Daniel Deronda HTML version
Men, like planets, have both a visible and an invisible history. The astronomer
threads the darkness with strict deduction, accounting so for every visible arc in
the wanderer's orbit; and the narrator of human actions, if he did his work with
the same completeness, would have to thread the hidden pathways of feeling
and thought which lead up to every moment of action, and to those moments of
intense suffering which take the quality of action--like the cry of Prometheus,
whose chained anguish seems a greater energy than the sea and sky he invokes
and the deity he defies.
Deronda's circumstances, indeed, had been exceptional. One moment had been
burned into his life as its chief epoch--a moment full of July sunshine and large
pink roses shedding their last petals on a grassy court enclosed on three sides
by a gothic cloister. Imagine him in such a scene: a boy of thirteen, stretched
prone on the grass where it was in shadow, his curly head propped on his arms
over a book, while his tutor, also reading, sat on a camp-stool under shelter.
Deronda s book was Sismondi's "History of the Italian Republics";--the lad had a
passion for history, eager to know how time had been filled up since the flood,
and how things were carried on in the dull periods. Suddenly he let down his left
arm and looked at his tutor, saying in purest boyish tones--
"Mr. Fraser, how was it that the popes and cardinals always had so many
The tutor, an able young Scotchman, who acted as Sir Hugo Mallinger's
secretary, roused rather unwillingly from his political economy, answered with the
clear-cut emphatic chant which makes a truth doubly telling in Scotch utterance--
"Their own children were called nephews."
"Why?" said Deronda.
"It was just for the propriety of the thing; because, as you know very well, priests
don't marry, and the children were illegitimate."
Mr. Fraser, thrusting out his lower lip and making his chant of the last word the
more emphatic for a little impatience at being interrupted, had already turned his
eyes on his book again, while Deronda, as if something had stung him, started
up in a sitting attitude with his back to the tutor.
He had always called Sir Hugo Mallinger his uncle, and when it once occurred to
him to ask about his father and mother, the baronet had answered, "You lost your
father and mother when you were quite a little one; that is why I take care of