years till now that she was over forty without producing so much as another girl; while Sir Hugo, almost twenty years older, was at a time of life when, notwithstanding the fashionable retardation of most things from dinners to marriages, a man's hopefulness is apt to show signs of wear, until restored by second childhood.

This grievance had naturally grown as the years advanced, and Lady Mallinger, after having had three daughters in quick succession, was now over forty. Sir Hugo, almost twenty years older,


In fact, he had begun to despair of a son, and this confirmation of Grandcourt's interest in the estates certainly tended to make his image and presence the more unwelcome; but, on the other hand, it carried circumstances which disposed Sir Hugo to take care that the relation between them should be kept as friendly as possible. It led him to dwell on a plan which had grown up side by side with his disappointment of an heir; namely, to try and secure Diplow as a future residence for Lady Mallinger and her daughters, and keep this pretty bit of the family inheritance for his own offspring in spite of that disappointment. Such knowledge as he had of his nephew's disposition and affairs encouraged the belief that Grandcourt might consent to a transaction by which he would get a good sum of ready money, as an equivalent for his prospective interest in the domain of Diplow and the moderate amount of land attached to it. If, after all, the unhoped-for son should be born, the money would have been thrown away, and Grandcourt would have been paid for giving up interests that had turned out good for nothing; but Sir Hugo set down this risk as _nil_, and of late years he had husbanded his fortune so well by the working of mines and the sale of leases that he was prepared for an outlay.

had begun to despair of a son. Therefore Grandcourt's presence was unwelcome; but Sir Hugo wanted the relation between them to be kept as friendly as possible. He had a plan to secure Diplow as a future residence for Lady Mallinger and her daughters, and keep this bit of the family inheritance for his own offspring. He hoped that Grandcourt might consent to take a good sum of money in exchange for his interest in Diplow and its land; and this


Here was an object that made him careful to avoid any quarrel with Grandcourt. Some years before, when he was making improvements at the Abbey, and needed Grandcourt's concurrence in his felling an obstructive mass of timber on the demesne, he had congratulated himself on finding that there was no active spite against him in his nephew's peculiar mind; and nothing had since occurred to make them hate each other more than was compatible with perfect politeness, or with any accommodation that could be strictly mutual.

aim made him careful to avoid any quarrel with Grandcourt. They did not hate each other more than was compatible with perfect politeness.


Grandcourt, on his side, thought his uncle a superfluity and a bore, and felt that the list of things in general would be improved whenever Sir Hugo came to be expunged. But he had been made aware through Lush, always a useful medium, of the baronet's inclinations concerning Diplow, and he was gratified to have the alternative of the money in his mind: even if he had not thought it in the least likely that he would choose to accept it, his sense of power would have been flattered by his being able to refuse what Sir Hugo desired. The hinted transaction had told for something among the motives which had made him ask for a year's tenancy of Diplow, which it had rather annoyed Sir Hugo to grant, because the excellent hunting in the neighborhood might decide Grandcourt not to part with his chance of future possession;--a man who has two places, in one of which the hunting is less good, naturally desiring a third where it is better. Also, Lush had thrown out to Sir Hugo the probability that Grandcourt would woo and win Miss Arrowpoint, and in that case ready money might be less of a temptation to him. Hence, on this unexpected meeting at Leubronn, the baronet felt much curiosity to know how things had been going on at Diplow, was bent on being as civil as possible to his nephew, and looked forward to some private chat with Lush.

Grandcourt, on his side, thought his uncle a superfluous bore. But Lush had made him aware of the baronet's plans concerning Diplow, and he was gratified to have the possibility of the money in his mind: even if he did not choose to accept it, his sense of power would be flattered by his being able to refuse.
This was one reason why he had asked for a year's tenancy of Diplow, which had rather annoyed Sir Hugo, because the excellent hunting might make Grandcourt decide not to part with it. Also, Lush had hinted to Sir Hugo that Grandcourt would woo and win Miss Arrowpoint, which would free him from the need for ready money. So the baronet felt much curiosity to know how things had been going on at Diplow, was bent on being civil to his nephew, and looked forward to some private chat with Lush.


Between Deronda and Grandcourt there was a more faintly-marked but peculiar relation, depending on circumstances which have yet to be made known. But on no side was there any sign of suppressed chagrin on the first meeting at the _table d'hte_, an hour after Grandcourt's arrival; and when the quartette of gentlemen afterward met on the terrace, without Lady Mallinger, they moved off together to saunter through the rooms, Sir Hugo saying as they entered the large _saal_,

Between Deronda and Grandcourt there was a peculiar relation, due to circumstances which have yet to be made known. But no one showed any sign of annoyance on the first meeting. The quartet of gentlemen sauntered through the rooms, Sir Hugo saying-


"Did you play much at Baden, Grandcourt?"


"No; I looked on and betted a little with some Russians there."


"You brought away about two hundred," said Lush.


"You are not here for the sake of the play, then?" said Sir Hugo.

"You are not here for the play, then?" said Sir Hugo.


"No; I don't care about play now. It's a confounded strain," said Grandcourt, whose diamond ring and demeanor, as he moved along playing slightly with his whisker, were being a good deal stared at by rouged foreigners interested in a new milord.

"No; I don't care about play now. It's a confounded strain," said Grandcourt, whose diamond ring and demeanour were being a good deal stared at by foreigners interested in a new milord.


"The fact is, somebody should invent a mill to do amusements for you, my dear fellow," said Sir Hugo, "as the Tartars get their praying done. But I agree with you; I never cared for play. It's monotonous--knits the brain up into meshes. And it knocks me up to watch it now. I suppose one gets poisoned with the bad air. I never stay here more than ten minutes. But where's your gambling beauty, Deronda? Have you seen her lately?"

"I agree with you, my dear fellow," said Sir Hugo; "I never cared for play. It knits the brain up into meshes. I never stay here more than ten minutes. But where's your gambling beauty, Deronda? Have you seen her lately?"


"An uncommonly fine girl, a perfect Diana," said Sir Hugo, turning to Grandcourt again. "Really worth a little straining to look at her. I saw her winning, and she took it as coolly as if she had known it all beforehand. The same day Deronda happened to see her losing like wildfire, and she bore it with immense pluck. I suppose she was cleaned out, or was wise enough to stop in time. How do you know she's gone?"

"An uncommonly fine girl, a perfect Diana," said Sir Hugo, turning to Grandcourt again. "I saw her winning, as coolly as if she had foreseen it. Deronda happened to see her losing like wildfire, and she bore it with immense pluck. I suppose she was cleaned out, or was wise enough to stop in time. How do you know she's gone?"


"Oh, by the Visitor-list,..." said Deronda, with a scarcely perceptible shrug. "Vandernoodt told me her name was Harleth, and she was with the Baron and Baroness von Langen. I saw by the list that Miss Harleth was no longer there."

"Oh, by the Visitor-list," said Deronda, with a shrug. "Vandernoodt told me her name was Harleth, and she was with the Baron and Baroness von Langen."


This held no further information for Lush than that Gwendolen had been gambling. He had already looked at the list, and ascertained that Gwendolen had gone, but he had no intention of thrusting this knowledge on Grandcourt before he asked for it; and he had not asked, finding it enough to believe that the object of search would turn up somewhere or other.

Lush had already looked at the list, and learnt that Gwendolen had gone, but he had no intention of telling Grandcourt before he asked; and he had not asked.


But now Grandcourt had heard what was rather piquant, and not a word about Miss Harleth had been missed by him. After a moment's pause he said to Deronda,

But now Grandcourt had heard what was rather piquant. After a moment's pause he said to Deronda-


"Do you know those people--the Langens?"


"I have talked with them a little since Miss Harleth went away. I knew nothing of them before."

"I have talked with them a little since Miss Harleth left."


"She is gone home," said Deronda, coldly, as if he wished to say no more. But then, from a fresh impulse, he turned to look markedly at Grandcourt, and added, "But it is possible you know her. Her home is not far from Diplow: Offendene, near Winchester."

"She is gone home," said Deronda, coldly. But then, from a fresh impulse, he added, "It is possible you know her. Her home is not far from Diplow, at Offendene."


Deronda, turning to look straight at Grandcourt, who was on his left hand, might have been a subject for those old painters who liked contrasts of temperament. There was a calm intensity of life and richness of tint in his face that on a sudden gaze from him was rather startling, and often made him seem to have spoken, so that servants and officials asked him automatically, "What did you say, sir?" when he had been quite silent. Grandcourt himself felt an irritation, which he did not show except by a slight movement of the eyelids, at Deronda's turning round on him when he was not asked to do more than speak. But he answered, with his usual drawl, "Yes, I know her," and paused with his shoulder toward Deronda, to look at the gambling.

Deronda, looking straight at Grandcourt, might have been a subject for those old painters who liked contrasts of temperament. His richly-tinted face had a calm intensity that was rather startling, and often made him seem to have spoken, so that servants asked him automatically, "What did you say, sir?" when he had been quite silent. Grandcourt felt an irritation, which he did not show except by a slight movement of the eyelids. But he answered, with his usual drawl, "Yes, I know her," and paused to look at the gambling.


"What of her, eh?" asked Sir Hugo of Lush, as the three moved on a little way. "She must be a new-comer at Offendene. Old Blenny lived there after the dowager died."

"What of her, eh?" asked Sir Hugo of Lush, as the other three


"A little too much of her," said Lush, in a low, significant tone; not sorry to let Sir Hugo know the state of affairs.


"Why? how?" said the baronet. They all moved out of the _salon_ into an airy promenade.


"He has been on the brink of marrying her," Lush went on. "But I hope it's off now. She's a niece of the clergyman--Gascoigne--at Pennicote. Her mother is a widow with a brood of daughters. This girl will have nothing, and is as dangerous as gunpowder. It would be a foolish marriage. But she has taken a freak against him, for she ran off here without notice, when he had agreed to call the next day. The fact is, he's here after her; but he was in no great hurry, and between his caprice and hers they are likely enough not to get together again. But of course he has lost his chance with the heiress."

"He has been on the brink of marrying her," said Lush. "But I hope it's off now. She's a niece of the clergyman at Pennicote. Her mother is a widow with a brood of daughters. This girl will have nothing, and is as dangerous as gunpowder. It would be a foolish marriage. But she has taken a freak against him, for she ran off here without notice. The fact is, he's here after her; although he was in no great hurry, and they are not likely to get together again. But he has lost his chance with the heiress."


Grandcourt joining them said, "What a beastly den this is!--a worse hole than Baden. I shall go back to the hotel."


When Sir Hugo and Deronda were alone, the baronet began,

When Lush and Grandcourt had departed, Sir Hugo began to Deronda-


"Rather a pretty story. That girl has something in her. She must be worth running after--has _de l'imprvu_. I think her appearance on the scene has bettered my chance of getting Diplow, whether the marriage comes off or not."

"Rather a pretty story. That girl has something in her. She must be worth running after, whether the marriage comes off or not."


"I should hope a marriage like that would not come off," said Deronda, in a tone of disgust.


"What! are you a little touched with the sublime lash?" said Sir Hugo, putting up his glasses to help his short sight in looking at his companion. "Are you inclined to run after her?"

"What! are you inclined to run after her?" said Sir Hugo.


"On the contrary," said Deronda, "I should rather be inclined to run away from her."


"Why, you would easily cut out Grandcourt. A girl with her spirit would think you the finer match of the two," said Sir Hugo, who often tried Deronda's patience by finding a joke in impossible advice. (A difference of taste in jokes is a great strain on the affections.)

"Why, you would easily cut out Grandcourt. A girl with her spirit would think you the finer match of the two.


"I suppose pedigree and land belong to a fine match," said Deronda, coldly.


"The best horse will win in spite of pedigree, my boy. You remember Napoleon's _mot--Je suis un anctre_" said Sir Hugo, who habitually undervalued birth, as men after dining well often agree that the good of life is distributed with wonderful equality.


"I am not sure that I want to be an ancestor," said Deronda. "It doesn't seem to me the rarest sort of origination."


"You won't run after the pretty gambler, then?" said Sir Hugo, putting down his glasses.


This answer was perfectly truthful; nevertheless it had passed through Deronda's mind that under other circumstances he should have given way to the interest this girl had raised in him, and tried to know more of her. But his history had given him a stronger bias in another direction. He felt himself in no sense free.

This answer was perfectly truthful; nevertheless it had passed through Deronda's mind that under other circumstances he should have given way to his interest in this girl, and have tried to know more of her. But his history had given him a stronger bias in another direction. He felt himself in no sense free.


'Tis hard and ill-paid task to order all things beforehand by the rule of our own security, as is well hinted by Machiavelli concerning Caesar Borgia, who, saith he, had thought of all that might occur on his father's death, and had provided against every evil chance save only one: it had never come into his mind that when his father died, his own death would quickly follow.


Grandcourt's importance as a subject of this realm was of the grandly passive kind which consists in the inheritance of land. Political and social movements touched him only through the wire of his rental, and his most careful biographer need not have read up on Schleswig-Holstein, the policy of Bismarck, trade-unions, household suffrage, or even the last commercial panic. He glanced over the best newspaper columns on these topics, and his views on them can hardly be said to have wanted breadth, since he embraced all Germans, all commercial men, and all voters liable to use the wrong kind of soap, under the general epithet of "brutes;" but he took no action on these much-agitated questions beyond looking from under his eyelids at any man who mentioned them, and retaining a silence which served to shake the opinions of timid thinkers.

Grandcourt's importance as a subject of this realm was of the grandly passive kind which consists in the inheritance of land. Political and social movements touched him only through his rents. He glanced over the best newspaper columns, and his views can hardly be said to have wanted breadth, since he embraced all Germans, commercial men, and voters liable to use the wrong kind of soap, under the general epithet of "brutes;" but he took no action on these questions beyond looking from under his eyelids at any man who mentioned them, and retaining an intimidating silence.


But Grandcourt, within his own sphere of interest, showed some of the qualities which have entered into triumphal diplomacy of the wildest continental sort.

But Grandcourt, within his own sphere of interest, showed some of the qualities of an international diplomat.


No movement of Gwendolen in relation to Deronda escaped him. He would have denied that he was jealous; because jealousy would have implied some doubt of his own power to hinder what he had determined against. That his wife should have more inclination to another man's society than to his own would not pain him: what he required was that she should be as fully aware as she would have been of a locked hand-cuff, that her inclination was helpless to decide anything in contradiction with his resolve. However much of vacillating whim there might have been in his entrance on matrimony, there was no vacillating in his interpretation of the bond. He had not repented of his marriage; it had really brought more of aim into his life, new objects to exert his will upon; and he had not repented of his choice. His taste was fastidious, and Gwendolen satisfied it: he would not have liked a wife who had not received some elevation of rank from him; nor one who did not command admiration by her mien and beauty; nor one whose nails were not of the right shape; nor one the lobe of whose ear was at all too large and red; nor one who, even if her nails and ears were right, was at the same time a ninny, unable to make spirited answers. These requirements may not seem too exacting to refined contemporaries whose own ability to fall in love has been held in suspense for lack of indispensable details; but fewer perhaps may follow him in his contentment that his wife should be in a temper which would dispose her to fly out if she dared, and that she should have been urged into marrying him by other feelings than passionate attachment. Still, for those who prefer command to love, one does not see why the habit of mind should change precisely at the point of matrimony.

No movement of Gwendolen in relation to Deronda escaped him. He would have denied that he was jealous; because jealousy implied some doubt of his own power to hinder what he had determined against. That his wife should prefer another man's society to his own would not pain him: what he required was that she should know that she was helpless to defy him. However much he may have vacillated before marrying, there was no vacillating in his interpretation of the bond. He had not repented of his marriage; it had brought him new objects to exert his will upon; and he had not repented of his choice. His taste was fastidious, and Gwendolen satisfied it: he would not have liked a wife who outranked him; nor one who did not command admiration by her beauty, or who was unable to make spirited answers.
These requirements may not seem too exacting to equally fastidious contemporaries; but fewer perhaps may follow him in his contentment that his wife should be in a temper which would make her fly out if she dared, and that she should have married him because of other feelings than passionate attachment. Still, for those who prefer command to love, one does not see why the habit of mind should change precisely at the point of matrimony.


Grandcourt did not feel that he had chosen the wrong wife; and having taken on himself the part of husband, he was not going in any way to be fooled, or allow himself to be seen in a light that could be regarded as pitiable. This was his state of mind--not jealousy; still, his behavior in some respects was as like jealousy as yellow is to yellow, which color we know may be the effect of very different causes.

Grandcourt did not feel that he had chosen the wrong wife; and having taken on the part of husband, he was not going to allow himself to look a fool. This was his state of mind - not jealousy; although the result in his behaviour was very much the same.


He had come up to town earlier than usual because he wished to be on the spot for legal consultation as to the arrangements of his will, the transference of mortgages, and that transaction with his uncle about the succession to Diplow, which the bait of ready money, adroitly dangled without importunity, had finally won him to agree upon. But another acceptable accompaniment of his being in town was the presentation of himself with the beautiful bride whom he had chosen to marry in spite of what other people might have expected of him. It is true that Grandcourt went about with the sense that he did not care a languid curse for any one's admiration: but this state of not-caring, just as much as desire, required its related object--namely, a world of admiring or envying spectators: for if you are fond of looking stonily at smiling persons--the persons must be and they must smile--a rudimentary truth which is surely forgotten by those who complain of mankind as generally contemptible, since any other aspect of the race must disappoint the voracity of their contempt. Grandcourt, in town for the first time with his wife, had his non-caring abstinence from curses enlarged and diversified by splendid receptions, by conspicuous rides and drives, by presentations of himself with her on all distinguished occasions. He wished her to be sought after; he liked that "fellows" should be eager to talk with her and escort her within his observation; there was even a kind of lofty coquetry on her part that he would not have objected to. But what he did not like were her ways in relation to Deronda.

He had come up to town earlier than usual to make arrangements about his will, and complete the transaction with his uncle about Diplow, which the bait of ready money had finally won him to agree upon. But he also wished to present himself in town with the beautiful bride whom he had chosen to marry in spite of what other people might have expected.
It is true that Grandcourt believed that he did not care a languid curse for anyone's admiration: but this state of not-caring, just as much as desire, required a world of admiring or envying spectators: for if you are fond of looking stonily at smiling persons, the persons must be there and they must smile. Grandcourt had his non-caring attitude enlarged by splendid receptions and conspicuous rides and drives with his wife on all distinguished occasions. He wished her to be sought after; he liked that "fellows" should be eager to talk with her within his sight; he would not even have objected to lofty coquetry on her part. But what he did not like were her ways in relation to Deronda.


After the musical party at Lady Mallinger's, when Grandcourt had observed the dialogue on the settee as keenly as Hans had done, it was characteristic of him that he named Deronda for invitation along with the Mallingers, tenaciously avoiding the possible suggestion to anybody concerned that Deronda's presence or absence could be of the least importance to him; and he made no direct observation to Gwendolen on her behavior that evening, lest the expression of his disgust should be a little too strong to satisfy his own pride. But a few days afterward he remarked, without being careful of the _ propos_,

After the musical party at Lady Mallinger's, when Grandcourt had observed the dialogue on the settee, he invited Deronda along with the Mallingers, to make it clear that Deronda's presence or absence was not of the least importance to him; and he said nothing to Gwendolen on her behaviour that evening, lest his expression of disgust should be a little too strong to satisfy his own pride. But a few days afterward he remarked,-


"Nothing makes a woman more of a gawky than looking out after people and showing tempers in public. A woman ought to have good manners. Else it's intolerable to appear with her."

"Nothing makes a woman more of a gawky than looking out for people and showing tempers in public. A woman ought to have fine manners. Else it's intolerable to appear with her."


Gwendolen made the expected application, and was not without alarm at the notion of being a gawky. For she, too, with her melancholy distaste for things, preferred that her distaste should include admirers. But the sense of overhanging rebuke only intensified the strain of expectation toward any meeting with Deronda. The novelty and excitement of her town life was like the hurry and constant change of foreign travel; whatever might be the inward despondency, there was a programme to be fulfilled, not without gratification to many-sided self. But, as always happens with a deep interest, the comparatively rare occasions on which she could exchange any words with Deronda had a diffusive effect in her consciousness, magnifying their communication with each other, and therefore enlarging the place she imagined it to have in his mind. How could Deronda help this? He certainly did not avoid her; rather he wished to convince her by every delicate indirect means that her confidence in him had not been indiscreet since it had not lowered his respect. Moreover he liked being near her--how could it be otherwise? She was something more than a problem: she was a lovely woman, for the turn of whose mind and fate he had a care which, however futile it might be, kept soliciting him as a responsibility, perhaps all the more that, when he dared to think of his own future, he saw it lying far away from this splendid sad-hearted creature, who, because he had once been impelled to arrest her attention momentarily, as he might have seized her arm with warning to hinder her from stepping where there was danger, had turned to him with a beseeching persistent need.

Gwendolen understood him, and felt some alarm at the notion of being a gawky. For she, too, required admirers. But the sense of overhanging rebuke only intensified the anticipation of meeting Deronda. The excitement of her town life was like the hurry and constant change of foreign travel; there was always something to do, and not without pleasure. But the rare occasions on which she could exchange any words with Deronda became magnified in her consciousness, and enlarged the place she imagined herself to have in his mind.
How could Deronda help this? He certainly did not avoid her; rather he wished to let her know that her confidence in him had not lowered his respect. Moreover he liked being near her - how could it be otherwise? She was a lovely woman, and he cared about her fate perhaps all the more because he saw his own future lying far away from this splendid sad-hearted creature, who had turned to him with a beseeching need.