Chapter 38

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There be who hold that the deeper tragedy were a Prometheus Bound not

_after_ but _before_ he had well got the celestial fire into

the _narthex_ whereby it might be conveyed to mortals: thrust by

the Kratos and Bia of instituted methods into a solitude of despised

ideas, fastened in throbbing helplessness by the fatal pressure of

poverty and disease--a solitude where many pass by, but none regard.

"Second-sight" is a flag over disputed ground. But it is matter of

knowledge that there are persons whose yearnings, conceptions--nay,

traveled conclusions--continually take the form of images which have a

foreshadowing power; the deed they would do starts up before them in

complete shape, making a coercive type; the event they hunger for or dread

rises into vision with a seed-like growth, feeding itself fast on

unnumbered impressions. They are not always the less capable of the

argumentative process, nor less sane than the commonplace calculators of

the market: sometimes it may be that their natures have manifold openings,

like the hundred-gated Thebes, where there may naturally be a greater and

more miscellaneous inrush than through a narrow beadle-watched portal. No

doubt there are abject specimens of the visionary, as there is a minim

mammal which you might imprison in the finger of your glove. That small

relative of the elephant has no harm in him; but what great mental or

social type is free from specimens whose insignificance is both ugly and

noxious? One is afraid to think of all that the genus "patriot" embraces;

or of the elbowing there might be at the day of judgment for those who

ranked as authors, and brought volumes either in their hands or on trucks.

This apology for inevitable kinship is meant to usher in some facts about

Mordecai, whose figure had bitten itself into Deronda's mind as a new

question which he felt an interest in getting answered. But the interest

was no more than a vaguely-expectant suspense: the consumptive-looking

Jew, apparently a fervid student of some kind, getting his crust by a

quiet handicraft, like Spinoza, fitted into none of Deronda's

anticipations.

It was otherwise with the effect of their meeting on Mordecai. For many

winters, while he had been conscious of an ebbing physical life, and as

widening spiritual loneliness, all his passionate desire had concentrated

itself in the yearning for some young ear into which he could pour his

mind as a testament, some soul kindred enough to accept the spiritual

product of his own brief, painful life, as a mission to be executed. It

was remarkable that the hopefulness which is often the beneficent illusion

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