“Not one who must have a path of her own?”
“I think her nature is not given to make great claims.”
“She is not like that?” said the Princess, taking from her wallet a miniature with jewels around it, and holding it before her son. It was her own in all the fire of youth, and as Deronda looked at it with admiring sadness, she said, “Had I not a rightful claim to be something more than a mere daughter and mother? The voice and the genius matched the face. Whatever else was wrong, acknowledge that I had a right to be an artist, though my father’s will was against it. My nature gave me a charter.”
“I do acknowledge that,” said Deronda, looking from the miniature to her face, which even in its worn pallor had an expression of living force beyond anything that the pencil could show.
“Will you take the portrait?” said the Princess, more gently. “If she is a kind woman, teach her to think of me kindly.”
“I shall be grateful for the portrait,” said Deronda, “but—I ought to say, I have no assurance that she whom I love will have any love for me. I have kept silence.”
“Who and what is she?” said the mother. The question seemed a command.
“She was brought up as a singer for the stage,” said Deronda, with inward reluctance. “Her father took her away early from her mother, and her life has been unhappy. She is very young—only twenty. Her father wished to bring her up in disregard—even in dislike of her Jewish origin, but she has clung with all her affection to the memory of her mother and the fellowship of her people.”
“Ah, like you. She is attached to the Judaism she knows nothing of,” said the Princess, peremptorily. “That is poetry—fit to last through an opera night. Is she fond of her artist’s life—is her singing worth anything?”
“Her singing is exquisite. But her voice is not suited to the stage. I think that the artist’s life has been made repugnant to her.”