She sang Beethoven’s “Per pietà 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.