George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged

by Emma Laybourn

  Chapter Eleven

  Mr. Grandcourt’s wish to be introduced was not unexpected; but when Gwendolen came face to face with the real man, there was a little shock which flushed her cheeks. The shock came from the reversal of her expectations: Grandcourt could hardly have been more unlike her imaginary portraits of him.

  He was slightly taller than herself, and their eyes seemed to be on a level; there was not the faintest smile on his face as he looked at her, not a trace of self-consciousness or anxiety in his bearing: when he raised his hat he showed an extensive baldness surrounded with a fringe of reddish-blonde hair, but he also showed a perfect hand; and his features were decidedly handsome. It was not possible for a face to be freer from grimace: also it was perhaps not possible for a breathing man to look less animated. His bearing was relaxed; his long narrow grey eyes expressed nothing but indifference.

  Attempts at description are stupid: who can all at once describe a human being? Our knowledge of his appearance must be completed by innumerable impressions. We recognize the alphabet; we are not sure of the language. Gwendolen’s first impressions were summed up in the words, “He is not ridiculous.”

  As Lord Brackenshaw left, conversation began, while Grandcourt looked at Gwendolen persistently with a slightly exploring gaze, but without change of expression. She only occasionally glanced at him with a flash of observation a little softened by coquetry. After her answers there was a pause before he spoke again.

  “I used to think archery was a great bore,” Grandcourt began. He spoke with a fine accent, but with a broken and distinguished drawl.

  “Are you converted to-day?” said Gwendolen.

  (Pause, during which she imagined various opinions about herself that Grandcourt might hold.)

  “Yes, since I saw you shooting. In things of this sort one generally sees people missing and simpering.”

  “I suppose you are a first-rate shot with a rifle.”

  (Pause, during which Gwendolen made a brief graphic description of Grandcourt to an unknown hearer.)

  “I have left off shooting.”

  “Oh, then you are a formidable person. People who have done things once and left them off make one feel very contemptible. I hope you have not left off all follies, because I practice a great many.”

  (Pause, during which Gwendolen made several interpretations of her own speech.)

  “What do you call follies?”

  “Well, in general, I think whatever is agreeable is called a folly. But you have not left off hunting, I hear.”

  (Pause, wherein Gwendolen recalled Grandcourt’s position, and decided that he was the most aristocratic-looking man she had ever seen.)

  “One must do something.”

  “And do you care about the turf? – or is that among the things you have left off?”

  (Pause, during which Gwendolen thought that a man of extremely calm, cold manners might be less disagreeable as a husband than other men, and not likely to interfere with his wife’s preferences.)

  “I run a horse now and then. Are you fond of horses?”

  “Yes, indeed: I never like my life so well as when I am on horseback, having a great gallop. I think of nothing. I only feel myself strong and happy.”

  (Pause, wherein Gwendolen wondered whether Grandcourt would like what she said, but assured herself that she was not going to disguise her tastes.)

  “Do you like danger?”

  “I don’t know. When I am on horseback I never think of danger. It seems to me that if I broke my bones I should not feel it. I should go at anything that came in my way.”

  (Pause, during which Gwendolen had run through a whole hunting season with two chosen hunters to ride at will.)

  “You would perhaps like tiger-hunting or pig-sticking. I saw some of that for a season or two in the East. Everything here is poor stuff after that.”

  “You are fond of danger, then?”

  (Pause, wherein Gwendolen speculated that men of coldest manners were probably the most adventurous, and felt the strength of her own insight.)

  “One must have something or other. But one gets used to it.”

  “I begin to think I am very fortunate, because everything is new to me: I am not used to anything except being dull, which I should like to leave off as you have left off shooting.”

  (Pause, during which it occurred to Gwendolen that a man of cold and distinguished manners might possibly be a dull companion; but then most persons were dull – and after all she was not going to accept Grandcourt.)

  “Why are you dull?”

  “This is a dreadful neighbourhood. There is nothing to be done in it. That is why I practised my archery.”

  (Pause, during which Gwendolen reflected that the life of an unmarried woman who could not go about must be dull indeed.)

  “You have made yourself queen of it. I imagine you will carry the first prize.”

  “But I have great rivals. Did you not observe how well Miss Arrowpoint shot?”

  (Pause, wherein Gwendolen was thinking that men had been known to choose some one else than the woman they most admired, and recalled several experiences of that kind in novels.)

  “Miss Arrowpoint. No – that is, yes.”

  “Shall we go and hear the scoring? Everyone is going to the other end now – shall we join them? I think my uncle is looking toward me. He perhaps wants me.”

  Gwendolen found it a relief to thus change the situation: not that the tête-à-tête was quite disagreeable; but while it lasted she could not get rid of the unwonted flush in her cheeks and the sense of surprise which made her feel less mistress of herself than usual. And this Mr. Grandcourt must not take for granted that he was of great moment to her, or that because others speculated on him as a desirable match she held herself at his beck and call.

  “You have just missed the gold arrow, Gwendolen,” said Mr. Gascoigne. “Miss Juliet Fenn scores eight above you.”

  “I am very glad to hear it. I should have felt that I was taking the best of everything,” said Gwendolen easily. It was impossible to be jealous of Juliet Fenn, a girl middling in everything but her archery and her plainness, in which she resembled one of the more intelligent fishes.

  There was now a lively movement of mingling groups. Gwendolen observed that Grandcourt was having Klesmer presented to him by a middle-aged man, with a dark, full face and fat hands, who seemed to be friendly with both. Who this stranger was she did not care to know; but she wished to observe Grandcourt’s manner toward others than herself. Precisely the same: except that he did not look much at Miss Arrowpoint, but rather at Klesmer, who was speaking with animation and tossing his mane. Grandcourt listened with an impassive face and narrow eyes, his left fore-finger in his waistcoat-pocket, and his right slightly touching his thin whisker.

  “I wonder which style Miss Arrowpoint admires most,” thought Gwendolen, rather mockingly. Then she gave all her animation to those immediately around her, determined not to care whether Mr. Grandcourt came near her again or not.

  He did not come, however, until it was time to conduct Mrs. Davilow to her carriage.

  “Shall we meet again in the ball-room tonight?” she said. His “yes” in reply had the usual slight drawl and perfect gravity.

  “You were wrong about Mr. Grandcourt, Gwendolen,” said Mrs. Davilow, during their drive to the castle. “You can’t find anything ridiculous in him.”

  “I could if I tried, but I don’t want to,” said Gwendolen, rather pettishly; and her mother was afraid to say more.

  It was the rule on these occasions for the ladies and gentlemen to dine apart. In the ladies’ dining-room it was evident that Gwendolen was not a favourite with her own sex: there was no intimacy between her and other girls, perhaps because she was not much interested in them. The exception to this aloofness from her was Miss Arrowpoint, who talked to her with quiet friendliness.

  “She knows, as I do, that our friends are ready to quarrel over a husband for us,” thought Gwen
dolen, “and she is determined not to enter into the quarrel.”

  “I think Miss Arrowpoint has the best manners I ever saw,” said Mrs. Davilow, when she and Gwendolen had retired to a dressing-room.

  “I wish I were like her,” said Gwendolen. “I am discontented with things. She seems contented.”

  “I am sure you ought to be satisfied to-day. You must have enjoyed the shooting.”

  “Oh, that is over now, and I don’t know what will come next,” said Gwendolen, stretching and throwing up her arms. They were bare now; it was the fashion to dance in the archery dress, without the jacket; and her simple white cashmere with its border of pale green set off her form. A thin line of gold round her neck, and the gold star on her breast, were her only ornaments.

  “The dancing will come next,” said Mrs. Davilow. “You are sure to enjoy that.”

  “I shall only dance in the quadrille. I told Mr. Clintock so. I shall not waltz or polk with anyone. I can’t bear having ugly people so near me.”

  “Whom do you mean by ugly people?”

  “Oh, plenty.”

  “Mr. Clintock is not ugly.” Mrs. Davilow dared not mention Grandcourt.

  “I hate woollen cloth touching me.”

  Apparently something had changed Gwendolen’s mood since the hour of exulting enjoyment in the archery-ground. But she did not look the worse for it under the chandeliers in the ball-room, where the soft splendour of the scene and the pleasant odours from the conservatory soothed her temper, as did the consciousness of being sought after. Almost every man was anxious to have her for a partner, and was in a state of melancholy remonstrance that she would not waltz or polk.

  Among the remonstrant dancing men, however, Mr. Grandcourt was not numbered. After standing up for a quadrille with Miss Arrowpoint, it seemed that he meant to ask for no other partner. Gwendolen saw him frequently with the Arrowpoints, but he never approached her.

  She thought that she would probably not have the least trouble about him after all: probably he meant to marry Miss Arrowpoint. Whatever might come, she, Gwendolen, was not going to be disappointed: for she had never committed herself even by a silent confidence in anything Mr. Grandcourt would do. Still, she noticed that he did sometimes quietly and gradually change his position according to hers, so that he could see her whenever she was dancing.

  This movement for the sake of watching her was more direct than usual late in the evening, when Gwendolen had Klesmer as a partner; and that wide-glancing personage said to her, “Mr. Grandcourt is a man of taste. He likes to see you dancing.”

  “Perhaps he likes to look at what is against his taste,” said Gwendolen, with a light laugh; she was quite courageous with Klesmer now. “He may be so tired of admiring that he likes disgust for variety.”

  “Those words are not suitable to your lips,” said Klesmer, quickly, with one of his grand frowns.

  “Are you as critical of words as of music?”

  “Certainly. I should require your words to be as noble as your face and form.”

  “That is a compliment as well as a correction. I am obliged for both. Pray, who is that standing near the card-room door?” she went on, seeing there the same stranger with whom Klesmer had been in animated talk on the archery ground. “A friend of yours?”

  “No, an amateur I have seen in town – too fond of popular operas – a Mr. Lush.”

  Three minutes afterward, when she was back with her mamma, Grandcourt made his way up to her.

  “May I ask if you are tired of dancing, Miss Harleth?” he began.

  “Not in the least.”

  “Will you do me the honour – the next – or another quadrille?”

  “I should have been very happy,” said Gwendolen looking at her card, “but I am engaged for the next to Mr. Clintock – and indeed I have not one quadrille left to dispose of.” She was not sorry to punish Mr. Grandcourt’s tardiness, yet at the same time she would have liked to dance with him. She gave him a charming smile, and he stood looking down at her with no smile at all.

  “I am unfortunate in being too late,” he said, after a moment’s pause.

  “It seemed to me that you did not care for dancing,” said Gwendolen. “I thought it might be one of the things you had left off.”

  “Yes, but I have not begun to dance with you,” said Grandcourt. Always there was the same pause before he took up his cue. “You make dancing a new thing, as you make archery.”

  “But once you had danced with me there would be no more novelty in it.”

  “On the contrary, there would probably be much more.”

  “That is deep. I don’t understand.”

  “It is difficult to make Miss Harleth understand her power?” Here Grandcourt had turned to Mrs. Davilow, who, smiling gently at her daughter, said–

  “I think she does not generally strike people as slow to understand.”

  “Mamma,” said Gwendolen, in a deprecating tone, “I am adorably stupid, and want everything explained to me – when the meaning is pleasant.”

  “If you are stupid, I admit that stupidity is adorable,” returned Grandcourt, after the usual pause, and without change of tone. But clearly he knew what to say.

  “I begin to think that Mr Clintock has forgotten me,” Gwendolen observed, looking round for her partner. “I see the quadrille is being formed.”

  But just then Lady Brackenshaw came up and said, “Miss Harleth, Mr. Clintock has charged me to express to you his deep regret that he was obliged to leave without having the pleasure of dancing with you again.”

  “I am sorry he was called away,” said Gwendolen, politely.

  “May I hope that you will let me take his place?” said Grandcourt.

  “I shall be very happy.”

  It seemed an augury, and as Gwendolen stood up for the quadrille with Grandcourt, her earlier exultation revived. No man could have walked through the dance with more irreproachable ease; and the absence of all eagerness in his attention suited her taste. She was now convinced that he meant to distinguish her; and it began to appear probable that she would have it in her power to reject him. It was agreeable to know that his selecting her to dance with, from all the ladies present, attracted observation; though she studiously avoided seeing this, and at the end of the quadrille walked away on Grandcourt’s arm as if she had been the shortest sighted of mortals.

  They joined Miss Arrowpoint and Lady Brackenshaw amongst a group who were discussing a project: a picnic archery meeting to be held in Cardell Chase.

  Gwendolen thought the scheme delightful, and Mr. Grandcourt said it was a thing to be done. Mr. Lush, who stood behind Lady Brackenshaw, said with a familiar tone to Grandcourt, “Diplow would be a good place for the meeting, and more convenient.”

  Although Grandcourt looked totally unconscious of being addressed, Gwendolen took a new survey of the speaker, deciding, first, that he must be on intimate terms with Grandcourt, and, secondly, that she would never let him come within a yard of her. Mr. Lush’s prominent eyes, fat though not clumsy figure, and strong black grey-besprinkled frizzy hair, created in her a strong antipathy. She murmured to Grandcourt, “I should like to continue walking.”

  He obeyed immediately; but spoke no word for several minutes, and she, out of a half-amused inclination for experiment, would not speak first. They turned into the large conservatory, beautifully lit up with Chinese lamps. The other couples were at a distance, but still they walked in silence until they had reached the farther end where there was a second wide opening into the ball-room. Grandcourt paused and said languidly–

  “Do you like this kind of thing?”

  Half an hour before, Gwendolen could only have imagined herself returning a playful, satirical answer. But for some mysterious reason she dared not be satirical: she had begun to feel a wand over her that made her afraid of offending Grandcourt.

  “Yes,” she said, quietly, without considering what “kind of thing” was meant – whether the flowers, the sc
ents, the ball in general, or walking with Mr. Grandcourt in particular. And they returned along the conservatory without farther interpretation.

  She proposed to go and sit down in her old place by Mrs. Davilow; but as they approached, she saw, to her shuddering annoyance, that Mr. Lush stood at her mother’s elbow. There was no avoiding the confrontation: her mamma said innocently, “Gwendolen, dear, let me present Mr. Lush to you.” Having just made the acquaintance of this intimate companion of Mr. Grandcourt’s, Mrs. Davilow imagined it altogether desirable that her daughter also should meet him.

  It was hardly a bow that Gwendolen gave – rather, it was the slightest sweep of the head away from him. She immediately moved toward her seat, saying, “I want to put on my cloak.” No sooner had she reached it, than Mr. Lush was there with the cloak in his hand, willing to risk forestalling Grandcourt for the sake of annoying this supercilious young lady. Holding up the garment, he said, “Pray, permit me?” But she wheeled away, saying, “No, thank you.”

  A man who forgave this would have much Christian feeling, supposing he had intended to be agreeable to the young lady; but Mr. Lush had no such intention. Grandcourt quietly took the cloak from him, and Mr. Lush, with a slight bow, moved away. “You had perhaps better put it on,” said Mr. Grandcourt, looking down on her without change of expression.

  “Thanks; perhaps it would be wise,” said Gwendolen, rising, and submitting very gracefully.

  In taking leave, Mr. Grandcourt asked permission to call at Offendene the next day, evidently not offended by the insult to his friend. Certainly Gwendolen’s refusal of the cloak from Mr. Lush was open to the interpretation that she wished to receive it from Mr. Grandcourt. But she, poor child, was simply following her antipathy, without any such design. Gwendolen had no sense that these men were dark enigmas to her – Mr. Grandcourt at least. The chief question was, how far he might answer her wishes; and unless she were satisfied about that, she would not accept his offer.