Chapter Six
That lofty criticism had caused Gwendolen a new sort of pain. She could not question Herr Klesmer’s taste with the confidence of knowledge; nor could she admit to herself that she was jealous of Miss Arrowpoint: not because she was an heiress, but because a girl with a slight figure, small features and a sallow complexion had nevertheless a mental superiority and accomplishment which could not be explained away.
But Gwendolen did not like to dwell on facts which threw an unfavourable light on herself. Klesmer was not always on the scene; since he was backward and forward between London and Quetcham, she thought she would have opportunities for converting him to a more admiring state of mind.
Meanwhile, since her singing was received with pleasure at Brackenshaw Castle and elsewhere, she recovered her equanimity, not being one of those exceptional persons who thirst for perfection. Perhaps it would have been rash to say that she was at all exceptional inwardly, or had any more unusual quality than her rare grace of movement, and a certain daring; for her egoistic ambition was such as exists under many clumsy exteriors. But good looks can persuade us that supremacy is easily attainable. Gwendolen rejoiced to feel herself exceptional; but her horizon was that of the genteel romance where the heroine’s soul, poured out in her journal, is full of vague power, originality, and general rebellion, while her life moves strictly in the sphere of fashion; and if she wanders into a swamp, the pathos lies chiefly in her having on her satin shoes.
What Gwendolen was clear upon was, that she did not wish to lead the same sort of life as ordinary young ladies; but what she was not clear upon was, how she should set about leading any other. Offendene remained a good background, if anything would happen there; but on the whole the neighbourhood was in fault.
Her early invitations brought little excitement, and she came home after sallies of satire and knowingness, such as had offended Mrs. Arrowpoint, to fill her days with the most girlish devices. The strongest assertion she made of her own claims was to stop Alice’s lessons, and to employ her with Miss Merry and the maid in helping to make various dramatic costumes, which Gwendolen wanted ready for future occasions of acting in charades or theatrical pieces, occasions which she meant to bring about. She had never acted – only made a figure in tableaux vivans at school; but she felt assured that she could act well; and having been once or twice to the Theatre Francais, and also heard her mamma speak of Rachel, her dreams as to how she would manage her destiny sometimes turned on the question whether she would become an actress like Rachel, since she was more beautiful than that thin Jewess.
Meanwhile the wet days before Christmas were passed pleasantly in the preparation of costumes, Greek, Oriental, and Composite, in which Gwendolen posed and speechified before a domestic audience.
“Do I look as well as Rachel, mamma?” said Gwendolen, one day when she had been showing herself in her Greek dress to Anna, and going through scraps of scenes with much tragic intention.
“You have better arms than Rachel,” said Mrs. Davilow. “But your voice is not so tragic as hers; it is not so deep.”
“I can make it deeper, if I like,” said Gwendolen; “but I think a higher voice is more tragic: it is more feminine; and the more feminine a woman is, the more tragic it seems when she does desperate actions.”
“If there is anything horrible to be done, I should like it to be left to the men.”
“Oh, mamma, as if all the great poetic criminals were not women! The men are poor cautious creatures.”
“Well, dear, and you – who are afraid to be alone at night – I don’t think you would be very bold in crime, thank God.”
“I am not talking about reality, mamma,” said Gwendolen, impatiently. When her mamma was out of the room, she turned quickly to her cousin, and said,
“Anna, do ask my uncle to let us get up some charades at the rectory. Mr. Middleton and Warham could act with us – just for practice. Mr. Middleton is a stick, but we could give him suitable parts. Do ask, or else I will.”
“Oh, not till Rex comes. He is so clever, and such a dear old thing, and he looks just like Napoleon. Rex can do anything.”
“I don’t in the least believe in your Rex, Anna,” said Gwendolen, laughing. “He will turn out to be like those wretched water-colours of his which you hang in your bedroom and worship.”
“You will see,” said Anna. “Papa says he will get a fellowship, and nobody is better at games. He is cleverer than Mr. Middleton, and everybody but you calls Mr. Middleton clever.”
“So he may be. But he is a stick.”
“Oh, Gwendolen! It is unkind of you to speak so, for he admires you very much. I heard Warham say to mamma, ‘Middleton is regularly spooney upon Gwendolen.’ That is what they say at college for being in love.”
“How can I help it?” said Gwendolen, rather contemptuously.
“You can’t, of course; and he is to go away soon. But it makes me sorry when you ridicule him.”
“What shall you do to me when I ridicule Rex?” said Gwendolen wickedly.
“Now, Gwendolen, dear, you will not?” said Anna, her eyes filling with tears. “I could not bear it. But there really is nothing in him to ridicule. Only you may find out things. For no one ever thought of laughing at Mr. Middleton before you. Everyone said he was nice-looking, and his manners perfect. But you will not ridicule Rex – promise me.”
“You are a dear little coz,” said Gwendolen, touched. “I don’t want to vex you. Especially if Rex is to bring about charades.”
And when at last Rex was there, the animation he brought to Offendene and the rectory, and his ready partnership in Gwendolen’s plans, left her no inclination for any ridicule that was not of an open and flattering kind, such as he himself enjoyed. He was a fine open-hearted youth, with a handsome face resembling his father’s, but softer in expression; and a bright, healthy, loving nature, enjoying ordinary innocent things so much that vice had no temptation for him. He returned Anna’s affection as fully as could be expected; and he had never known a stronger love.
The cousins were continually together at one house or the other – chiefly at Offendene, where Gwendolen ruled; and whatever she wished, Rex agreed with. It was at Offendene that the charades and tableaux were rehearsed and presented. Mr. Middleton was at first a little pained and jealous at Gwendolen’s comradeship with Rex, but persuaded himself that this sort of cousinly familiarity excluded any serious passion, and considered making his advances before he left Pennicote.
Miss Gwendolen, quite aware that she was adored by this young clergyman, had no objection to being adored, but had no other feeling for him. She caused him many mildly agitating hopes by seeming always to avoid dramatic contact with him – for all meanings, we know, depend on how one chooses to interpret them.
As for Rex, he was too completely absorbed in a first passion to notice anything. He did not observe Gwendolen; he only felt what she said or did, and without looking was aware when she was in the room. Before the end of the first fortnight he was so deeply in love that it was impossible for him to think of his life except as bound up with Gwendolen’s. He could see no obstacles, poor boy; his own love seemed to guarantee hers; he could no more dream of her giving him pain than an Egyptian could dream of snow. She sang and played to him, was always glad of his companionship in riding, was ready to join in any fun, and showed an appreciation of Anna. No mark of sympathy seemed absent. It had not occurred to him that this perfect creature was to make a grand match.
One incident in the course of their dramatic attempts impressed Rex as a sign of her sensitivity which he could not have foreseen.
After much rehearsing it was resolved that a select party should be invited to Offendene to witness the performances. Anna had proved a surprisingly good actress, and Mr. Middleton did very well by not trying to be comic. The main source of doubt was Gwendolen’s desire to appear in her Greek dress. She could not think of a charade that would let her strike a statuesque pose in this favo
urite costume. Everybody of course was concerned to satisfy this wish of Gwendolen’s, and Rex proposed that they should wind up with a tableau in which the effect of her majesty would not be marred by any speech. This pleased her thoroughly, and the only question was the choice of tableau.
“Something pleasant, children, I beseech you,” said Mrs. Davilow.
“What do you say to Briseis being led away?” said Rex. “I would be Achilles, and you would be looking round at me – like the print we have at the rectory.”
“That would be a good attitude,” said Gwendolen. “But it will not do. There must be three men in costume, else it will be ridiculous.”
“I have it,” said Rex. “Hermione as the statue in Winter’s Tale? I will be Leontes, and your mother, Paulina.”
Gwendolen urged that instead of the mere tableau there should be just enough acting of the scene to introduce the music as a signal for her to step down and advance. Then Leontes, instead of embracing her, was to kneel and kiss the hem of her garment, and so the curtain was to fall. The antechamber with folding doors worked admirably as a stage, and the whole establishment was absorbed in the preparations. Gwendolen exulted in the prospect of this occasion, for she knew that Herr Klesmer was again at Quetcham, and she had taken care to include him among the invited.
Klesmer came. He was in one of his placid, silent moods, and sat in serene contemplation. Everything indeed went off smoothly, until the incident occurred which showed Gwendolen in unforeseen emotion.
The tableau of Hermione was striking: a murmur of applause went round while Leontes gave his permission that Paulina should exercise her art and make the statue move.
Hermione, her arm resting on a pillar, was elevated by about six inches, which she counted on as a means of showing her pretty foot, when at the given signal she should advance and descend.
“Music, awake her, strike!” said Paulina.
Herr Klesmer, who had been good-natured enough to seat himself at the piano, struck a thunderous chord – but in the same instant, and before Hermione had put forth her foot, the movable panel flew open opposite the stage and disclosed the picture of the dead face and the fleeing figure, pale in the candle-light.
Everyone was startled, but as all eyes turned toward the open panel there came a piercing cry from Gwendolen, who stood with an expression that was terrifying in its terror. She looked like a statue into which a soul of Fear had entered: her pallid lips were parted; her eyes were dilated and fixed. Her mother and Rex rushed to her side, as Gwendolen fell on her knees and put her hands before her face. She was still trembling, but mute, and presently allowed herself to be led away.
A quick fire of undertoned question and answer went round. “Was it part of the play?”
“Oh, surely not. Miss Harleth was too much affected. A sensitive creature!”
“Dear me! I was not aware that there was a painting behind that panel.”
“Some eccentricity in the Earl’s family long ago, I suppose.”
“Was the door locked? It is very mysterious. It must be the spirits. Is there a medium present?”
“Oh, it was probably the vibration from the piano that sent it open.”
This conclusion came from Mr. Gascoigne, who begged Miss Merry to get the key. This was produced, and he turned it firmly in the lock and pocketed it.
Gwendolen soon reappeared, evidently determined to ignore the striking change she had made in the part of Hermione.
But when Klesmer said to her, “We have to thank you for devising a perfect climax,” she flushed with pleasure. She liked to accept as a belief what was really no more than delicate pretence. He realised that her betrayal of fear had been mortifying to her, and wished her to think that he took it for good acting. Gwendolen cherished the idea that now he was struck with her talent as well as her beauty, and her uneasiness about his opinion was half turned to complacency.
No one else took the trouble to soothe Gwendolen. The general sentiment was that the incident should be let drop.
There had been a medium concerned in the starting open of the panel: one who had hastily quitted the room and crept to bed. It was the small Isabel, whose curiosity had kept her on the watch for an opportunity of finding the key, stealing it from the drawer, and getting on a stool to unlock the panel. While she was there, an approaching footstep alarmed her: she closed the door, but not daring to linger, did not lock it. She had returned the key to its former place, thinking that if the door were found to be unlocked, nobody would know how it came about. She did not foresee her own impulse to confession the next morning, when Gwendolen said, “Some one must have been to my drawer and taken the key.”
It seemed to Isabel that Gwendolen’s awful eyes rested on her, and she said, with a trembling lip: “Please forgive me, Gwendolen.”
Forgiveness was soon bestowed, as Gwendolen desired to forget her susceptibility to terror. She wondered at herself in these occasional experiences, which seemed like a brief remembered madness; and in this instance she felt vexed that her helpless fear had shown itself in company. Her ideal was to be daring and reckless in braving dangers; although the restrictions of her life gave her little opportunity.
She had always disliked what she had been taught in the way of religion, in the same way that some people dislike arithmetic: it raised no emotion in her: but she did not wish others to know of her liability to fits of spiritual dread. She was ashamed and frightened at the terror she felt when, for example, she was walking alone and there came some change in the light. Solitude in any wide scene impressed her with a feeling of immeasurable existence aloof from her, in the midst of which she was helpless: but always when someone joined her she resumed her indifference to the vastness in which she seemed an exile, and recovered her confidence.
To her mamma and others her fits of terror were accounted for by her “sensitiveness”. As for Rex, he was more persuaded than ever that she must be instinct with all feeling, and able to love better than other girls. Rex felt the summer on his young wings and soared happily.
George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged Page 7
