Chapter Twenty-three
“Pray go to church, mamma,” said Gwendolen the next morning. “I prefer seeing Herr Klesmer alone. He will be here at eleven.”
“That is hardly correct, I think,” said Mrs. Davilow anxiously. “You would not mind Isabel? She could be reading in a corner.”
“No; she could not: she would bite her nails and stare. It would be too irritating. Trust my judgment, mamma; I must be alone. Take them all to church.”
Gwendolen had her way, of course; only Miss Merry and two of the girls stayed at home, to give the house a look of habitation by sitting at the dining-room windows.
It was a delicious Sunday morning. The melancholy waning sunshine of autumn came mildly through the windows in slanting bands of brightness over the old furniture, the organ at which Gwendolen had acted Saint Cecilia, the antechamber where she worn her Greek dress as Hermione. This last memory was just now very busy in her; for had not Klesmer been struck with admiration of her pose and expression? His reaction was at this moment of the keenest interest for her: perhaps she had never before in her life felt so in need of another person’s opinion. Still she told herself that Klesmer had seen little of her, and any unfavourable conclusion of his must have too narrow a foundation. She really felt clever enough for anything.
The sound of wheels and opening doors increased her inward flutter. In spite of her self-confidence, she dreaded Klesmer as part of that unmanageable world which was independent of her wishes.
Klesmer made his most deferential bow. Gwendolen met him with unusual gravity, saying, “It is most kind of you to come, Herr Klesmer. I hope you have not thought me presumptuous.”
“I took your wish as a command that did me honour,” said Klesmer, with answering gravity. He was really putting aside his own affairs to give his utmost attention to Gwendolen; but he was still in a state of excitation from the events of yesterday.
Gwendolen was under too great a strain to remember formalities. She began without delay.
“I wish to consult you, Herr Klesmer. We have lost all our fortune; we have nothing. I must get my own bread, and I desire to provide for my mamma. The only way I can think of – and I should like it better than anything – is to be an actress on the stage. But, of course, I should like to take a high position, and I thought – if you thought I could” – here Gwendolen became a little more nervous– “it would be better for me to study singing also.”
Klesmer put down his hat upon the piano, and folded his arms as if to concentrate himself.
“I know,” Gwendolen resumed, turning from pale to pink, “I know that my singing is very defective; but I have been ill taught. I could be better taught. And you will understand my wish: to sing and act too, is a much higher position. Naturally, I should wish to take as high rank as I can. And I can rely on your judgment. I am sure you will tell me the truth.”
Gwendolen somehow had the conviction that now she had made this serious appeal the truth would be favourable.
Still Klesmer did not speak. He drew off his gloves, tossed them into his hat, and walked to the other end of the room, filled with compassion for this girl: he wanted to guard his speech. When he turned again, he looked at her with a mild frown of inquiry, and said gently, “You have never seen anything, I think, of actors and their lives?”
“Oh, no,” said Gwendolen.
“You are – pardon me,” said Klesmer, “but you are perhaps twenty?”
“I am twenty-one,” said Gwendolen, a slight fear rising in her. “Do you think I am too old? Many persons begin later than others.”
Klesmer said with more studied gentleness than ever, “You have probably not thought of an artistic career until now: you did not wish yourself an actress, till the present trouble?”
“Not exactly: but I was fond of acting. You saw me, if you remember, in charades, and as Hermione,” said Gwendolen, really fearing that Klesmer had forgotten.
“Yes, yes,” he answered quickly, “I remember perfectly,” and again walked to the other end of the room.
Gwendolen felt that she was being weighed. The delay was unpleasant. But she did not yet conceive that the scale could dip on the wrong side, when she said, “I shall be very much obliged to you for your advice, whatever it may be.”
“Miss Harleth,” said Klesmer with a slight increase of accent, “I will veil nothing from you in this matter. I should reckon myself guilty if I put you on the wrong road. And if I misled one who is so young, so beautiful – who, I trust, will find her happiness along the right road, I should regard myself as a villain.”
Gwendolen felt a sinking of heart under this unexpected solemnity as he went on.
“You are a beautiful young lady – you have been brought up in ease. You have not been called upon to be anything but a charming young lady, whom it is impolite to find fault with.”
He paused; then thrusting out his powerful chin, he said,
“With that preparation, you wish to try the life of an artist; a life of arduous, unceasing work, and uncertain praise. Your praise would have to be earned, like your bread; and both would come slowly, scantily. They may hardly come at all.”
This discouragement, which Klesmer had hoped might suffice without anything more unpleasant, roused some resistance in Gwendolen. With an air of pique, she said–
“I thought that you, being an artist, would consider the life one of the most honourable and delightful. And if I can do nothing better, I suppose I can put up with the same risks as other people.”
“Do nothing better?” said Klesmer, a little fired. “No, my dear Miss Harleth, you could do nothing better. I am not decrying the life of the artist. I am exalting it. An honourable life? Yes. But the honour comes from the inward vocation and the hard-won achievement: there is no honour in donning the life as a livery.”
Some excitement of yesterday had revived in Klesmer and hurried him into sterner speech than he had intended. Conscious of this, he paused suddenly. But Gwendolen’s impression was that he had not yet denied that she could succeed. Klesmer was prone to fervour; and she wished to assure him that she was not afraid of some preliminary hardships. She believed that on the stage she must produce an effect such as she had been used to feel certain of in private life: and the belief would not be peeled off easily, but with blood and pain. She insisted–
“I am quite prepared to bear hardships at first. Of course no one can become famous all at once. And it is not necessary that every actress or singer should be first-rate. If you would be so kind as to tell me what steps you would recommend, I shall have the courage to take them.”
Klesmer was convinced now that he must speak plainly.
“I will tell you the steps that will be forced upon you. You must go to town under the protection of your mother. You must put yourself under training – musical, dramatic, theatrical”– here Gwendolen looked as if she were going to speak, but Klesmer lifted up his hand and said, decisively, “I know. You recite and sing for the drawing-room. You must unlearn all that. You have not yet conceived what excellence is: you must unlearn your mistakes. You must know what you have to strive for, and then subdue your mind and body to unbroken discipline. For you must not be thinking of celebrity: put that candle out of your eyes, and look only at excellence. You would of course earn nothing – you could get no engagement for a long while. You would need money. But that could perhaps be found.”
Gwendolen turned pink and then pale during this speech. Her pride had felt a terrible knife-edge. She wished that she had not sent for him: this first experience of being taken on some other ground than that of her social rank and her beauty was becoming bitter. Klesmer went on.
“Now, what sort of result might be fairly expected from this self-denial? I will tell you truthfully. The result would be uncertain, and probably would not be worth much.”
Gwendolen’s eyes began to burn, but the dread of showing weakness urged her to self-control. She said in a hard tone–
“You
think I want talent, or am too old to begin.”
“Yes! The desire and the training should have begun seven years ago, or earlier. A mountebank’s child who helps her father to earn shillings when she is six – a child that learns to sing as it learns to talk, has a likelier beginning. Genius at first is little more than a great capacity for receiving discipline, and patient practice. Singing and acting require a shaping of the organs toward a finer certainty of effect. Your muscles – your whole frame – must go like a watch, true to a hair. That is the work of youth.”
“I did not pretend to genius,” said Gwendolen, still feeling that she might somehow do what he said was impossible. “I only suppose that I might have a little talent – enough to improve.”
“I don’t deny that,” said Klesmer. “If you had been put in the right track some years ago and had worked well, you might now have made a public singer, though I don’t think your voice would have counted for much. For the stage your personal charms and intelligence might then have told.”
Klesmer seemed cruel, but his feeling was the reverse of cruel. He was directed by compassion for poor Gwendolen, so ignorantly eager to enter on a course of which he saw all the miserable details.
Gwendolen, however, was not convinced. Her self-opinion rallied, and since her counsellor was so severe, she was tempted to think that his judgment was fallible and biased. It occurred to her that it would have been simpler and wiser for her to have written to the manager of a London theatre, asking to make an appointment. Klesmer, she saw, had set himself against her singing. But she felt equal to arguing about her acting, and she answered in a resistant tone–
“I understood, of course, that no one can be a finished actress at once. It may be impossible to tell beforehand whether I should succeed; but I could try. I could take an engagement at a theatre meanwhile, so as to earn money and study at the same time.”
“Can’t be done, my dear Miss Harleth. I must clear your mind of these notions which have no more resemblance to reality than a pantomime. With all your grace and charm, if you were to present yourself as an aspirant to the stage, a manager would either require you to pay as an amateur for being allowed to perform, or he would tell you to go and be taught. An actor must study to personate a character consistently, and animate it with the natural language of face, gesture, and tone. For you to get an engagement fit for you straight away is out of the question.”
“I really cannot understand that,” said Gwendolen, rather haughtily. “How is it that such poor actresses get engaged? I have been to the theatre several times, and I am sure there were actresses who seemed to me to act not at all well and who were quite plain.”
“Ah, my dear Miss Harleth, excuse me; you could not at present teach one of those actresses; but there is certainly much that she could teach you. Ten to one you could not pitch your voice so as to be heard: and merely to stand and move on the stage requires practice.”
“I think I could soon learn to do it tolerably well. I am not so very stupid. And even in Paris, I saw two actresses playing important ladies’ parts who were not at all ladies and quite ugly. I suppose I have no particular talent, but I must think it is an advantage, even on the stage, to be a lady and not a perfect fright.”
“Ah, let us understand each other,” said Klesmer, with a flash of new meaning. “I was speaking of what you would have to go through if you aimed at becoming a real artist and striving after excellence. On that head, you would find mortifications: you would be subjected to tests, and judged without flattery. You would have to bear insignificance: any success must be won by the utmost patience. If you determine to face these hardships, you will have the dignity of a high purpose, even though you may have chosen unfortunately. You will have some merit, though you may win no prize. You have asked my judgment on your chances of winning. I don’t pretend to speak absolutely; but measuring probabilities, my judgment is that you will hardly achieve more than mediocrity.”
Klesmer now paused a moment. Gwendolen was motionless, looking at her hands.
“But”– he resumed– “there are certainly other ideas with which a young lady may take up an art that will bring her before the public. She may rely on the unquestioned power of her beauty as a passport. She may desire to exhibit herself to an admiration which dispenses with skill. This goes a certain way on the stage: not in music: but on the stage, beauty is taken when there is nothing more commanding to be had. Not without some drilling, however: as I have said, technicalities have to be mastered. But the woman who takes up this career is not an artist: she usually thinks of entering a luxurious life by a short and easy road – perhaps by marriage. Still, her career will not be luxurious to begin with: she can hardly earn her own bread at once, and the indignities she will be liable to are such as I will not speak of.”
“I desire to be independent,” said Gwendolen, deeply stung and confusedly apprehending some scorn for herself in Klesmer’s words. “Of course I cannot know how things go on in theatres. But I thought that I could have made myself independent. I have no money, and I will not accept help from anyone.”
“I have given you pain,” said Klesmer gently. “But I was bound to put the unvarnished truth before you. I will not say you will do wrong to choose the hard, climbing path of an artist. If you take that courageous resolve I will ask leave to shake hands with you on the strength of our freemasonry, where we are all vowed to the service of art.”
Gwendolen was silent, looking down. She felt herself very far from taking the resolve; and after a moment, Klesmer went on with deepened seriousness.
“Excuse my mentioning in confidence an affair of my own. I am expecting an event which would make it easy for me to exert myself on your behalf, by arranging for your instruction and residence in London, under the care of your family. If you resolve to study the art, you need only undertake the study at first; your bread will be found without trouble. The event I mean is my marriage with Miss Arrowpoint. Your friendship will have greatly risen in value for her by your having adopted that generous labour.”
Gwendolen’s face began to burn. That Klesmer was about to marry Miss Arrowpoint caused her no surprise, and at another time she would have amused herself in imagining the scenes at Quetcham. But she saw only the picture of her own future that Klesmer’s words unfolded. The suggestion of Miss Arrowpoint as a patroness, and Klesmer’s proposal to help her, were irritations after his humiliating judgment on her abilities. His words had bitten into her self-confidence; and the idea of presenting herself before other judges was now poisoned with the dread that they also might be harsh, and fail to recognize her talent. But she controlled herself, and went to the piano before answering. At last she turned toward Klesmer and said, with almost her usual air of proud equality,
“I congratulate you sincerely, Herr Klesmer. I never saw anyone so admirable as Miss Arrowpoint. And I thank you for your kindness this morning. But I can’t decide now. If I make the resolve you have spoken of, I will let you know. But I fear the obstacles are too great. In any case, I am deeply obliged to you.”
Klesmer’s inward remark was, “She will never let me know.” But with the utmost respect, he said, “Command me at any time. The address on this card will always find me.” He took up his hat.
Gwendolen’s better self, conscious of ingratitude, made a desperate effort to rise above the stifling layers of egoistic disappointment. She said with a smile, “If I take the wrong road, it will not be because of your flattery.”
“God forbid that you should take any road but one to happiness!” said Klesmer, fervently. Then he touched her fingers lightly with his lips, and left.
Gwendolen had never felt so miserable. Her eyes were burning; and she saw with dreary clearness the absence of interest from her life. All memories, all objects, the pieces of music displayed, the piano, seemed no better than the packed-up shows of a departing fair. For the first time she had lost the innate sense of her superiority. She threw herself onto the settee, and pres
sed her fingers over her eyelids. Every word of Klesmer’s seemed branded into her memory.
Only a few hours before, she had contentedly imagined a future suited to her wishes: in a year or so she would become the most approved Juliet of the time: or would proceed by gradual steps to her place in the opera, while she won money and applause by occasional performances. Why not? At home, at school, among acquaintances, she had been used to have her superiority admitted; and she had moved in a society where everything is of the amateur kind, only falling short of perfection because gentlemen and ladies are not obliged to do more than they like.
She had at least shown some sense in consulting the person who knew the most and had flattered her the least. In asking Klesmer’s advice, however, she had been borne up by a belief in his latent admiration rather than a wish to know anything more unfavourable than slight objections; and the truth she had asked for, expecting it to be agreeable, had come like a lacerating blow.
“Too old – should have begun seven years ago – will not achieve more than mediocrity – incessant work, uncertain praise, little earnings – mortifications, insignificance” – these phrases rankled; and even more galling was the hint that she could only be accepted on the stage as a beauty hoping for a husband. The “indignities” that she might incur had no very definite form for her, but the mere word “indignity” roused a resentful alarm. And how could she take her mamma and four sisters to London, if she were not earning money at once? As for submitting to be the protégé of Miss Arrowpoint, that was as bad as being a governess. It was over: she had entertained a mistaken hope; and there was an end of it.
“An end of it!” said Gwendolen aloud, starting up as she heard the voices of her mamma and sisters coming in from church. She hurried to the piano and began to rearrange her music.
“Well, my darling,” said gentle Mrs. Davilow, “were you satisfied with your interview with Klesmer?” She had some guesses as to its object.
“Satisfied, mamma? oh, yes,” said Gwendolen, in a high, hard tone. She had set herself resolutely to feign proud indifference, lest she fall into a passionate outburst of despair.
“Your uncle and aunt were disappointed at not seeing you,” said Mrs. Davilow. “I said that you wanted rest.”
“Quite right, mamma,” said Gwendolen, in the same tone, turning to put away some music.
“Am I not to know anything now, Gwendolen? Am I always to be in the dark?” said Mrs. Davilow, in fear that something painful had occurred.
“There is really nothing to tell, mamma,” said Gwendolen, in a still higher voice. “I had a mistaken idea about something I could do. Herr Klesmer has undeceived me. That is all.”
“Don’t look and speak in that way, my dear child: I cannot bear it,” said Mrs. Davilow, breaking down. Gwendolen looked at her a moment in silence, then, putting her hands on her mamma’s shoulders, said in an undertone, “Mamma, it is useless to cry over what can’t be altered. You will live at Sawyer’s Cottage, and I am going to the bishop’s daughters. There is no more to be said. We must try not to care. We must not give way. I dread giving way. Help me to be quiet.”
Mrs. Davilow’s tears were arrested; and she went away in silence.
George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged Page 25
