George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged

  Chapter Twenty

  Mirah said that she had slept well that night; and when she came down in Mab’s black dress, her dark hair curling as it gradually dried after its bath, she looked like one who was beginning to take comfort after the long sorrow which had paled her cheek and made blue semicircles under her eyes. Mab ushered her down – with some pride in the pair of tiny felt slippers which she had rushed out to buy because there were no shoes in the house small enough for Mirah.

  “Oh, if you please, mamma!” cried Mab, as Mirah entered the parlour; “look at the slippers, how beautifully they fit!’“

  Mirah looked down at her own feet in a childlike way and then smiled at Mrs. Meyrick, who said inwardly, “One could hardly imagine this creature having an evil thought. But I should be cautious.” Returning Mirah’s smile, she said, “I fear the feet have had to sustain their burden too often lately. But to-day she will rest and be my companion.”

  “And she will tell you so many things and I shall not hear them,” grumbled Mab, who had to go to pupils. Kate was already gone to make sketches along the river, and Amy was away on business errands. It was what the mother wished, to be alone with this stranger, whose story must be sorrowful, yet needed to be told.

  Soft air came in through the open window of the small front parlour; the walls showed a glorious silent cloud of witnesses – the Virgin soaring amid her cherubic escort; Prophets and Sibyls; the Last Supper; grave Holbein and Rembrandt heads; the Tragic Muse; Italian poets – all there in black and white. The neat mother who had weathered her troubles cheerfully was sorting wool for her embroidery. Hafiz purred on the window-ledge, the clock on the mantelpiece ticked without hurry, and the room was peaceful. Mrs. Meyrick thought that this quiet might invite her companion to speak, and chose not to disturb it. Mirah sat opposite, her hands clasped on her lap, her ankles crossed, her eyes travelling slowly over the objects around her, but finally resting with a sort of reverence on Mrs. Meyrick. At length she began to speak softly.

  “I remember my mother’s face better than anything; yet I was not seven when I was taken away, and I am nineteen now.”

  “I can understand that,” said Mrs. Meyrick. “The earliest things last the longest.”

  “Oh, yes, it was the earliest. I think my life began with waking up and loving my mother’s face: it was so near to me, and her arms were round me, and she sang to me. One hymn she sang so often: and she taught it me. It was the first I ever sang. They were always Hebrew hymns; and because I never knew the meaning of the words they seemed full of our love and happiness. When I lay in my little bed, she used to bend over me, and sing in a sweet, low voice. I can dream myself back into that time when I am awake, and it often comes back to me in my sleep – my hand is very little, I put it up to her face and she kisses it. Sometimes in my dreams I begin to tremble and think we are both dead; but then I wake up and my hand lies like this, and for a moment I hardly know myself. But if I could see my mother again I should know her.”

  “You must expect some change after twelve years,” said Mrs. Meyrick, gently.

  “I am sure her heart has been heavy for want of me. But to feel her joy if we could meet again, and I could give her comfort after all her mourning! If that could be, I should be glad that I have lived through my trouble. I did despair. The world seemed miserable and wicked; nobody helped me, I felt that my mother was dead, and death was the only way to her. But then in the last moment, when I longed for the water to close over me, then goodness came to me, and I felt trust in the living. And – it is strange – but I began to hope that she was living too. And now this morning, peace and hope have come into me like a flood. I can wait; because I hope and believe and am grateful – oh, so grateful! You have not thought evil of me – you have not despised me.”

  Mirah spoke with low-toned fervour.

  “Many others would have felt as we do, my dear,” said Mrs. Meyrick, feeling a mist come over her eyes as she looked at her work.

  “But I did not meet them.”

  “How was it that you were taken from your mother?”

  “It is dreadful to speak of, yet I must tell you everything. My father took me away. I thought we were only going on a little journey; but we went on board a ship, and got farther and farther away from the land. Then I was ill; and I thought it would never end. But at last we landed. I knew nothing then, and believed my father when he said I should soon go back to my mother. But it was America we had reached, and it was long years before we came back to Europe.

  “At first I often asked my father when we were going back; and I tried to learn writing fast, because I wanted to write to my mother; but one day when he found me writing a letter, he took me on his knee and told me that my mother and brother were dead; that was why we did not go back. I remember my brother a little; he carried me once; but he was not always at home. I believed my father when he said that they were dead. I saw them under the earth, with their eyes forever closed. I never thought of its not being true; and I used to cry every night in my bed. Then when she came so often to me, in my sleep, I thought she must be living around me though I could not always see her, and that comforted me. Very often I used to shut my eyes and try to see her and to hear her singing. I came to do that at last without shutting my eyes.”

  Mirah paused with a sweet content in her face, while she looked out toward the river.

  “Still your father was not unkind to you, I hope,” said Mrs. Meyrick anxiously.

  “No; he petted me, and took pains to teach me. He was an actor. He had not always been an actor; he had been a teacher, and knew many languages. His acting was not very good, I think; but he managed the stage, and wrote and translated plays. An Italian Signora, a singer, lived with us a long time. They both taught me, and I had a master besides, who made me learn by heart and recite. I worked hard, though I was so little; I was not nine when I first went on the stage. I could easily learn things, and I was not afraid. But I hated our way of life. My father had money, and we had finery in a disorderly way; always there were men and women coming and going; laughing and disputing, strutting, snapping fingers, jeering – though many petted and caressed me. But I remembered my mother and shrank away into my thoughts; I read plays and poetry, Shakespeare and Schiller, and learned evil and good.

  “My father began to believe that I might be a great singer: my voice was considered wonderful for a child; and he had the best teaching for me. But it was painful that he boasted of me, and made me sing for show as if I had been a musical box. I did it without any trouble; but the clapping was hateful to me; and the praise I had seemed hard and unloving: I missed the love and trust I had been born into. I made a life in my own thoughts quite different from everything about me: I chose what seemed to me beautiful out of the plays, and made my world out of it; and it was like a sharp knife that the two sorts of life jarred so with each other – women seeming good and gentle on the stage, and directly afterwards using coarse, ugly manners.

  “Signora said one day, ‘She will never be an artist: she has no notion of being anybody but herself. That does very well now, but by-and-by she will have no more face and action than a singing-bird.’ My father was angry, and they quarrelled. I sat alone and cried, because I saw a long unhappy future before me. I did not want to be an artist; but my father expected it.

  “Then Signora left us, and a governess came, but I still acted from time to time. I wished to get away; but I could not tell where to go, and I was afraid of the world. Besides, I felt it would be wrong to leave my father: I dreaded doing wrong and getting wicked. For so long, I had never felt my outside world happy; and if I got wicked I should lose my world of happy thoughts where my mother lived with me. That was my childish notion all through those years. Oh, how long they were!”

  Mirah fell to musing again.

  “Had you no teaching about your duty?” said Mrs. Meyrick. She did not like to say “religion” – finding herself rather vague as to what the Hebrew religion involved. br />
  “No – only that I ought to do what my father wished. He did not follow our religion at New York. But because my mother used to take me to the synagogue, and I remembered sitting on her knee and looking through the railing and hearing the chanting and singing, I longed to go. Once when I was small I slipped out and tried to find the synagogue, but I lost myself till a peddler questioned me and took me home. My father was very angry, and I had been so frightened that it was long before I thought of venturing out again.

  “After Signora left, we went to rooms where our landlady was a practising Jewess. I asked her to take me to the synagogue; and I read in her prayer-books and Bible, and asked her to buy me books of my own, for they seemed a closer companionship with my mother: I knew that she must have looked at the very words and said them. In that way I have come to know a little of our religion, and the history of our people.

  “I was sure my mother obeyed her religion, but I had stopped asking my father about her. It is dreadful to say it, but I began to disbelieve him. I found that he did not always tell the truth or keep his promises; and I suspected that my mother and brother were still alive. For in going over the past, I felt sure that my mother had been deceived, and had expected to see us again after a very little while; and my father had told me a falsehood. The cruelty of it sank into me, and I hated all untruth because of it.

  “I wrote to my mother secretly: I knew the street, Colman Street, where we lived, and that our name was Cohen then, though my father called us Lapidoth, which was a name of his forefathers in Poland. I sent my letter secretly; but no answer came, and I lost hope. Then my father suddenly told me we were to go to Hamburg, and I was glad. I hoped we might get among a different sort of people, and I knew German quite well. I was thirteen then, and I felt old – I knew so much, and yet so little. But I set myself to obey and suffer: what else could I do?

  “One day on our voyage, a new thought came to me. My father sang and joked to amuse people on board, and I overheard a gentleman say, ‘Oh, he is one of those clever Jews – a rascal, I shouldn’t wonder. I wonder what market he means that daughter for.’ Then it darted into my mind that the unhappiness in my life came from my being a Jewess, and that always the world would think little of me and judge me by that name; and it comforted me to believe that my suffering was part of the affliction of my people, my part in the long song of mourning that has been going on through ages and ages. But you have not rejected me.” Mirah said this last sentence in a different tone of voice.

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

  “After that we lived in Hamburg and Vienna. I began to study singing again: and my father made money in theatres. He made me rehearse continually, and looked forward to my coming out in the opera. But it seemed that my voice would never be strong enough. My master at Vienna said, ‘Don’t strain it further: it will never do for the public:– it is gold, but a thread of gold dust.’ My father was bitterly disappointed. I knew he was fond of me, and that made me afraid of hurting him; but he always mistook what would please me and give me happiness. It was his nature to take everything lightly; and I soon stopped asking him questions about things that I cared for, because he always turned them off with a joke. He would even ridicule our own people, imitating them to make others laugh.

  “Once, I said, ‘Father, you ought not to mimic our own people before Christians who mock them: would it not be bad if I mimicked you, so that they might mock you?’ But he only shrugged and laughed, and said, ‘You couldn’t do it, my dear.’ This mockery made a great wall between me and my father. Is this world like a farce, with no great meanings? Why then are there tragedies and grand operas? I think it is silly to speak of all things as a joke. And I saw that his wishing me to sing the greatest music, was only to fetch the greatest price.

  “I did sometimes pity him. He had aged; he was no longer so lively. I thought he seemed less good to others than to me. Sometimes he would sit at home silent and gloomy; or fling himself down and sob. If I asked him what was the matter, he would not answer, but would put his arm round me and go on crying. Oh, I was sorry for him then. I knew he must feel his life bitter, and I pressed my cheek against his head and prayed. Those moments bound me to him; and I used to think how much my mother must have once loved him.

  “But soon there came the dreadful time. My father got me singing parts at a theatre in Vienna. I think he spent his own time at a gambling house. I was very miserable. The plays I acted in were detestable to me: it was like a fiery furnace. The glare and the faces, and having to go on and act and sing what I hated, and then to see people who came to stare at me behind the scenes – it was all much worse than when I was little. I went through with it; I had set my mind to obey my father and work. But I felt that my voice was getting weaker.

  “Then, in the midst of all this, news came to me that my father had been taken to prison, and had sent for me. He did not tell me why he was there, but he ordered me to go to an address he gave me, to see a Count who would get him released. The address was to some public rooms; I found the Count, and recognized him as a gentleman whom I had seen the other night for the first time behind the scenes. That agitated me, for I remembered his way of looking at me and kissing my hand. But I delivered my errand, and he promised to go immediately to my father, who came home that very evening, bringing the Count.

  “I now began to feel a horrible dread of this man, for he worried me with his attentions. His eyes were always on me: when he came to the theatre the next day and wanted to put my shawl around me, a terror took hold of me. The Count walked heavily, and his face was heavy and grave except when he looked at me. He smiled at me, and his smile went through me with horror: I could not tell why. My father praised him to me, saying what a good friend he had been, and when the Count came again, my father left the room. The Count asked me if I liked being on stage. I said No, I only acted in obedience to my father. Then he told me that I need not act any longer; he wished me to visit him at his beautiful place, where I might be queen of everything. It was difficult for me to speak, I felt so shaken with anger: I could only say, ‘I would rather stay on the stage forever.’ I hurried out of the room and saw my father sauntering in the passage. My heart was crushed. I went past him and locked myself up.

  “Next day my father persuaded me to come out: he said that I had mistaken everything: if I did not come out and act and fulfil my engagement, we should be ruined and he must starve. So I went on acting, and for a week the Count never came near me. My father changed our lodgings, and stayed at home. He began one day to say, I could never go on singing in public – I should lose my voice – I ought to think of my future, and not put nonsensical feelings between me and my fortune. He said, ‘You have had a splendid offer and ought to accept it.’ I could not speak: a horror took possession of me. I felt for the first time that I should not do wrong to leave him.

  “But the next day he told me that we were to go to Prague. It took us two days to get ready; and I thought that I might be obliged to run away from my father, and then I would come to London and try to find my mother. I had a little money, and I sold some things to get more. I packed a few clothes in a little bag, and I kept on the watch. My father’s silence about the Count’s offer made me feel sure that there was a plan against me. I prayed for help. I had seen what despised women were: and my heart turned against my father, for I saw always behind him that man who made me shudder.

  “You will think I had not enough reason for my suspicions, and perhaps I had not; but it seemed to me that my mind had been lit up, and that all was clear and sharp. I could hardly sleep. Throughout our journey I was always on the watch. I feared that my father would suddenly leave me and I should find myself with the Count.

  “It was dark when we reached Prague, and difficult to distinguish faces as we drove along the street. I watched everything in spite of the darkness; and when we passed before a great hote
l I caught sight of a back that was passing. I knew it – before the face was turned, I knew who it was. Help came to me. I did not sleep that night. I put on my plainest things, and I sat watching for the light and the sound of the doors being unbarred. Some one rose at four o’clock, to go to the railway. That gave me courage. I slipped out, with my little bag under my cloak, and none noticed me. I had been reading the railway guide so that I might learn the way to England; and before the sun had risen I was in the train for Dresden. Then I cried for joy. I did not know whether my money would last out, but I trusted. I could sell the things in my bag, and the little rings in my ears, and I could live on bread only. My only terror was lest my father should follow me. But I never paused. I came on, and on, and on, only eating bread now and then.

  “When I got to Brussels I saw that I should not have enough money, and I sold all that I could; but here a strange thing happened. Putting my hand into the pocket of my cloak, I found a half-napoleon. Wondering how it came there, I remembered that on the way from Cologne there was a young workman sitting next to me. I was frightened at everyone, and did not like to be spoken to. At first he tried to talk, but when he saw I did not like it, he left off. It was a long journey; I ate nothing but a bit of bread, and he offered me some of his food, but I refused it. I believe he put that bit of gold in my pocket. Without it I could hardly have got to Dover, and I did walk a good deal of the way from Dover to London. I knew I should look like a miserable beggar-girl, and I felt it would grieve my mother to see me so.

  “As soon as I reached London, I began to ask for Lambeth and Blackfriars Bridge, but they were a long way off, and I went wrong. At last I got to Blackfriars Bridge and asked for Colman Street. People shook their heads. None knew it. A tradesman said, ‘Oh, that’s done away with. The old streets have been pulled down; everything is new.’ I felt as if death had laid a hand on me. I felt blinded, weak and weary, and yet where could I go? I thought I was forsaken. It seemed that I had been in a fever of hope – delirious – all the way from Prague: and now I stood in a strange world. I crossed the bridge and looked along the river.

  “People were going on to a steamboat; perhaps that would take me where I could soon find solitude. I bought a loaf when I went on the boat. I wanted to have a little time and strength to think of life and death. How could I live? It seemed that death was the way to find my mother. The boat set me down at a place along the river. I sat down under some trees that I might rest through the night. When I awoke the birds were singing, and the dew was white about me. I felt chill and oh, so lonely!

  “I got up and walked along the river. There was no reason why I should go anywhere. The world about me seemed like a vision that was hurrying by while I stood still with my pain. I saw all my life from the beginning; ever since I was carried away from my mother I had felt myself a lost child and used by strangers, who did not care what my life was to me, but only what I could do for them. And now I was lost again, and I dreaded lest any stranger should notice me. I had a terror of the world. What could I do? This life seemed to be closing in upon me with a scorching wall of fire that made me shrink.

  “I began to think that my despair was the voice of God telling me to die. Then I thought of my people, how they had been driven from land to land and been afflicted, and multitudes had died of misery in their wandering; and in the wars when Christians were cruellest, our fathers had sometimes slain their children and afterward themselves. That seemed to make it right for me to put an end to my life; but I knew that some held it wrong to hasten their own death, and while I had some strength left I ought to bear it – else where was the good of all my life? It had not been happy since the first years: every morning I used to think, ‘I will bear it.’ But always before I had some hope; now it was gone.

  “With these thoughts I wandered, inwardly crying to the Most High, though I had no strong faith that He cared for me. The strength seemed departing from my soul. The more I thought the wearier I got, till it seemed I was not thinking at all, but only the sky and the river and the Eternal God were in my soul. And what was it whether I died or lived? If I lay down to die in the river, was it more than lying down to sleep? I gave myself up to it. I could not bear memories any more; I could only feel a longing to cease from my weary life, and enter the great peace. That was how it was. When the evening came and the sun was gone, a new strength came into me to decide what I would do. You know what I did. You know what happened – did he not tell you? Faith came to me again; I was not forsaken. He told you how he found me?”

  Mrs. Meyrick gave no audible answer, but pressed her lips against Mirah’s forehead.