Chapter One
Was she beautiful or not beautiful? and what was it that gave the dynamic quality to her glance? Was good or evil dominant in it? Probably evil; or why was the effect that of unrest rather than of charm? Why did he feel forced to look at her again, against his wishes?
She who raised these questions in Daniel Deronda’s mind was occupied in gambling. They were in one of those splendid resorts which are prepared for the pleasure of fashionable persons by means of heavy gilt mouldings, dark-coloured decor and chubby nudities.
It was a September afternoon, so that the atmosphere was well-brewed to a visible haze. There was deep stillness, broken only by a light rattle, a chink, a small sweeping sound, and an occasional monotone in French, such as might be expected to come from an automaton. Around two long tables were gathered two crowds of humans, all save one with their attention bent on the tables. The one exception was a melancholy little boy in fancy dress; with a blank face turned toward the doorway, he stood close behind a lady deeply engaged at the roulette-table.
About this table fifty or sixty persons were assembled, many being mere spectators; except that one of them, usually a woman, might now and then put down a five-franc coin with a simpering air, just to see what the passion of gambling really was. Those who were absorbed in deeper play showed wide varieties of European type: Livonian and Spanish, Graeco-Italian and miscellaneous German, English aristocratic and English plebeian.
Here certainly was a striking admission of human equality. The white bejewelled fingers of an English countess were very near touching a bony, yellow, crab-like hand which belonged to someone not unlike a vulture. And where else would her ladyship have graciously consented to sit by that dry-lipped woman, prematurely old, withered like her artificial flowers, holding a shabby reticule, and occasionally putting in her mouth the point with which she pricked her card?
There too, very near the fair countess, was a respectable London tradesman, blonde and soft-handed, his sleek hair scrupulously parted, who liked to take his holidays fashionably, and who held that the only vice of gambling lay in losing. Standing close to his chair was a handsome Italian, calm and statuesque, reaching across him to place the first pile of napoleons from a new bagful. The pile was in half a minute pushed over to an old bewigged woman with eye-glasses pinching her nose.
But, while every single player differed markedly from every other, there was a certain uniform negativeness of expression which had the effect of a mask – as if they were all drugged into the same narrow monotony of action.
Deronda, observing this scene of dull, gas-poisoned absorption, suddenly felt the moment become dramatic. His attention was arrested by a young lady standing nearby, who was the last to whom his eyes travelled. She was bending and speaking English to a middle-aged lady seated beside her: but the next instant she returned to her play, showing the full height of a graceful figure, and a face which might possibly be looked at without admiration, but could not be passed with indifference.
Inwardly debating her nature, Deronda looked at her with increased scrutiny rather than admiration. At one moment his eyes followed the movements of her figure, her arms and hands, as she bent forward to place her stake with an air of firm choice; and the next they returned to the face. She was a winner; and as her slender fingers, delicately gloved in pale-grey, were receiving the coins which had been pushed toward her, she looked around with a cold and neutral survey that seemed to conceal inward exultation.
But in the course of that survey her eyes met Deronda’s and were held – how long? The darting sense that he was measuring her and looking down on her as an inferior, a specimen of a lower order, roused a tingling resentment. It did not bring the blood to her cheeks, but it sent it away from her lips. She controlled herself, and without other sign of emotion than these pale lips turned to her play.
But Deronda’s gaze seemed to have acted as an evil eye. Her stake was gone. No matter; she had been winning from the start, and had a large reserve of coins. She had begun to believe in her luck, and so had others. Her friend and chaperon, who had not wished her to play at first, was starting to approve, only advising her to stop at the right moment and carry money back to England – to which Gwendolen replied that she cared for the excitement of play, not the winnings.
Yet, when her next stake was swept away, she felt her eyes getting hot, and the certainty she had (without looking) of that man still watching her was like a torturing pressure. The more reason why she should not flinch, but go on playing as if she were indifferent to loss or gain. Her friend touched her elbow and proposed that they should quit the table. For reply Gwendolen defiantly put ten louis on the same spot. Since she was not winning strikingly, the next best thing was to lose strikingly. Controlling her muscles, she showed no tremor of mouth or hands. Each time her stake was swept off she doubled it. Many were now watching her, but the sole observation she was conscious of was Deronda’s, who, though she never looked toward him, she was sure had not moved away.
Such a drama takes no long while to play out. Within a few minutes, Gwendolen’s arm was stretched to deposit her last poor heap of coins. And five seconds later she turned from the table, but turned resolutely with her face toward Deronda and looked at him. There was a smile of irony in his eyes as their glances met; but at least his attention had been fixed on her; that was better than to be disregarded.
Besides, in spite of his irony, it was difficult for her to believe that he did not admire her spirit as well as her person. The general conviction that we are admirable does not easily give way. Gwendolen took it for granted that she knew what was admirable and that she herself was admired. This basis of her thinking had received a disagreeable blow, and reeled a little, but was not easily to be overthrown.
That evening the same room was more stiflingly heated, and brilliant with gas-lights and ladies’ costumes.
The sea-nymph in sea-green robes and silver ornaments, with a pale green feather falling over her green hat and light brown hair, was Gwendolen Harleth. She was under the wing or rather soared by the shoulder of the lady who had sat by her at the roulette-table; and with them was a stiff, German gentleman with a white moustache. Gwendolen was much observed.
“A striking girl – that Miss Harleth.”
“Yes, she has got herself up as a sort of serpent now, and winds her neck about a little more than usual.”
“Oh, she must always be doing something extraordinary. She is that kind of girl, I fancy. Do you think her pretty, Mr. Vandernoodt?”
“Very.”
“You like an upturned nose, then, and long narrow eyes?”
“When they go with such a costume.”
“The serpent’s?”
“If you like. Woman was tempted by a serpent; why not man?”
“She is certainly very graceful; but she needs colour in her cheeks.”
“On the contrary, I think her complexion one of her chief charms. And that delicate nose with its little upward curve is distracting. And then her mouth – there never was a prettier mouth, eh, Mackworth?”
“Think so? I cannot endure that sort of mouth. It looks so self-complacent, as if it knew its own beauty.”
“For my part, I think her odious,” said a dowager. “It is amazing what unpleasant girls get into vogue. Who are these Langens? Does anybody know them?”
“They are quite comme il faut. I have dined with them several times. The baroness is English, and Miss Harleth’s cousin. The girl herself is thoroughly well-bred, and as clever as possible.”
“Your baroness is always at the roulette-table,” said Mackworth. “I fancy she has taught the girl to gamble.”
“Oh, the old woman plays a very sober game. The girl is more headlong. But it is only a freak.”
“I hear she has lost all her winnings to-day. Are they rich?”
“Who knows?” said Mr. Vandernoodt, moving off to join the Langens.
It was true that Gwendolen wound her neck about m
ore than usual this evening. This was because she watched for Deronda. She was still wincing under his measuring gaze. At last her opportunity came.
“Mr. Vandernoodt, you know everybody,” said Gwendolen, not too eagerly, but rather with a certain languor. “Who is that near the door? I mean the dark-haired young man with the dreadful expression.”
“Dreadful, do you call it? I think he is an uncommonly fine fellow.”
“But who is he?”
“He is lately come to our hotel with Sir Hugo Mallinger.”
“Sir Hugo Mallinger?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“No.” (Gwendolen coloured slightly.) “He has a place near us, but he never comes to it. What did you say was the name of that gentleman?”
“Mr. Deronda.”
“What a delightful name! Is he an Englishman?”
“Yes. He is reported to be rather closely related to the baronet. You are interested in him?”
“Yes. I think he is not like young men in general.”
“And you don’t admire young men in general?”
“Not in the least. I always know what they will say. I can’t at all guess what this Mr. Deronda would say. What does he say?”
“Nothing, chiefly. I sat with his party for an hour last night, and he never spoke. He looked bored.”
“Another reason why I should like to know him. I am always bored.”
“I should think he would be charmed to have an introduction. Shall I bring it about? Will you allow it, baroness?”
“Why not? – since he is related to Sir Hugo Mallinger. It is a new role of yours, Gwendolen, to be always bored,” continued Madame von Langen, when Mr. Vandernoodt had moved away. “Until now you have always seemed eager about something all the time.”
“That is just because I am bored to death. If I am to leave off gambling I must make something happen; unless you will go into Switzerland and take me up the Matterhorn.”
“Perhaps this Mr. Deronda’s acquaintance will do instead of the Matterhorn.”
“Perhaps.”
But Gwendolen did not make Deronda’s acquaintance on this occasion. Mr. Vandernoodt did not succeed in bringing him to her that evening, and when she re-entered her own room she found a letter recalling her home.
George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged Page 2
