Part 47 (1/2)
”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.”
”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 circ.u.mstances 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.
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.
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 ma.s.s 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-gra.s.ses. Then see the perfect cameo her profile makes, cut in a duskish sh.e.l.l, 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.
She sang Beethoven's ”Per pieta 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.
”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.”
”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?”
”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.”
”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.”
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.”
”It is too childish,” said Mirah. ”It is like lisping.”
”What is the hymn?” said Deronda.
”It is the Hebrew hymn she remembers her mother singing over her when she lay in her cot,” said Mrs. Meyrick.
”I should like very much to hear it,” 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.”
Deronda shook his head. ”It will be quite good Hebrew to me.”
Mirah crossed her little feet and hands in her easiest att.i.tude, 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.
”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.”
”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 friends.h.i.+p, 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. Friends.h.i.+ps begin with liking or grat.i.tude--roots that can be pulled up. Mother's love begins deeper down.”