Chapter Twenty-two
Gwendolen’s note was put into Klesmer’s hands just when he was leaving Quetcham. With some inconvenience to himself, he arranged to spend the night at Wanchester. There were reasons why he would not remain at Quetcham.
That magnificent mansion had in fact became too hot for him, its owners having been astonished at an insurrection against the established order of things, which had been prepared under their very noses.
There were many guests in the house, including one in whom Miss Arrowpoint foresaw a new pretender to her hand: a political man of good family who confidently expected a peerage, and felt that he required a larger fortune to support the title properly. It is taken for granted that an heiress will consider herself an appendage to her fortune, and marry where others think her fortunes ought to go; however, Nature now and then endows her with a clear head and a strong will. The Arrowpoints had already felt some anxiety about their Catherine, and were uneasy at her persistence in declining suitable offers. As to the possibility of her being in love with Klesmer they were not at all uneasy: for the habitual lazy assumptions begotten by our wishes often blind us to the truth.
When there is a passion between an heiress and a proud independent-spirited man, it is difficult for them to come to an understanding; but frequent companionship, with sympathy in taste, has the power to bring them together; especially where the one is a teacher and the other is delightedly conscious of receptive ability which also gives the teacher delight.
But this did not occur to the Arrowpoints when they first engaged Klesmer. Catherine’s musical talent demanded every advantage; and she desired to use her time in the country for study. Klesmer was not yet a Liszt, and seemed as safe an inmate as a footman. That Catherine might fall in love with him was as inconceivable as that they could marry.
She was not an acknowledged beauty; but the most powerful beauty is that which reveals itself in sympathy; the word or smile that shows a heart awake to others. What adorableness is there in a mind that can flash out comprehension and hands that can execute finely!
Catherine Arrowpoint had no restlessness to clash with Klesmer’s: for all her native kindliness, she was coolly firm and self-sustained. The two soon became aware that each was interesting to the other; but the “how far” remained a matter of doubt. Klesmer did not conceive that Miss Arrowpoint was likely to think of him as a possible lover, and she thought herself unlikely to stir more than a friendly regard in any man who was not enamoured of her fortune. Klesmer knew that if Miss Arrowpoint had been poor he would have made ardent love to her instead of sending a storm through the piano. He began to think that he would not visit Quetcham again. Meanwhile Catherine was aware that if it were possible for Klesmer to wish for her hand, she would give it to him.
Enter the expectant peer, Mr. Bult, an esteemed party man of solidity and healthy pinkness. Catherine had nothing to say against him except that he was thoroughly tiresome. Mr. Bult was amiably confident, and had no idea that his insensibility to music could be reckoned against him. Klesmer he hardly regarded in the light of a serious human being; and he was consequently a little amazed at an after-dinner outburst of Klesmer’s on the lack of idealism in English politics. Mr. Bult was not surprised that Klesmer’s opinions should be flighty, but was astonished at his command of English idiom, and assumed Klesmer must be a Pole or Czech refugee, or something of that sort. That evening he went up to Klesmer at the piano, and said–
“I had no idea that you were a political man.”
Klesmer folded his arms and stared at Mr. Bult.
“You speak uncommonly well,” continued Mr Bult, “though I don’t agree with you. From what you said, I fancy you are a Panslavist.”
“No; my name is Elijah. I am the Wandering Jew,” said Klesmer, flashing a smile at Miss Arrowpoint, and suddenly making a mysterious rush backward and forward on the piano. Mr. Bult felt this buffoonery rather offensive and Polish.
“Herr Klesmer has cosmopolitan ideas,” said Miss Arrowpoint. “He looks forward to a fusion of races.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Bult graciously. “I was sure he had too much talent to be a mere musician.”
“Sir, you are under some mistake,” said Klesmer, firing up. “No man has too much talent to be a musician. Most men have too little. A creative artist is no more a mere musician than a great statesman is a mere politician. To speak effectively through music is more difficult than parliamentary eloquence.”
With that Klesmer wheeled from the piano and walked away.
Miss Arrowpoint coloured, and Mr. Bult observed, “Your pianist thinks highly of himself.”
“Herr Klesmer is something more than a pianist,” said Miss Arrowpoint apologetically. “He is a great musician, who will rank with Schubert and Mendelssohn.”
“Ah, you ladies understand these things.”
Catherine, always sorry when Klesmer gave himself airs, said to him next day, “Why were you so heated last night with Mr. Bult? He meant no harm.”
“You find no difficulty in tolerating him, then? – you respect a man full of platitudes and as insensible as an ox?”
“I did not say that.”
“You mean that I acted without dignity, and you are offended with me.”
“Now you are slightly nearer the truth,” said Catherine, smiling.
“Then I had better pack my burial-clothes and set off at once.”
“If I have to bear your criticism of my operetta, you should not mind my criticism of your impatience.”
“But I do mind it. You would have wished me to take his ignorant impertinence about a ‘mere musician’ without letting him know his place. I am to hear my gods blasphemed as well as myself insulted. Even you can’t understand the wrath of the artist: he is of another caste for you.”
“That is true,” said Catherine, with some betrayal of feeling. “He is of a caste to which I look up – a caste above mine.”
Klesmer started up and walked a little distance, before saying–
“That is finely felt. I am grateful. But I have made up my mind to go, all the same. You can get on exceedingly well without me. I am neglecting my engagements. I must go to St. Petersburg.”
“Certainly. I only wonder that you have given us so much of your time. I have never thought of your consenting to come here as anything other than a sacrifice.”
“Why should I make the sacrifice?” said Klesmer, seating himself at the piano and delicately touching the keys.
“That is the mystery,” said Catherine, in agitation. She was tearing a piece of paper into minute morsels, as if at a task imposed by a cruel fairy.
“You can conceive no motive?”
“None that seems in the least probable.”
“Then I shall tell you. It is because you are to me the chief woman in the world – the throned lady whose colours I carry between my heart and my armour.”
Catherine’s hands trembled so much that she could no longer tear the paper: still less could she speak. Klesmer went on–
“You once said it was your doom to suspect every man who courted you of being an adventurer, and that what made you angriest was men’s assuming you would believe that they courted you for your own sake. Well, at least one man has lingered for your own sake. And since he is one whom you can never marry, you may believe him. I shall go now and pack.” Klesmer rose and walked quickly toward the door.
“You must take this heap of manuscript,” said Catherine, in sudden desperation, rising to fetch the folio sheets. Klesmer turned back, and they stood with the sheets between them.
“Why should I not marry the man who loves me, if I love him?” said Catherine, with an effort something like the leap from the deck into the lifeboat.
“It would be too hard – impossible – you could not carry it through. I am not worth what you would have to encounter. We should be liable to the worst accusations.”
“Is it the accusations you are afraid of? I am afraid of nothing
but that we should miss the passing of our lives together.”
The decisive word had been spoken: there was no doubt concerning the end willed by each: there only remained the way of arriving at it, and Catherine determined to take the straightest possible. She went to her father and mother in the library, and told them that she had promised to marry Klesmer.
Mrs. Arrowpoint’s state of mind was pitiable. While Klesmer was seen in the light of a patronized musician, his peculiarities were picturesque: but to see him in the light of her son-in-law gave her a burning sense of what the world would say. Under the first shock she snatched angrily at any phrase that would serve as a weapon.
“If Klesmer has presumed to offer himself to you, your father shall horsewhip him off the premises. Speak, Mr. Arrowpoint.”
The father took his cigar from his mouth, and rose to the occasion by saying, “This will never do, Cath.”
“Do!” cried Mrs. Arrowpoint; “who in their senses ever thought it would do? You might as well say poisoning and strangling will not do. You are mad, Catherine.”
“I am quite sane, mamma, and Herr Klesmer is not to blame. He never thought of marrying me. I found out that he loved me, and told him I would marry him.”
“Leave that unsaid, Catherine,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint, bitterly. “Everyone will say that you have made an offer to a man who has been paid to come to the house – who is nobody knows what – a gypsy, a Jew.”
“No, mamma,” said Catherine, indignant in her turn. “We all know he is a genius, as Tasso was. I am sorry to hurt you; but I will not give up the happiness of my life.”
“You have lost all sense of duty, then? You have forgotten that as our only child, it lies with you to place a great property in the right hands?”
“What are the right hands? My grandfather gained the property in trade.”
“Mr. Arrowpoint, will you sit by and hear this?”
“We expect you to marry a gentleman, Cath,” said the father, exerting himself.
“A woman in your position has serious duties,” said the mother. “Where duty and inclination clash, she must follow duty.”
“I don’t deny that,” said Catherine, getting colder in proportion to her mother’s heat. “But people can easily use the word duty as a name for what they desire anyone else to do. Before I give up my happiness–”
“It will not be your happiness,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint, in her most raven-like tones.
“Before I give it up, I must see some better reason than the wish that I should marry a nobleman. I feel at liberty to marry the man I love, unless some higher duty forbids.”
“And so it does, Catherine, though you are blinded and cannot see it. It is a woman’s duty not to lower herself. Mr. Arrowpoint, will you tell your daughter what is her duty?”
“You must see, Catherine, that Klesmer is not the man for you,” said Mr. Arrowpoint. “He has a deuced foreign look.”
“I really can’t see what that has to do with it, papa.”
“We must do as other people do. We must think of the nation and the public good.”
“I can’t see any public good concerned here, papa,” said Catherine.
“Because you don’t wish to marry a nobleman,” said Mrs Arrowpoint, “you are not obliged to marry a mountebank.”
“I cannot understand the application of such words, mamma.”
“No, I dare say not,” rejoined Mrs. Arrowpoint, with significant scorn. “You have got to a pitch at which we are not likely to understand each other.”
“It can’t be done, Cath,” said Mr. Arrowpoint, more good-humouredly. “A man like Klesmer can’t marry such a property as yours. It can’t be done.”
“It certainly will not be done,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint, imperiously. “Where is the man? Let him be fetched.”
“I cannot fetch him to be insulted,” said Catherine. “Nothing will be achieved by that.”
“I suppose you would wish him to know that in marrying you he will not marry your fortune,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint.
“Certainly; if it were so, I should wish him to know it.”
“Then you had better fetch him.”
Catherine only went into the music-room and said, “Come.” She felt no need to prepare Klesmer.
“Herr Klesmer,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint, with a rather contemptuous stateliness, “it is unnecessary to repeat what has passed between us and our daughter. Mr. Arrowpoint will tell you our resolution.”
“Your marrying is out of the question,” said Mr. Arrowpoint, rather too heavily weighted with his task. “It is a wild scheme altogether.”
“You have taken a base advantage of our confidence,” burst in Mrs. Arrowpoint.
Klesmer made a low bow in silent irony.
“The pretension is ridiculous. You had better give it up and leave the house at once,” continued Mr. Arrowpoint. He wished to do without mentioning the money.
“I can give up nothing without reference to your daughter’s wish,” said Klesmer. “My engagement is to her.”
“We shall never consent to the marriage,” said Mrs Arrowpoint. “If Catherine disobeys us we shall disinherit her.”
“Madam, her fortune has been the only thing I have had to regret about her. But I must ask her if she will not think the sacrifice greater than I am worthy of.”
“It is no sacrifice to me,” said Catherine, “except that I am sorry to hurt my father and mother.”
“You mean to defy us, then?” said Mrs. Arrowpoint.
“I mean to marry Herr Klesmer,” said Catherine firmly.
“He had better not count on our relenting,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint.
“Madam,” said Klesmer, “I consider it out of your power to confer on me anything that I value. My rank as an artist is of my own winning, and I would not exchange it for any other. I am able to maintain your daughter, and I ask for no change in my life but her companionship.”
“You will leave the house,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint.
“I go at once,” said Klesmer, bowing and quitting the room.
“Let there be no misunderstanding, mamma,” said Catherine; “I consider myself engaged to Herr Klesmer, and I intend to marry him.”
The mother turned away and waved her hand in sign of dismissal.
And thus, with nothing settled but the determination of the lovers, Klesmer had left Quetcham.
George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged Page 24