Chapter Five
Gwendolen’s reception in the neighbourhood fulfilled her uncle’s expectations. She was welcomed with admiration, and even those ladies who did not quite like her felt a comfort in having a new, striking girl to invite to their parties. In addition, Mrs. Davilow always made a quiet, picturesque figure as a chaperon, and Mr. Gascoigne was everywhere in demand for his own sake.
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 introduced her to the society of the neighbourhood.
No figure there compared to Gwendolen’s as she passed through the long suite of rooms adorned with light and flowers. Visible at first as a slim figure floating in white drapery, she approached through one wide doorway after another into fuller illumination. She had never had that sort of promenade before, and she felt exultingly that it befitted her: while her cousin Anna felt as embarrassed as a rabbit suddenly deposited in that well-lit-space.
“By George!” said the Archdeacon’s son. “Who is that girl with the awfully well-set head and jolly figure?”
But to some onlookers, it was rather exasperating to see how Gwendolen eclipsed others, including Miss Arrowpoint, unfortunately also dressed in white. Since Miss Arrowpoint was generally liked for the amiable unpretending way in which she wore her fortunes, and softened the oddities of her mother, it did not seem fitting for Gwendolen to look so much more important.
“She is not really so handsome,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint, later in the evening, confidentially to Mrs. Vulcany. “She has a certain style, which produces a great effect at first, but afterward she is less agreeable.”
In fact, Gwendolen had unintentionally offended her hostess. The lady of Quetcham had a squat figure, a harsh parrot-like voice, and a high head-dress; and since these points made her appear rather ridiculous, it seemed only natural that she should have literary tendencies.
Gwendolen, who was kindly disposed toward anyone who could make life agreeable to her, meant to win Mrs. Arrowpoint by showing her more interest and attention than other people were likely to. But self-confidence is apt to imagine dullness in others; as people who are well off speak in a cajoling tone to the poor, and the young raise their voice and talk artificially to seniors, assuming them to be deaf and slow. Gwendolen, with all her cleverness, could not escape that form of stupidity: she thought, unreflectingly, that because Mrs. Arrowpoint was ridiculous she was also likely to be lacking in penetration, and she went through her little scenes without suspicion that her behaviour was noted.
“You are fond of books, I hear,” Mrs. Arrowpoint said to her after dinner. “Catherine will be very glad to have so sympathetic a neighbour.” This little speech might have seemed gracefully polite if spoken in a low, melodious tone; but with a twang, fatally loud, it gave Gwendolen a sense of exercising patronage when she answered:
“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 – Herr Klesmer; perhaps you know his compositions. You sing, I believe. Catherine plays three instruments, but she does not sing. I hope 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. There is nothing readable in the library at Offendene; the books 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 Gwendolen appeared more simple than satirical when she added, “I would give anything to write a book!”
“And why should you not?” said Mrs. Arrowpoint, encouragingly. “Pen 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. Knowing authors must give a special 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 became aware of danger, and added quickly, “In Shakespeare, you know, and other great writers. 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 pretended to like potted sprats. “These are things I dare say I shall publish eventually: my Tasso, for example.”
“I dote on Tasso,” said Gwendolen.
“Well, you shall have my papers, if you like. So many have written about Tasso; but as to the nature of his madness, and his feelings for Leonora, 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; you make people agree with you.”
This speech renewed a slight suspicion in Mrs. Arrowpoint. But Gwendolen looked very innocent, and continued with a docile air:
“I know nothing of Tasso except the Gerusalemme Liberata, which we read 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.”
“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, although they are not always found out. Mad people are often very cunning.”
Again a shade flitted over Mrs. Arrowpoint’s face; but then the gentlemen came in.
“Ah, here is Herr Klesmer,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint, rising; and introducing him to Gwendolen, she left them together. Herr Klesmer had a happy combination of German, Slav and Semitic looks, with grand features, brown hair floating in artistic fashion, and brown eyes in spectacles. His English had little foreignness; and his alarming cleverness was made less formidable by a softening air of silliness 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 placid-faced Miss Arrowpoint had a mastery of the instrument which put her own performance out of the question.
After this everyone became anxious to hear Gwendolen sing; and Mr. Arrowpoint led her to the piano. Herr Klesmer smiled with pleasure at her approach; then placed himself a few feet away so that he could see her as she sang.
Gwendolen was not nervous: she enjoyed singing. Her voice was a moderately powerful soprano, 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 to have Herr Klesmer in front of her was not disagreeable. Her song was an aria of Bellini’s, in which she felt quite sure of herself.
“Charming!” said Mr. Arrowpoint, and the word was echoed around the room. But Herr Klesmer stood as mute as a statue. Gwendolen was pressed to sing again, and she did not wish to refuse; but first she said to Herr Klesmer, with a smiling appeal, “It would be 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, just as Ir
ishmen resume their strongest brogue when they are agitated. “That makes nothing. It is always acceptable to see you sing.”
Was there ever so unexpected an assertion of superiority? Gwendolen coloured 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 see that Herr Klesmer was looking at Gwendolen with more conspicuous admiration than was quite consistent with good taste), now with the utmost tact and kindness came up 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. One can bear it when everyone else is admiring.”
Gwendolen, recovering herself, answered, “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 voice. But you produce your notes badly; and that dawdling, see-saw kind of music is beneath you. It has no breadth of horizon. There is a self-satisfied folly about such melody; no deep, mysterious passion – no conflict – no sense of the universal. It makes men small as they listen to it. Sing now something larger.”
“Oh, not now. By-and-by,” said Gwendolen, with a sinking heart. 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 will show us what is good music.”
To be quite safe on this point Herr Klesmer played a composition of his own; and he certainly fetched as much passion out of the piano as that instrument lends itself to, having an imperious magic in his fingers that drew a quivering lingering speech from the strings. Gwendolen, despite her wounded egoism, could feel the power of this playing, and it gradually turned her mortification into an excitement which lifted her for the moment into a desperate indifference to her own shortcomings, or at least a determination to laugh at them. Her eyes had become brighter, her cheeks flushed, and her tongue ready for any mischief.
“I wish you would sing to us again, Miss Harleth,” said Clintock, the Archdeacon’s son, 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, but 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 politely.
“That must be because you have no breadth of horizon. I have just been taught how bad my taste is, and am feeling growing pains. They are never pleasant,” said Gwendolen, ignoring Mrs. Arrowpoint, and smiling at young Clintock.
Mrs. Arrowpoint was not insensible to this rudeness, but merely said, “Well, we will not press you.”
“I am glad you like this neighbourhood,” said young Clintock, well-pleased to be with Gwendolen.
“Exceedingly. There seems to be a little of everything, and not too much of anything. I like a little of everything; a little absurdity, for example, is very amusing.”
“Decidedly,” Mrs. Arrowpoint thought, “this girl is satirical. I shall be on my guard against her.”
But Gwendolen, nevertheless, continued to receive polite attentions from the family at Quetcham; the trying 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.
George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged Page 6