CHAPTER LXVII.

The godhead in us wrings our noble deeds
From our reluctant selves.


It was an unpleasant surprise to Deronda when he returned from the Abbey
to find the undesirable father installed in the lodgings at Brompton.
Mirah had felt it necessary to speak of Deronda to her father, and even to
make him as fully aware as she could of the way in which the friendship
with Ezra had begun, and of the sympathy which had cemented it. She passed
more lightly over what Deronda had done for her, omitting altogether the
rescue from drowning, and speaking of the shelter she had found in Mrs.
Meyrick's family so as to leave her father to suppose that it was through
these friends Deronda had become acquainted with her. She could not
persuade herself to more completeness in her narrative: she could not let
the breath of her father's soul pass over her relation to Deronda. And
Lapidoth, for reasons, was not eager in his questioning about the
circumstances of her flight and arrival in England. But he was much
interested in the fact of his children having a beneficent friend
apparently high in the world.

It was the brother who told Deronda of this new condition added to their
life. "I am become calm in beholding him now," Ezra ended, "and I try to
think it possible that my sister's tenderness, and the daily tasting a
life of peace, may win him to remain aloof from temptation. I have
enjoined her, and she has promised, to trust him with no money. I have
convinced her that he will buy with it his own destruction."

Deronda first came on the third day from Ladipoth's arrival. The new
clothes for which he had been measured were not yet ready, and wishing to
make a favorable impression, he did not choose to present himself in the
old ones. He watched for Deronda's departure, and, getting a view of him
from the window, was rather surprised at his youthfulness, which Mirah had
not mentioned, and which he had somehow thought out of the question in a
personage who had taken up a grave friendship and hoary studies with the
sepulchral Ezra. Lapidoth began to imagine that Deronda's real or chief
motive must be that he was in love with Mirah. And so much the better; for
a tie to Mirah had more promise of indulgence for her father than a tie to
Ezra: and Lapidoth was not without the hope of recommending himself to
Deronda, and of softening any hard prepossessions. He was behaving with
much amiability, and trying in all ways at his command to get himself into
easy domestication with his children--entering into Mirah's music, showing
himself docile about smoking, which Mrs. Adam could not tolerate in her
parlor, and walking out in the square with his German pipe, and the
tobacco with which Mirah supplied him. He was too acute to offer any
present remonstrance against the refusal of money, which Mirah told him
that she must persist in as a solemn duty promised to her brother. He was
comfortable enough to wait.

The next time Deronda came, Lapidoth, equipped in his new clothes, and
satisfied with his own appearance, was in the room with Ezra, who was
teaching himself, as a part of his severe duty, to tolerate his father's
presence whenever it was imposed. Deronda was cold and distant, the first
sight of this man, who had blighted the lives of his wife and children,
creating in him a repulsion that was even a physical discomfort. But
Lapidoth did not let himself be discouraged, asked leave to stay and hear
the reading of papers from the old chest, and actually made himself useful
in helping to decipher some difficult German manuscript. This led him to
suggest that it might be desirable to make a transcription of the
manuscript, and he offered his services for this purpose, and also to make
copies of any papers in Roman characters. Though Ezra's young eyes he
observed were getting weak, his own were still strong. Deronda accepted
the offer, thinking that Lapidoth showed a sign of grace in the
willingness to be employed usefully; and he saw a gratified expression in
Ezra's face, who, however, presently said, "Let all the writing be done
here; for I cannot trust the papers out of my sight, lest there be an
accident by burning or otherwise." Poor Ezra felt very much as if he had a
convict on leave under his charge. Unless he saw his father working, it
was not possible to believe that he would work in good faith. But by this
arrangement he fastened on himself the burden of his father's presence,
which was made painful not only through his deepest, longest associations,
but also through Lapidoth's restlessness of temperament, which showed
itself the more as he become familiarized with his situation, and lost any
awe he had felt of his son. The fact was, he was putting a strong
constraint on himself in confining his attention for the sake of winning
Deronda's favor; and like a man in an uncomfortable garment he gave
himself relief at every opportunity, going out to smoke, or moving about
and talking, or throwing himself back in his chair and remaining silent,
but incessantly carrying on a dumb language of facial movement or
gesticulation: and if Mirah were in the room, he would fall into his old
habit of talk with her, gossiping about their former doings and
companions, or repeating quirks and stories, and plots of the plays he
used to adapt, in the belief that he could at will command the vivacity of
his earlier time. All this was a mortal infliction to Ezra; and when Mirah
was at home she tried to relieve him, by getting her father down into the
parlor and keeping watch over him there. What duty is made of a single
difficult resolve? The difficulty lies in the daily unflinching support of
consequences that mar the blessed return of morning with the prospect of
irritation to be suppressed or shame to be endured. And such consequences
were being borne by these, as by many other heroic children of an unworthy
father--with the prospect, at least to Mirah, of their stretching onward
through the solid part of life.

Meanwhile Lapidoth's presence had raised a new impalpable partition
between Deronda and Mirah--each of them dreading the soiling inferences of
his mind, each of them interpreting mistakenly the increased reserve and
diffidence of the other. But it was not very long before some light came
to Deronda.

As soon as he could, after returning from his brief visit to the Abbey, he
had called at Hans Meyrick's rooms, feeling it, on more grounds than one,
a due of friendship that Hans should be at once acquainted with the
reasons of his late journey, and the changes of intention it had brought
about. Hans was not there; he was said to be in the country for a few
days; and Deronda, after leaving a note, waited a week, rather expecting a
note in return. But receiving no word, and fearing some freak of feeling
in the incalculably susceptible Hans, whose proposed sojourn at the Abbey
he knew had been deferred, he at length made a second call, and was
admitted into the painting-room, where he found his friend in a light
coat, without a waistcoat, his long hair still wet from a bath, but with a
face looking worn and wizened--anything but country-like. He had taken up
his palette and brushes, and stood before his easel when Deronda entered,
but the equipment and attitude seemed to have been got up on short notice.

As they shook hands, Deronda said, "You don't look much as if you had been
in the country, old fellow. Is it Cambridge you have been to?"

"No," said Hans, curtly, throwing down his palette with the air of one who
has begun to feign by mistake; then pushing forward a chair for Deronda,
he threw himself into another, and leaned backward with his hands behind
his head, while he went on, "I've been to I-don't-know-where--No man's
land--and a mortally unpleasant country it is."

"You don't mean to say you have been drinking, Hans," said Deronda, who
had seated himself opposite, in anxious survey.

"Nothing so good. I've been smoking opium. I always meant to do it some
time or other, to try how much bliss could be got by it; and having found
myself just now rather out of other bliss, I thought it judicious to seize
the opportunity. But I pledge you my word I shall never tap a cask of that
bliss again. It disagrees with my constitution."

"What has been the matter? You were in good spirits enough when you wrote
to me."

"Oh, nothing in particular. The world began to look seedy--a sort of
cabbage-garden with all the cabbages cut. A malady of genius, you may be
sure," said Hans, creasing his face into a smile; "and, in fact, I was
tired of being virtuous without reward, especially in this hot London
weather."

"Nothing else? No real vexation?" said Deronda.

Hans shook his head.

"I came to tell you of my own affairs, but I can't do it with a good grace
if you are to hide yours."

"Haven't an affair in the world," said Hans, in a flighty way, "except a
quarrel with a bric-a-brac man. Besides, as it is the first time in our
lives that you ever spoke to me about your own affairs, you are only
beginning to pay a pretty long debt."

Deronda felt convinced that Hans was behaving artificially, but he trusted
to a return of the old frankness by-and-by if he gave his own confidence.

"You laughed at the mystery of my journey to Italy, Hans," he began. "It
was for an object that touched my happiness at the very roots. I had never
known anything about my parents, and I really went to Genoa to meet my
mother. My father has been long dead--died when I was an infant. My mother
was the daughter of an eminent Jew; my father was her cousin. Many things
had caused me to think of this origin as almost a probability before I set
out. I was so far prepared for the result that I was glad of it--glad to
find myself a Jew."

"You must not expect me to look surprised, Deronda," said Hans, who had
changed his attitude, laying one leg across the other and examining the
heel of his slipper.

"You knew it?"

"My mother told me. She went to the house the morning after you had been
there--brother and sister both told her. You may imagine we can't rejoice
as they do. But whatever you are glad of, I shall come to be glad of in
the end--_when_ exactly the end may be I can't predict," said Hans,
speaking in a low tone, which was as usual with him as it was to be out of
humor with his lot, and yet bent on making no fuss about it.

"I quite understand that you can't share my feeling," said Deronda; "but I
could not let silence lie between us on what casts quite a new light over
my future. I have taken up some of Mordecai's ideas, and I mean to try and
carry them out, so far as one man's efforts can go. I dare say I shall by
and by travel to the East and be away for some years."

Hans said nothing, but rose, seized his palette and began to work his
brush on it, standing before his picture with his back to Deronda, who
also felt himself at a break in his path embarrassed by Hans's
embarrassment.

Presently Hans said, again speaking low, and without turning, "Excuse the
question, but does Mrs. Grandcourt know of all this?"

"No; and I must beg of you, Hans," said Deronda, rather angrily, "to cease
joking on that subject. Any notions you have are wide of the truth--are
the very reverse of the truth."

"I am no more inclined to joke than I shall be at my own funeral," said
Hans. "But I am not at all sure that you are aware what are my notions on
that subject."

"Perhaps not," said Deronda. "But let me say, once for all, that in
relation to Mrs. Grandcourt, I never have had, and never shall have the
position of a lover. If you have ever seriously put that interpretation on
anything you have observed, you are supremely mistaken."

There was silence a little while, and to each the silence was like an
irritating air, exaggerating discomfort.

"Perhaps I have been mistaken in another interpretation, also," said Hans,
presently.

"What is that?"

"That you had no wish to hold the position of a lover toward another
woman, who is neither wife nor widow."

"I can't pretend not to understand you, Meyrick. It is painful that our
wishes should clash. I hope you will tell me if you have any ground for
supposing that you would succeed."

"That seems rather a superfluous inquiry on your part, Deronda," said
Hans, with some irritation.

"Why superfluous?"

"Because you are perfectly convinced on the subject--and probably have had
the very best evidence to convince you."

"I will be more frank with you than you are with me," said Deronda, still
heated by Hans' show of temper, and yet sorry for him. "I have never had
the slightest evidence that I should succeed myself. In fact, I have very
little hope."

Hans looked round hastily at his friend, but immediately turned to his
picture again.

"And in our present situation," said Deronda, hurt by the idea that Hans
suspected him of insincerity, and giving an offended emphasis to his
words, "I don't see how I can deliberately make known my feeling to her.
If she could not return it, I should have embittered her best comfort; for
neither she nor I can be parted from her brother, and we should have to
meet continually. If I were to cause her that sort of pain by an unwilling
betrayal of my feeling, I should be no better than a mischievous animal."

"I don't know that I have ever betrayed _my_ feeling to her," said Hans,
as if he were vindicating himself.

"You mean that we are on a level, then; you have no reason to envy me."

"Oh, not the slightest," said Hans, with bitter irony. "You have measured
my conceit and know what it out-tops ail your advantages."

"I am a nuisance to you, Meyrick. I am sorry, but I can't help it," said
Deronda, rising. "After what passed between us before, I wished to have
this explanation; and I don't see that any pretensions of mine have made a
real difference to you. They are not likely to make any pleasant
difference to myself under present circumstances. Now the father is there
--did you know that the father is there?"

"Yes. If he were not a Jew I would permit myself to damn him--with faint
praise, I mean," said Hans, but with no smile.

"She and I meet under greater constraint than ever. Things might go on in
this way for two years without my getting any insight into her feeling
toward me. That is the whole state of affairs, Hans. Neither you nor I
have injured the other, that I can see. We must put up with this sort of
rivalry in a hope that is likely enough to come to nothing. Our friendship
can bear that strain, surely."

"No, it can't," said Hans, impetuously, throwing down his tools, thrusting
his hands into his coat-pockets, and turning round to face Deronda, who
drew back a little and looked at him with amazement. Hans went on in the
same tone--

"Our friendship--my friendship--can't bear the strain of behaving to you
like an ungrateful dastard and grudging you your happiness. For you _are_
the happiest dog in the world. If Mirah loves anybody better than her
brother, _you are the man_."

Hans turned on his heel and threw himself into his chair, looking up at
Deronda with an expression the reverse of tender. Something like a shock
passed through Deronda, and, after an instant, he said--

"It is a good-natured fiction of yours, Hans."

"I am not in a good-natured mood. I assure you I found the fact
disagreeable when it was thrust on me--all the more, or perhaps all the
less, because I believed then that your heart was pledged to the duchess.
But now, confound you! you turn out to be in love in the right place--a
Jew--and everything eligible."

"Tell me what convinced you--there's a good fellow," said Deronda,
distrusting a delight that he was unused to.

"Don't ask. Little mother was witness. The upshot is, that Mirah is
jealous of the duchess, and the sooner you relieve your mind the better.
There! I've cleared off a score or two, and may be allowed to swear at you
for getting what you deserve--which is just the very best luck I know of."

"God bless you, Hans!" said Deronda, putting out his hand, which the other
took and wrung in silence.