Daniel Deronda

Chapter 5

Among the houses where Gwendolen was not quite liked, and yet invited, was

Quetcham Hall. One of her first invitations was to a large dinner-party

there, which made a sort of general introduction for her to the society of

the neighborhood; for in a select party of thirty and of well-composed

proportions as to age, few visitable families could be entirely left out.

No youthful figure there was comparable to Gwendolen's as she passed

through the long suite of rooms adorned with light and flowers, and,

visible at first as a slim figure floating along in white drapery,

approached through one wide doorway after another into fuller illumination

and definiteness. She had never had that sort of promenade before, and she

felt exultingly that it befitted her: any one looking at her for the first

time might have supposed that long galleries and lackeys had always been a

matter of course in her life; while her cousin Anna, who was really more

familiar with these things, felt almost as much embarrassed as a rabbit

suddenly deposited in that well-lit-space.

"Who is that with Gascoigne?" said the archdeacon, neglecting a discussion

of military manoeuvres on which, as a clergyman, he was naturally appealed

to. And his son, on the other side of the room--a hopeful young scholar,

who had already suggested some "not less elegant than ingenious,"

emendations of Greek texts--said nearly at the same time, "By George! who

is that girl with the awfully well-set head and jolly figure?"

But to a mind of general benevolence, wishing everybody to look well, it

was rather exasperating to see how Gwendolen eclipsed others: how even the

handsome Miss Lawe, explained to be the daughter of Lady Lawe, looked

suddenly broad, heavy and inanimate; and how Miss Arrowpoint,

unfortunately also dressed in white, immediately resembled a _carte-de-

visite_ in which one would fancy the skirt alone to have been charged for.

Since Miss Arrowpoint was generally liked for the amiable unpretending way

in which she wore her fortunes, and made a softening screen for the

oddities of her mother, there seemed to be some unfitness in Gwendolen's

looking so much more like a person of social importance.

"She is not really so handsome if you come to examine her features," said

Mrs. Arrowpoint, later in the evening, confidentially to Mrs. Vulcany. "It

is a certain style she has, which produces a great effect at first, but

afterward she is less agreeable."

In fact, Gwendolen, not intending it, but intending the contrary, had

offended her hostess, who, though not a splenetic or vindictive woman, had

her susceptibilities. Several conditions had met in the Lady of Quetcham

which to the reasoners in that neighborhood seemed to have an essential

connection with each other. It was occasionally recalled that she had been

the heiress of a fortune gained by some moist or dry business in the city,

in order fully to account for her having a squat figure, a harsh parrot-

like voice, and a systematically high head-dress; and since these points

made her externally rather ridiculous, it appeared to many only natural

that she should have what are called literary tendencies. A little

comparison would have shown that all these points are to be found apart;

daughters of aldermen being often well-grown and well-featured, pretty

women having sometimes harsh or husky voices, and the production of feeble

literature being found compatible with the most diverse forms of

_physique_, masculine as well as feminine.

Gwendolen, who had a keen sense of absurdity in others, but was kindly

disposed toward any one who could make life agreeable to her, meant to win

Mrs. Arrowpoint by giving her an interest and attention beyond what others

were probably inclined to show. But self-confidence is apt to address

itself to an imaginary dullness in others; as people who are well off

speak in a cajoling tone to the poor, and those who are in the prime of

life raise their voice and talk artificially to seniors, hastily

conceiving them to be deaf and rather imbecile. Gwendolen, with all her

cleverness and purpose to be agreeable, could not escape that form of

stupidity: it followed in her mind, unreflectingly, that because Mrs.

Arrowpoint was ridiculous she was also likely to be wanting in

penetration, and she went through her little scenes without suspicion that

the various shades of her behavior were all noted.

"You are fond of books as well as of music, riding, and archery, I hear,"

Mrs. Arrowpoint said, going to her for a _tete-*-tete_ in the drawing-room

after dinner. "Catherine will be very glad to have so sympathetic a

neighbor." This little speech might have seemed the most graceful

politeness, spoken in a low, melodious tone; but with a twang, fatally

loud, it gave Gwendolen a sense of exercising patronage when she answered,

gracefully:

"It is I who am fortunate. Miss Arrowpoint will teach me what good music

is. I shall be entirely a learner. I hear that she is a thorough

musician."

"Catherine has certainly had every advantage. We have a first-rate

musician in the house now--Herr Klesmer; perhaps you know all his

compositions. You must allow me to introduce him to you. You sing, I

believe. Catherine plays three instruments, but she does not sing. I hope

you you will let us hear you. I understand you are an accomplished

singer."

"Oh, no!--'die Kraft ist schwach, allein die Lust ist gross,' as

Mephistopheles says."

"Ah, you are a student of Goethe. Young ladies are so advanced now. I

suppose you have read everything."

"No, really. I shall be so glad if you will tell me what to read. I have

been looking into all the books in the library at Offendene, but there is

nothing readable. The leaves all stick together and smell musty. I wish I

could write books to amuse myself, as you can! How delightful it must be

to write books after one's own taste instead of reading other people's!

Home-made books must be so nice."

For an instant Mrs. Arrowpoint's glance was a little sharper, but the

perilous resemblance to satire in the last sentence took the hue of

girlish simplicity when Gwendolen added--

"I would give anything to write a book!"

"And why should you not?" said Mrs. Arrowpoint, encouragingly. "You have

but to begin as I did. Pen, ink, and paper are at everybody's command. But

I will send you all I have written with pleasure."

"Thanks. I shall be so glad to read your writings. Being acquainted with

authors must give a peculiar understanding of their books: one would be

able to tell then which parts were funny and which serious. I am sure I

often laugh in the wrong place." Here Gwendolen herself became aware of

danger, and added quickly, "In Shakespeare, you know, and other great

writers that we can never see. But I always want to know more than there

is in the books."

"If you are interested in any of my subjects I can lend you many extra

sheets in manuscript," said Mrs. Arrowpoint--while Gwendolen felt herself

painfully in the position of the young lady who professed to like potted

sprats.

"These are things I dare say I shall publish eventually: several friends

have urged me to do so, and one doesn't like to be obstinate. My Tasso,

for example--I could have made it twice the size."

"I dote on Tasso," said Gwendolen.

"Well, you shall have all my papers, if you like. So many, you know, have

written about Tasso; but they are all wrong. As to the particular nature

of his madness, and his feelings for Leonora, and the real cause of his

imprisonment, and the character of Leonora, who, in my opinion, was a

cold-hearted woman, else she would have married him in spite of her

brother--they are all wrong. I differ from everybody."

"How very interesting!" said Gwendolen. "I like to differ from everybody.

I think it is so stupid to agree. That is the worst of writing your

opinions; and make people agree with you." This speech renewed a slight

suspicion in Mrs. Arrowpoint, and again her glance became for a moment

examining. But Gwendolen looked very innocent, and continued with a docile

air:

"I know nothing of Tasso except the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, which we read

and learned by heart at school."

"Ah, his life is more interesting than his poetry, I have constructed the

early part of his life as a sort of romance. When one thinks of his father

Bernardo, and so on, there is much that must be true."

"Imagination is often truer than fact," said Gwendolen, decisively, though

she could no more have explained these glib words than if they had been

Coptic or Etruscan. "I shall be so glad to learn all about Tasso--and his

madness especially. I suppose poets are always a little mad."

"To be sure--'the poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling'; and somebody says

of Marlowe--

'For that fine madness still he did maintain,

Which always should possess the poet's brain.'"

"But it was not always found out, was it?" said Gwendolen innocently. "I

suppose some of them rolled their eyes in private. Mad people are often

very cunning."

Again a shade flitted over Mrs. Arrowpoint's face; but the entrance of the

gentlemen prevented any immediate mischief between her and this too quick

young lady, who had over-acted her _na*****_.

"Ah, here comes Herr Klesmer," said Mrs. Arrowpoint, rising; and presently

bringing him to Gwendolen, she left them to a dialogue which was agreeable

on both sides, Herr Klesmer being a felicitous combination of the German,

the Sclave and the Semite, with grand features, brown hair floating in

artistic fashion, and brown eyes in spectacles. His English had little

foreignness except its fluency; and his alarming cleverness was made less

formidable just then by a certain softening air of stlliness which will

sometimes befall even genius in the desire of being agreeable to beauty.

Music was soon begun. Miss Arrowpoint and Herr Klesmer played a four-

handed piece on two pianos, which convinced the company in general that it

was long, and Gwendolen in particular that the neutral, placid-faced Miss

Arrowpoint had a mastery of the instrument which put her own execution out

of question--though she was not discouraged as to her often-praised touch

and style. After this every one became anxious to hear Gwendolen sing;

especially Mr. Arrowpoint; as was natural in a host and a perfect

gentleman, of whom no one had anything to say but that he married Miss

Cuttler and imported the best cigars; and he led her to the piano with

easy politeness. Herr Klesmer closed the instrument in readiness for her,

and smiled with pleasure at her approach; then placed himself at a

distance of a few feet so that he could see her as she sang.

Gwendolen was not nervous; what she undertook to do she did without

trembling, and singing was an enjoyment to her. Her voice was a moderately

powerful soprano (some one had told her it was like Jenny Lind's), her ear

good, and she was able to keep in tune, so that her singing gave pleasure

to ordinary hearers, and she had been used to unmingled applause. She had

the rare advantage of looking almost prettier when she was singing than at

other times, and that Herr Klesmer was in front of her seemed not

disagreeable. Her song, determined on beforehand, was a favorite aria of

Belini's, in which she felt quite sure of herself.

"Charming?" said Mr. Arrowpoint, who had remained near, and the word was

echoed around without more insincerity than we recognize in a brotherly

way as human. But Herr Klesmer stood like a statue--if a statue can be

imagined in spectacles; at least, he was as mute as a statue. Gwendolen

was pressed to keep her seat and double the general pleasure, and she did

not wish to refuse; but before resolving to do so, she moved a little

toward Herr Klesmer, saying with a look of smiling appeal, "It would be

too cruel to a great musician. You cannot like to hear poor amateur

singing."

"No, truly; but that makes nothing," said Herr Klesmer, suddenly speaking

in an odious German fashion with staccato endings, quite unobservable in

him before, and apparently depending on a change of mood, as Irishmen

resume their strongest brogue when they are fervid or quarrelsome. "That

makes nothing. It is always acceptable to see you sing."

Was there ever so unexpected an assertion of superiority? at least before

the late Teutonic conquest? Gwendolen colored deeply, but, with her usual

presence of mind, did not show an ungraceful resentment by moving away

immediately; and Miss Arrowpoint, who had been near enough to overhear

(and also to observe that Herr Klesmer's mode of looking at Gwendolen was

more conspicuously admiring than was quite consistent with good taste),

now with the utmost tact and kindness came close to her and said--

"Imagine what I have to go through with this professor! He can hardly

tolerate anything we English do in music. We can only put up with his

severity, and make use of it to find out the worst that can be said of us.

It is a little comfort to know that; and one can bear it when every one

else is admiring."

"I should be very much obliged to him for telling me the worst," said

Gwendolen, recovering herself. "I dare say I have been extremely ill

taught, in addition to having no talent--only liking for music." This was

very well expressed considering that it had never entered her mind before.

"Yes, it is true: you have not been well taught," said Herr Klesmer,

quietly. Woman was dear to him, but music was dearer. "Still, you are not

quite without gifts. You sing in tune, and you have a pretty fair organ.

But you produce your notes badly; and that music which you sing is beneath

you. It is a form of melody which expresses a puerile state of culture--a

dawdling, canting, see-saw kind of stuff--the passion and thought of

people without any breadth of horizon. There is a sort of self-satisfied

folly about every phrase of such melody; no cries of deep, mysterious

passion--no conflict--no sense of the universal. It makes men small as

they listen to it. Sing now something larger. And I shall see."

"Oh, not now--by-and-by," said Gwendolen, with a sinking of heart at the

sudden width of horizon opened round her small musical performance. For a

lady desiring to lead, this first encounter in her campaign was startling.

But she was bent on not behaving foolishly, and Miss Arrowpoint helped her

by saying--

"Yes, by-and-by. I always require half an hour to get up my courage after

being criticised by Herr Klesmer. We will ask him to play to us now: he is

bound to show us what is good music."

To be quite safe on this point Herr Klesmer played a composition of his

own, a fantasia called _Freudvoll, Leidvoll, Gedankenvoll_--an extensive

commentary on some melodic ideas not too grossly evident; and he certainly

fetched as much variety and depth of passion out of the piano as that

moderately responsive instrument lends itself to, having an imperious

magic in his fingers that seem to send a nerve-thrill through ivory key

and wooden hammer, and compel the strings to make a quivering lingering

speech for him. Gwendolen, in spite of her wounded egoism, had fullness of

nature enough to feel the power of this playing, and it gradually turned

her inward sob of mortification into an excitement which lifted her for

the moment into a desperate indifference about her own doings, or at least

a determination to get a superiority over them by laughing at them as if

they belonged to somebody else. Her eyes had become brighter, her cheeks

slightly flushed, and her tongue ready for any mischievous remarks.

"I wish you would sing to us again, Miss Harleth," said young Clintock,

the archdeacon's classical son, who had been so fortunate as to take her

to dinner, and came up to renew conversation as soon as Herr Klesmer's

performance was ended, "That is the style of music for me. I never can

make anything of this tip-top playing. It is like a jar of leeches, where

you can never tell either beginnings or endings. I could listen to your

singing all day."

"Yes, we should be glad of something popular now--another song from you

would be a relaxation," said Mrs. Arrowpoint, who had also come near with

polite intentions.

"That must be because you are in a puerile state of culture, and have no

breadth of horizon. I have just learned that. I have been taught how bad

my taste is, and am feeling growing pains. They are never pleasant," said

Gwendolen, not taking any notice of Mrs. Arrowpoint, and looking up with a

bright smile at young Clintock.

Mrs. Arrowpoint was not insensible to this rudeness, but merely said,

"Well, we will not press anything disagreeably," and as there was a

perceptible outburst of imprisoned conversation just then, and a movement

of guests seeking each other, she remained seated where she was, and

looked around her with the relief of a hostess at finding she is not

needed.

"I am glad you like this neighborhood," said young Clintock, well-pleased

with his station in front of Gwendolen.

"Exceedingly. There seems to be a little of everything and not much of

anything."

"That is rather equivocal praise."

"Not with me. I like a little of everything; a little absurdity, for

example, is very amusing. I am thankful for a few queer people; but much

of them is a bore."

(Mrs. Arrowpoint, who was hearing this dialogue, perceived quite a new

tone in Gwendolen's speech, and felt a revival of doubt as to her interest

in Tasso's madness.)

"I think there should be more croquet, for one thing," young Clintock; "I

am usually away, but if I were more here I should go in for a croquet

club. You are one of the archers, I think. But depend upon it croquet is

the game of the future. It wants writing up, though. One of our best men

has written a poem on it, in four cantos;--as good as Pope. I want him to

publish it--You never read anything better."

"I shall study croquet to-morrow. I shall take to it instead of singing."

"No, no, not that; but do take to croquet. I will send you Jenning's poem

if you like. I have a manuscript copy."

"Is he a great friend of yours?"

"Well, rather."

"Oh, if he is only rather, I think I will decline. Or, if you send it to

me, will you promise not to catechise me upon it and ask me which part I

like best? Because it is not so easy to know a poem without reading it as

to know a sermon without listening."

"Decidedly," Mrs. Arrowpoint thought, "this girl is double and satirical.

I shall be on my guard against her."

But Gwendolen, nevertheless, continued to receive polite attentions from

the family at Quetcham, not merely because invitations have larger grounds

than those of personal liking, but because the trying little scene at the

piano had awakened a kindly solicitude toward her in the gentle mind of

Miss Arrowpoint, who managed all the invitations and visits, her mother

being otherwise occupied.