Daniel Deronda

Chapter 21

It is a common sentence that Knowledge is power; but who hath duly

Considered or set forth the power of Ignorance? Knowledge slowly

builds up what Ignorance in an hour pulls down. Knowledge, through

patient and frugal centuries, enlarges discovery and makes record of

it; Ignorance, wanting its day's dinner, lights a fire with the

record, and gives a flavor to its one roast with the burned souls of

many generations. Knowledge, instructing the sense, refining and

multiplying needs, transforms itself into skill and makes life various

with a new six days' work; comes Ignorance drunk on the seventh, with

a firkin of oil and a match and an easy "Let there not be," and the

many-colored creation is shriveled up in blackness. Of a truth,

Knowledge is power, but it is a power reined by scruple, having a

conscience of what must be and what may be; whereas Ignorance is a

blind giant who, let him but wax unbound, would make it a sport to

seize the pillars that hold up the long-wrought fabric of human good,

and turn all the places of joy dark as a buried Babylon. And looking

at life parcel-wise, in the growth of a single lot, who having a

practiced vision may not see that ignorance of the true bond between

events, and false conceit of means whereby sequences may be compelled

--like that falsity of eyesight which overlooks the gradations of

distance, seeing that which is afar off as if it were within a step or

a grasp--precipitates the mistaken soul on destruction?

It was half-past ten in the morning when Gwendolen Harleth, after her

gloomy journey from Leubronn, arrived at the station from which she must

drive to Offendene. No carriage or friend was awaiting her, for in the

telegram she had sent from Dover she had mentioned a later train, and in

her impatience of lingering at a London station she had set off without

picturing what it would be to arrive unannounced at half an hour's drive

from home--at one of those stations which have been fixed on not as near

anywhere, but as equidistant from everywhere. Deposited as a _femme sole_

with her large trunks, and having to wait while a vehicle was being got

from the large-sized lantern called the Railway Inn, Gwendolen felt that

the dirty paint in the waiting-room, the dusty decanter of flat water, and

the texts in large letters calling on her to repent and be converted, were

part of the dreary prospect opened by her family troubles; and she hurried

away to the outer door looking toward the lane and fields. But here the

very gleams of sunshine seemed melancholy, for the autumnal leaves and

grass were shivering, and the wind was turning up the feathers of a cock

and two croaking hens which had doubtless parted with their grown-up

offspring and did not know what to do with themselves. The railway

official also seemed without resources, and his innocent demeanor in

observing Gwendolen and her trunks was rendered intolerable by the cast in

his eye; especially since, being a new man, he did not know her, and must

conclude that she was not very high in the world. The vehicle--a dirty old

barouche--was within sight, and was being slowly prepared by an elderly

laborer. Contemptible details these, to make part of a history; yet the

turn of most lives is hardly to be accounted for without them. They are

continually entering with cumulative force into a mood until it gets the

mass and momentum of a theory or a motive. Even philosophy is not quite

free from such determining influences; and to be dropped solitary at an

ugly, irrelevant-looking spot, with a sense of no income on the mind,

might well prompt a man to discouraging speculation on the origin of

things and the reason of a world where a subtle thinker found himself so

badly off. How much more might such trifles tell on a young lady equipped

for society with a fastidious taste, an Indian shawl over her arm, some

twenty cubic feet of trunks by her side, and a mortal dislike to the new

consciousness of poverty which was stimulating her imagination of

disagreeables? At any rate they told heavily on poor Gwendolen, and helped

to quell her resistant spirit. What was the good of living in the midst of

hardships, ugliness, and humiliation? This was the beginning of being at

home again, and it was a sample of what she had to expect.

Here was the theme on which her discontent rung its sad changes during her

slow drive in the uneasy barouche, with one great trunk squeezing the meek

driver, and the other fastened with a rope on the seat in front of her.

Her ruling vision all the way from Leubronn had been that the family would

go abroad again; for of course there must be some little income left--her

mamma did not mean that they would have literally nothing. To go to a dull

place abroad and live poorly, was the dismal future that threatened her:

she had seen plenty of poor English people abroad and imagined herself

plunged in the despised dullness of their ill-plenished lives, with Alice,

Bertha, Fanny and Isabel all growing up in tediousness around her, while

she advanced toward thirty and her mamma got more and more melancholy. But

she did not mean to submit, and let misfortune do what it would with her:

she had not yet quite believed in the misfortune; but weariness and

disgust with this wretched arrival had begun to affect her like an

uncomfortable waking, worse than the uneasy dreams which had gone before.

The self-delight with which she had kissed her image in the glass had

faded before the sense of futility in being anything whatever--charming,

clever, resolute--what was the good of it all? Events might turn out

anyhow, and men were hateful. Yes, men were hateful. But in these last

hours, a certain change had come over their meaning. It is one thing to

hate stolen goods, and another thing to hate them the more because their

being stolen hinders us from making use of them. Gwendolen had begun to be

angry with Grandcourt for being what had hindered her from marrying him,

angry with him as the cause of her present dreary lot.

But the slow drive was nearly at an end, and the lumbering vehicle coming

up the avenue was within sight of the windows. A figure appearing under

the portico brought a rush of new and less selfish feeling in Gwendolen,

and when springing from the carriage she saw the dear beautiful face with

fresh lines of sadness in it, she threw her arms round her mother's neck,

and for the moment felt all sorrows only in relation to her mother's

feeling about them.

Behind, of course, were the sad faces of the four superfluous girls, each,

poor thing--like those other many thousand sisters of us all--having her

peculiar world which was of no importance to any one else, but all of them

feeling Gwendolen's presence to be somehow a relenting of misfortune:

where Gwendolen was, something interesting would happen; even her hurried

submission to their kisses, and "Now go away, girls," carried the sort of

comfort which all weakness finds in decision and authoritativeness. Good

Miss Merry, whose air of meek depression, hitherto held unaccountable in a

governess affectionately attached to the family, was now at the general

level of circumstances, did not expect any greeting, but busied herself

with the trunks and the coachman's pay; while Mrs. Davilow and Gwendolen

hastened up-stairs and shut themselves in the black and yellow bedroom.

"Never mind, mamma dear," said Gwendolen, tenderly pressing her

handkerchief against the tears that were rolling down Mrs. Davilow's

cheeks. "Never mind. I don't mind. I will do something. I will be

something. Things will come right. It seemed worse because I was away.

Come now! you must be glad because I am here."

Gwendolen felt every word of that speech. A rush of compassionate

tenderness stirred all her capability of generous resolution; and the

self-confident projects which had vaguely glanced before her during her

journey sprang instantaneously into new definiteness. Suddenly she seemed

to perceive how she could be "something." It was one of her best moments,

and the fond mother, forgetting everything below that tide mark, looked at

her with a sort of adoration. She said--

"Bless you, my good, good darling! I can be happy, if you can!"

But later in the day there was an ebb; the old slippery rocks, the old

weedy places reappeared. Naturally, there was a shrinking of courage as

misfortune ceased to be a mere announcement, and began to disclose itself

as a grievous tyrannical inmate. At first--that ugly drive at an end--it

was still Offendene that Gwendolen had come home to, and all surroundings

of immediate consequence to her were still there to secure her personal

ease; the roomy stillness of the large solid house while she rested; all

the luxuries of her toilet cared for without trouble to her; and a little

tray with her favorite food brought to her in private. For she had said,

"Keep them all away from us to-day, mamma. Let you and me be alone

together."

When Gwendolen came down into the drawing-room, fresh as a newly-dipped

swan, and sat leaning against the cushions of the settee beside her mamma,

their misfortune had not yet turned its face and breath upon her. She felt

prepared to hear everything, and began in a tone of deliberate intention--

"What have you thought of doing, exactly, mamma?"

"Oh, my dear, the next thing to be done is to move away from this house.

Mr. Haynes most fortunately is as glad to have it now as he would have

been when we took it. Lord Brackenshaw's agent is to arrange everything

with him to the best advantage for us: Bazley, you know; not at all an

ill-natured man."

"I cannot help thinking that Lord Brackenshaw would let you stay here

rent-free, mamma," said Gwendolen, whose talents had not been applied to

business so much as to discernment of the admiration excited by her

charms.

"My dear child, Lord Brackenshaw is in Scotland, and knows nothing about

us. Neither your uncle nor I would choose to apply to him. Besides, what

could we do in this house without servants, and without money to warm it?

The sooner we are out the better. We have nothing to carry but our

clothes, you know?"

"I suppose you mean to go abroad, then?" said Gwendolen. After all, this

is what she had familiarized her mind with.

"Oh, no, dear, no. How could we travel? You never did learn anything about

income and expenses," said Mrs. Davilow, trying to smile, and putting her

hand on Gwendolen's as she added, mournfully, "that makes it so much

harder for you, my pet."

"But where are we to go?" said Gwendolen, with a trace of sharpness in her

tone. She felt a new current of fear passing through her.

"It is all decided. A little furniture is to be got in from the rectory--

all that can be spared." Mrs. Davilow hesitated. She dreaded the reality

for herself less than the shock she must give to Gwendolen, who looked at

her with tense expectancy, but was silent.

"It is Sawyer's Cottage we are to go to."

At first, Gwendolen remained silent, paling with anger--justifiable anger,

in her opinion. Then she said with haughtiness--

"That is impossible. Something else than that ought to have been thought

of. My uncle ought not to allow that. I will not submit to it."

"My sweet child, what else could have been thought of? Your uncle, I am

sure, is as kind as he can be: but he is suffering himself; he has his

family to bring up. And do you quite understand? You must remember--we

have nothing. We shall have absolutely nothing except what he and my

sister give us. They have been as wise and active a possible, and we must

try to earn something. I and the girls are going to work a table-cloth

border for the Ladies' Charity at Winchester, and a communion cloth that

the parishioners are to present to Pennicote Church."

Mrs. Davilow went into these details timidly: but how else was she to

bring the fact of their position home to this poor child who, alas! must

submit at present, whatever might be in the background for her? and she

herself had a superstition that there must be something better in the

background.

"But surely somewhere else than Sawyer's Cottage might have been found,"

Gwendolen persisted--taken hold of (as if in a nightmare) by the image of

this house where an exciseman had lived.

"No, indeed, dear. You know houses are scarce, and we may be thankful to

get anything so private. It is not so very bad. There are two little

parlors and four bedrooms. You shall sit alone whenever you like."

The ebb of sympathetic care for her mamma had gone so low just now, that

Gwendolen took no notice of these deprecatory words.

"I cannot conceive that all your property is gone at once, mamma. How can

you be sure in so short a time? It is not a week since you wrote to me."

"The first news came much earlier, dear. But I would not spoil your

pleasure till it was quite necessary."

"Oh, how vexatious!" said Gwendolen, coloring with fresh anger. "If I had

known, I could have brought home the money I had won: and for want of

knowing, I stayed and lost it. I had nearly two hundred pounds, and it

would have done for us to live on a little while, till I could carry out

some plan." She paused an instant and then added more impetuously,

"Everything has gone against me. People have come near me only to blight

me."

Among the "people" she was including Deronda. If he had not interfered in

her life she would have gone to the gaming-table again with a few

napoleons, and might have won back her losses.

"We must resign ourselves to the will of Providence, my child," said poor

Mrs. Davilow, startled by this revelation of the gambling, but not daring

to say more. She felt sure that "people" meant Grandcourt, about whom her

lips were sealed. And Gwendolen answered immediately--

"But I don't resign myself. I shall do what I can against it. What is the

good of calling the people's wickedness Providence? You said in your

letter it was Mr. Lassman's fault we had lost our money. Has he run away

with it all?"

"No, dear, you don't understand. There were great speculations: he meant

to gain. It was all about mines and things of that sort. He risked too

much."

"I don't call that Providence: it was his improvidence with our money, and

he ought to be punished. Can't we go to law and recover our fortune? My

uncle ought to take measures, and not sit down by such wrongs. We ought to

go to law."

"My dear child, law can never bring back money lost in that way. Your

uncle says it is milk spilled upon the ground. Besides, one must have a

fortune to get any law: there is no law for people who are ruined. And our

money has only gone along with other's people's. We are not the only

sufferers: others have to resign themselves besides us."

"But I don't resign myself to live at Sawyer's Cottage and see you working

for sixpences and shillings because of that. I shall not do it. I shall do

what is more befitting our rank and education."

"I am sure your uncle and all of us will approve of that, dear, and admire

you the more for it," said Mrs. Davilow, glad of an unexpected opening for

speaking on a difficult subject. "I didn't mean that you should resign

yourself to worse when anything better offered itself. Both your uncle and

aunt have felt that your abilities and education were a fortune for you,

and they have already heard of something within your reach."

"What is that, mamma?" some of Gwendolen's anger gave way to interest, and

she was not without romantic conjectures.

"There are two situations that offer themselves. One is in a bishop's

family, where there are three daughters, and the other is in quite a high

class of school; and in both, your French, and music, and dancing--and

then your manners and habits as a lady, are exactly what is wanted. Each

is a hundred a year--and--just for the present,"--Mrs. Davilow had become

frightened and hesitating,--"to save you from the petty, common way of

living that we must go to--you would perhaps accept one of the two."

"What! be like Miss Graves at Madame Meunier's? No."

"I think, myself, that Dr. Monpert's would be more suitable. There could

be no hardship in a bishop's family."

"Excuse me, mamma. There are hardships everywhere for a governess. And I

don't see that it would be pleasanter to be looked down on in a bishop's

family than in any other. Besides, you know very well I hate teaching.

Fancy me shut up with three awkward girls something like Alice! I would

rather emigrate than be a governess."

What it precisely was to emigrate, Gwendolen was not called on to explain.

Mrs. Davilow was mute, seeing no outlet, and thinking with dread of the

collision that might happen when Gwendolen had to meet her uncle and aunt.

There was an air of reticence in Gwendolen's haughty, resistant speeches

which implied that she had a definite plan in reserve; and her practical

ignorance continually exhibited, could not nullify the mother's belief in

the effectiveness of that forcible will and daring which had held mastery

over herself.

"I have some ornaments, mamma, and I could sell them," said Gwendolen.

"They would make a sum: I want a little sum--just to go on with. I dare

say Marshall, at Wanchester, would take them: I know he showed me some

bracelets once that he said he had bought from a lady. Jocosa might go and

ask him. Jocosa is going to leave us, of course. But she might do that

first."

"She would do anything she could, poor, dear soul. I have not told you

yet--she wanted me to take all her savings--her three hundred pounds. I

tell her to set up a little school. It will be hard for her to go into a

new family now she has been so long with us."

"Oh, recommend her for the bishop's daughter's," said Gwendolen, with a

sudden gleam of laughter in her face. "I am sure she will do better than I

should."

"Do take care not to say such things to your uncle," said Mrs. Davilow.

"He will be hurt at your despising what he has exerted himself about. But

I dare say you have something else in your mind that he might not

disapprove, if you consulted him."

"There is some one else I want to consult first. Are the Arrowpoint's at

Quetcham still, and is Herr Klesmer there? But I daresay you know nothing

about it, poor, dear mamma. Can Jeffries go on horseback with a note?"

"Oh, my dear, Jefferies is not here, and the dealer has taken the horses.

But some one could go for us from Leek's farm. The Arrowpoints are at

Quetcham, I know. Miss Arrowpoint left her card the other day: I could not

see her. But I don't know about Herr Klesmer. Do you want to send before

to-morrow?"

"Yes, as soon as possible. I will write a note," said Gwendolen, rising.

"What can you be thinking of, Gwen?" said Mrs. Davilow, relieved in the

midst of her wonderment by signs of alacrity and better humor.

"Don't mind what, there's a dear, good mamma," said Gwendolen, reseating

herself a moment to give atoning caresses. "I mean to do something. Never

mind what until it is all settled. And then you shall be comforted. The

dear face!--it is ten years older in these three weeks. Now, now, now!

don't cry"--Gwendolen, holding her mamma's head with both hands, kissed

the trembling eyelids. "But mind you don't contradict me or put hindrances

in my way. I must decide for myself. I cannot be dictated to by my uncle

or any one else. My life is my own affair. And I think"--here her tone

took an edge of scorn--"I think I can do better for you than let you live

in Sawyer's Cottage."

In uttering this last sentence Gwendolen again rose, and went to a desk

where she wrote the following note to Klesmer:--

Miss Harleth presents her compliments to Herr Klesmer, and ventures

to request of him the very great favor that he will call upon her, if

possible, to-morrow. Her reason for presuming so far on his kindness

is of a very serious nature. Unfortunate family circumstances have

obliged her to take a course in which she can only turn for advice to

the great knowledge and judgment of Herr Klesmer.

"Pray get this sent to Quetcham at once, mamma," said Gwendolen, as she

addressed the letter. "The man must be told to wait for an answer. Let no

time be lost."

For the moment, the absorbing purpose was to get the letter dispatched;

but when she had been assured on this point, another anxiety arose and

kept her in a state of uneasy excitement. If Klesmer happened not to be at

Quetcham, what could she do next? Gwendolen's belief in her star, so to

speak, had had some bruises. Things had gone against her. A splendid

marriage which presented itself within reach had shown a hideous flaw. The

chances of roulette had not adjusted themselves to her claims; and a man

of whom she knew nothing had thrust himself between her and her

intentions. The conduct of those uninteresting people who managed the

business of the world had been culpable just in the points most injurious

to her in particular. Gwendolen Harleth, with all her beauty and conscious

force, felt the close threats of humiliation: for the first time the

conditions of this world seemed to her like a hurrying roaring crowd in

which she had got astray, no more cared for and protected than a myriad of

other girls, in spite of its being a peculiar hardship to her. If Klesmer

were not at Quetcham--that would be all of a piece with the rest: the

unwelcome negative urged itself as a probability, and set her brain

working at desperate alternatives which might deliver her from Sawyer's

Cottage or the ultimate necessity of "taking a situation," a phrase that

summed up for her the disagreeables most wounding to her pride, most

irksome to her tastes; at least so far as her experience enabled her to

imagine disagreeables.

Still Klesmer might be there, and Gwendolen thought of the result in that

case with a hopefulness which even cast a satisfactory light over her

peculiar troubles, as what might well enter into the biography of

celebrities and remarkable persons. And if she had heard her immediate

acquaintances cross-examined as to whether they thought her remarkable,

the first who said "No" would have surprised her.