Daniel Deronda

Chapter 10

What could make a better background for the flower-groups of ladies,

moving and bowing and turning their necks as it would become the leisurely

lilies to do if they took to locomotion. The sounds too were very pleasant

to hear, even when the military band from Wanchester ceased to play:

musical laughs in all the registers and a harmony of happy, friendly

speeches, now rising toward mild excitement, now sinking to an agreeable

murmur.

No open-air amusement could be much freer from those noisy, crowding

conditions which spoil most modern pleasures; no Archery Meeting could be

more select, the number of friends accompanying the members being

restricted by an award of tickets, so as to keep the maximum within the

limits of convenience for the dinner and ball to be held in the castle.

Within the enclosure no plebeian spectators were admitted except Lord

Brackenshaw's tenants and their families, and of these it was chiefly the

feminine members who used the privilege, bringing their little boys and

girls or younger brothers and sisters. The males among them relieved the

insipidity of the entertainment by imaginative betting, in which the stake

was "anything you like," on their favorite archers; but the young maidens,

having a different principle of discrimination, were considering which of

those sweetly-dressed ladies they would choose to be, if the choice were

allowed them. Probably the form these rural souls would most have striven

for as a tabernacle, was some other than Gwendolen's--one with more pink

in her cheeks and hair of the most fashionable yellow; but among the male

judges in the ranks immediately surrounding her there was unusual

unanimity in pronouncing her the finest girl present.

No wonder she enjoyed her existence on that July day. Pre-eminence is

sweet to those who love it, even under mediocre circumstances. Perhaps it

was not quite mythical that a slave has been proud to be bought first; and

probably a barn-door fowl on sale, though he may not have understood

himself to be called the best of a bad lot, may have a self-informed

consciousness of his relative importance, and strut consoled. But for

complete enjoyment the outward and the inward must concur. And that

concurrence was happening to Gwendolen.

Who can deny that bows and arrows are among the prettiest weapons in the

world for feminine forms to play with? They prompt attitudes full of grace

and power, where that fine concentration of energy seen in all

markmanship, is freed from associations of bloodshed. The time-honored

British resources of "killing something" is no longer carried on with bow

and quiver; bands defending their passes against an invading nation fight

under another sort of shade than a cloud of arrows; and poisoned darts are

harmless survivals either in rhetoric or in regions comfortably remote.

Archery has no ugly smell of brimstone; breaks nobody's shins, breeds no

athletic monsters; its only danger is that of failing, which for generous

blood is enough to mould skilful action. And among the Brackenshaw archers

the prizes were all of the nobler symbolic kind; not properly to be

carried off in a parcel, degrading honor into gain; but the gold arrow and

the silver, the gold star and the silver, to be worn for a long time in

sign of achievement and then transferred to the next who did excellently.

These signs of pre-eminence had the virtue of wreaths without their

inconveniences, which might have produced a melancholy effect in the heat

of the ball-room. Altogether the Brackenshaw Archery Club was an

institution framed with good taste, so as not to have by necessity any

ridiculous incidents.

And to-day all incalculable elements were in its favor. There was mild

warmth, and no wind to disturb either hair or drapery or the course of the

arrow; all skillful preparation had fair play, and when there was a

general march to extract the arrows, the promenade of joyous young

creatures in light speech and laughter, the graceful movement in common

toward a common object, was a show worth looking at. Here Gwendolen seemed

a Calypso among her nymphs. It was in her attitudes and movements that

every one was obliged to admit her surpassing charm.

"That girl is like a high-mettled racer," said Lord Brackenshaw to young

Clintock, one of the invited spectators.

"First chop! tremendously pretty too," said the elegant Grecian, who had

been paying her assiduous attention; "I never saw her look better."

Perhaps she had never looked so well. Her face was beaming with young

pleasure in which there was no malign rays of discontent; for being

satisfied with her own chances, she felt kindly toward everybody and was

satisfied with the universe. Not to have the highest distinction in rank,

not to be marked out as an heiress, like Miss Arrowpoint, gave an added

triumph in eclipsing those advantages. For personal recommendation she

would not have cared to change the family group accompanying her for any

other: her mamma's appearance would have suited an amiable duchess; her

uncle and aunt Gascoigne with Anna made equally gratifying figures in

their way; and Gwendolen was too full of joyous belief in herself to feel

in the least jealous though Miss Arrowpoint was one of the best

archeresses.

Even the reappearance of the formidable Herr Klesmer, which caused some

surprise in the rest of the company, seemed only to fall in with

Gwendolen's inclination to be amused. Short of Apollo himself, what great

musical _maestro_ could make a good figure at an archery meeting? There

was a very satirical light in Gwendolen's eyes as she looked toward the

Arrowpoint party on their first entrance, when the contrast between

Klesmer and the average group of English country people seemed at its

utmost intensity in the close neighborhood of his hosts--or patrons, as

Mrs. Arrowpoint would have liked to hear them called, that she might deny

the possibility of any longer patronizing genius, its royalty being

universally acknowledged. The contrast might have amused a graver

personage than Gwendolen. We English are a miscellaneous people, and any

chance fifty of us will present many varieties of animal architecture or

facial ornament; but it must be admitted that our prevailing expression is

not that of a lively, impassioned race, preoccupied with the ideal and

carrying the real as a mere make-weight. The strong point of the English

gentleman pure is the easy style of his figure and clothing; he objects to

marked ins and outs in his costume, and he also objects to looking

inspired.

Fancy an assemblage where the men had all that ordinary stamp of the well-

bred Englishman, watching the entrance of Herr Klesmer--his mane of hair

floating backward in massive inconsistency with the chimney-pot hat, which

had the look of having been put on for a joke above his pronounced but

well-modeled features and powerful clear-shaven mouth and chin; his tall,

thin figure clad in a way which, not being strictly English, was all the

worse for its apparent emphasis of intention. Draped in a loose garment

with a Florentine _berretta_ on his head, he would have been fit to stand

by the side of Leonardo de Vinci; but how when he presented himself in

trousers which were not what English feeling demanded about the knees?--

and when the fire that showed itself in his glances and the movements of

his head, as he looked round him with curiosity, was turned into comedy by

a hat which ruled that mankind should have well-cropped hair and a staid

demeanor, such, for example, as Mr. Arrowsmith's, whose nullity of face

and perfect tailoring might pass everywhere without ridicule? One feels

why it is often better for greatness to be dead, and to have got rid of

the outward man.

Many present knew Klesmer, or knew of him; but they had only seen him on

candle-light occasions when he appeared simply as a musician, and he had

not yet that supreme, world-wide celebrity which makes an artist great to

the most ordinary people by their knowledge of his great expensiveness. It

was literally a new light for them to see him in--presented unexpectedly

on this July afternoon in an exclusive society: some were inclined to

laugh, others felt a little disgust at the want of judgment shown by the

Arrowpoints in this use of an introductory card.

"What extreme guys those artistic fellows usually are?" said young

Clintock to Gwendolen. "Do look at the figure he cuts, bowing with his

hand on his heart to Lady Brackenshaw--and Mrs. Arrowpoint's feather just

reaching his shoulder."

"You are one of the profane," said Gwendolen. "You are blind to the

majesty of genius. Herr Klesmer smites me with awe; I feel crushed in his

presence; my courage all oozes from me."

"Ah, you understand all about his music."

"No, indeed," said Gwendolen, with a light laugh; "it is he who

understands all about mine and thinks it pitiable." Klesmer's verdict on

her singing had been an easier joke to her since he had been struck by her

_plastik_.

"It is not addressed to the ears of the future, I suppose. I'm glad of

that: it suits mine."

"Oh, you are very kind. But how remarkably well Miss Arrowpoint looks to-

day! She would make quite a fine picture in that gold-colored dress."

"Too splendid, don't you think?"

"Well, perhaps a little too symbolical--too much like the figure of Wealth

in an allegory."

This speech of Gwendolen's had rather a malicious sound, but it was not

really more than a bubble of fun. She did not wish Miss Arrowpoint or any

one else to be out of the way, believing in her own good fortune even more

than in her skill. The belief in both naturally grew stronger as the

shooting went on, for she promised to achieve one of the best scores--a

success which astonished every one in a new member; and to Gwendolen's

temperament one success determined another. She trod on air, and all

things pleasant seemed possible. The hour was enough for her, and she was

not obliged to think what she should do next to keep her life at the due

pitch.

"How does the scoring stand, I wonder?" said Lady Brackenshaw, a gracious

personage who, adorned with two little girls and a boy of stout make, sat

as lady paramount. Her lord had come up to her in one of the intervals of

shooting. "It seems to me that Miss Harleth is likely to win the gold

arrow."

"Gad, I think she will, if she carries it on! she is running Juliet Fenn

hard. It is wonderful for one in her first year. Catherine is not up to

her usual mark," continued his lordship, turning to the heiress's mother

who sat near. "But she got the gold arrow last time. And there's a luck

even in these games of skill. That's better. It gives the hinder ones a

chance."

"Catherine will be very glad for others to win," said Mrs. Arrowpoint,

"she is so magnanimous. It was entirely her considerateness that made us

bring Herr Klesmer instead of Canon Stopley, who had expressed a wish to

come. For her own pleasure, I am sure she would rather have brought the

Canon; but she is always thinking of others. I told her it was not quite

_en r****_ to bring one so far out of our own set; but she said, 'Genius

itself is not _en r****_; it comes into the world to make new rules.' And

one must admit that."

"Ay, to be sure," said Lord Brackenshaw, in a tone of careless dismissal,

adding quickly, "For my part, I am not magnanimous; I should like to win.

But, confound it! I never have the chance now. I'm getting old and idle.

The young ones beat me. As old Nestor says--the gods don't give us

everything at one time: I was a young fellow once, and now I am getting an

old and wise one. Old, at any rate; which is a gift that comes to

everybody if they live long enough, so it raises no jealousy." The Earl

smiled comfortably at his wife.

"Oh, my lord, people who have been neighbors twenty years must not talk to

each other about age," said Mrs. Arrowpoint. "Years, as the Tuscans say,

are made for the letting of houses. But where is our new neighbor? I

thought Mr. Grandcourt was to be here to-day."

"Ah, by the way, so he was. The time's getting on too," said his lordship,

looking at his watch. "But he only got to Diplow the other day. He came to

us on Tuesday and said he had been a little bothered. He may have been

pulled in another direction. Why, Gascoigne!"--the rector was just then

crossing at a little distance with Gwendolen on his arm, and turned in

compliance with the call--"this is a little too bad; you not only beat us

yourself, but you bring up your niece to beat all the archeresses."

"It _is_ rather scandalous in her to get the better of elder members,"

said Mr. Gascoigne, with much inward satisfaction curling his short upper

lip. "But it is not my doing, my lord. I only meant her to make a

tolerable figure, without surpassing any one."

"It is not my fault, either," said Gwendolen, with pretty archness. "If I

am to aim, I can't help hitting."

"Ay, ay, that may be a fatal business for some people," said Lord

Brackenshaw, good-humoredly; then taking out his watch and looking at Mrs.

Arrowpoint again--"The time's getting on, as you say. But Grandcourt is

always late. I notice in town he's always late, and he's no bowman--

understands nothing about it. But I told him he must come; he would see

the flower of the neighborhood here. He asked about you--had seen

Arrowpoint's card. I think you had not made his acquaintance in town. He

has been a good deal abroad. People don't know him much."

"No; we are strangers," said Mrs. Arrowpoint. "But that is not what might

have been expected. For his uncle Sir Hugo Mallinger and I are great

friends when we meet."

"I don't know; uncles and nephews are not so likely to be seen together as

uncles and nieces," said his lordship, smiling toward the rector. "But

just come with me one instant, Gascoigne, will you? I want to speak a word

about the clout-shooting."

Gwendolen chose to go too and be deposited in the same group with her

mamma and aunt until she had to shoot again. That Mr. Grandcourt might

after all not appear on the archery-ground, had begun to enter into

Gwendolen's thought as a possible deduction from the completeness of her

pleasure. Under all her saucy satire, provoked chiefly by her divination

that her friends thought of him as a desirable match for her, she felt

something very far from indifference as to the impression she would make

on him. True, he was not to have the slightest power over her (for

Gwendolen had not considered that the desire to conquer is itself a sort

of subjection); she had made up her mind that he was to be one of those

complimentary and assiduously admiring men of whom even her narrow

experience had shown her several with various-colored beards and various

styles of bearing; and the sense that her friends would want her to think

him delightful, gave her a resistant inclination to presuppose him

ridiculous. But that was no reason why she could spare his presence: and

even a passing prevision of trouble in case she despised and refused him,

raised not the shadow of a wish that he should save her that trouble by

showing no disposition to make her an offer. Mr. Grandcourt taking hardly

any notice of her, and becoming shortly engaged to Miss Arrowpoint, was

not a picture which flattered her imagination.

Hence Gwendolen had been all ear to Lord Brackenshaw's mode of accounting

for Grandcourt's non-appearance; and when he did arrive, no consciousness

--not even Mrs. Arrowpoint's or Mr. Gascoigne's--was more awake to the

fact than hers, although she steadily avoided looking toward any point

where he was likely to be. There should be no slightest shifting of angles

to betray that it was of any consequence to her whether the much-talked-of

Mr. Mallinger Grandcourt presented himself or not. She became again

absorbed in the shooting, and so resolutely abstained from looking round

observantly that, even supposing him to have taken a conspicuous place

among the spectators, it might be clear she was not aware of him. And all

the while the certainty that he was there made a distinct thread in her

consciousness. Perhaps her shooting was the better for it: at any rate, it

gained in precision, and she at last raised a delightful storm of clapping

and applause by three hits running in the gold--a feat which among the

Brackenshaw arches had not the vulgar reward of a shilling poll-tax, but

that of a special gold star to be worn on the breast. That moment was not

only a happy one to herself--it was just what her mamma and her uncle

would have chosen for her. There was a general falling into ranks to give

her space that she might advance conspicuously to receive the gold star

from the hands of Lady Brackenshaw; and the perfect movement of her fine

form was certainly a pleasant thing to behold in the clear afternoon light

when the shadows were long and still. She was the central object of that

pretty picture, and every one present must gaze at her. That was enough:

she herself was determined to see nobody in particular, or to turn her

eyes any way except toward Lady Brackenshaw, but her thoughts undeniably

turned in other ways. It entered a little into her pleasure that Herr

Klesmer must be observing her at a moment when music was out of the

question, and his superiority very far in the back-ground; for vanity is

as ill at ease under indifference as tenderness is under a love which it

cannot return; and the unconquered Klesmer threw a trace of his malign

power even across her pleasant consciousness that Mr. Grandcourt was

seeing her to the utmost advantage, and was probably giving her an

admiration unmixed with criticism. She did not expect to admire _him_, but

that was not necessary to her peace of mind.

Gwendolen met Lady Brackenshaw's gracious smile without blushing (which

only came to her when she was taken by surprise), but with a charming

gladness of expression, and then bent with easy grace to have the star

fixed near her shoulder. That little ceremony had been over long enough

for her to have exchanged playful speeches and received congratulations as

she moved among the groups who were now interesting themselves in the

results of the scoring; but it happened that she stood outside examining

the point of an arrow with rather an absent air when Lord Brackenshaw came

up to her and said:

"Miss Harleth, here is a gentleman who is not willing to wait any longer

for an introduction. He has been getting Mrs. Davilow to send me with him.

Will you allow me to introduce Mr. Mallinger Grandcourt?"