Daniel Deronda
乔治.艾略特 George Eliot
CHAPTER XXIII. Page 2
"Ah, my dear Miss Harleth, that is the easy criticism of the buyer. We whobuy slippers toss away this pair and the other as clumsy; but there wentan apprenticeship to the making of them. Excuse me; you could not atpresent teach one of those actresses; but there is certainly much that shecould teach you. For example, she can pitch her voice so as to be heard:ten to one you could not do it till after many trials. Merely to stand andmove on the stage is an art--requires practice. It is understood that weare not now talking of a _comparse_ in a petty theatre who earns the wagesof a needle-woman. That is out of the question for you."
"Of course I must earn more than that," said Gwendolen, with a sense ofwincing rather than of being refuted, "but I think I could soon learn todo tolerably well all those little things you have mentioned. I am not sovery stupid. And even in Paris, I am sure, I saw two actresses playingimportant ladies' parts who were not at all ladies and quite ugly. Isuppose I have no particular talent, but I _must_ think it is anadvantage, 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 newmeaning. "I was speaking of what you would have to go through if you aimedat becoming a real artist--if you took music and the drama as a highervocation in which you would strive after excellence. On that head, what Ihave said stands fast. You would find--after your education in doingthings slackly for one-and-twenty years--great difficulties in study; youwould find mortifications in the treatment you would get when youpresented yourself on the footing of skill. You would be subjected totests; people would no longer feign not to see your blunders. You would atfirst only be accepted on trial. You would have to bear what I may call aglaring insignificance: any success must be won by the utmost patience.You would have to keep your place in a crowd, and after all it is likelyyou would lose it and get out of sight. If you determine to face thesehardships and still try, you will have the dignity of a high purpose, eventhough you may have chosen unfortunately. You will have some merit, thoughyou may win no prize. You have asked my judgment on your chances ofwinning. I don't pretend to speak absolutely; but measuring probabilities,my judgment is:--you will hardly achieve more than mediocrity."
Klesmer had delivered himself with emphatic rapidity, and now paused amoment. Gwendolen was motionless, looking at her hands, which lay overeach other on her lap, till the deep-toned, long-drawn "_But_," with whichhe resumed, had a startling effect, and made her look at him again.
"But--there are certainly other ideas, other dispositions with which ayoung lady may take up an art that will bring her before the public. Shemay rely on the unquestioned power of her beauty as a passport. She maydesire 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. Notwithout some drilling, however: as I have said before, technicalities havein any case to be mastered. But these excepted, we have here nothing to dowith art. The woman who takes up this career is not an artist: she isusually one who thinks of entering on a luxurious life by a short and easyroad--perhaps by marriage--that is her most brilliant chance, and therarest. Still, her career will not be luxurious to begin with: she canhardly earn her own poor bread independently at once, and the indignitiesshe will be liable to are such as I will not speak of."
"I desire to be independent," said Gwendolen, deeply stung and confusedlyapprehending some scorn for herself in Klesmer's words. "That was myreason for asking whether I could not get an immediate engagement. Ofcourse I cannot know how things go on about theatres. But I thought that Icould have made myself independent. I have no money, and I will not accepthelp from any one."
Her wounded pride could not rest without making this disclaimer. It wasintolerable to her that Klesmer should imagine her to have expected otherhelp from him than advice.
"That is a hard saying for your friends," said Klesmer, recovering thegentleness of tone with which he had begun the conversation. "I have givenyou pain. That was inevitable. I was bound to put the truth, theunvarnished truth, before you. I have not said--I will not say--you willdo wrong to choose the hard, climbing path of an endeavoring artist. Youhave to compare its difficulties with those of any less hazardous--anymore private course which opens itself to you. If you take that morecourageous resolve I will ask leave to shake hands with you on thestrength of our freemasonry, where we are all vowed to the service of art,and to serve her by helping every fellow-servant."
Gwendolen was silent, again looking at her hands. She felt herself veryfar away from taking the resolve that would enforce acceptance; and afterwaiting an instant or two, Klesmer went on with deepened seriousness.
"Where there is the duty of service there must be the duty of acceptingit. The question is not one of personal obligation. And in relation topractical matters immediately affecting your future--excuse my permittingmyself to mention in confidence an affair of my own. I am expecting anevent which would make it easy for me to exert myself on your behalf infurthering your opportunities of instruction and residence in London--under the care, that is, of your family--without need for anxiety on yourpart. If you resolve to take art as a bread-study, you need only undertakethe study at first; the bread will be found without trouble. The event Imean is my marriage--in fact--you will receive this as a matter ofconfidence--my marriage with Miss Arrowpoint, which will more than doublesuch right as I have to be trusted by you as a friend. Your friendshipwill have greatly risen in value for _her_ by your having adopted thatgenerous labor."
Gwendolen's face had begun to burn. That Klesmer was about to marry MissArrowpoint caused her no surprise, and at another moment she would haveamused herself in quickly imagining the scenes that must have occurred atQuetcham. But what engrossed her feeling, what filled her imagination now,was the panorama of her own immediate future that Klesmer's words seemedto have unfolded. The suggestion of Miss Arrowpoint as a patroness wasonly another detail added to its repulsiveness: Klesmer's proposal to helpher seemed an additional irritation after the humiliating judgment he hadpassed on her capabilities. His words had really bitten into her self-confidence and turned it into the pain of a bleeding wound; and the ideaof presenting herself before other judges was now poisoned with the dreadthat they also might be harsh; they also would not recognize the talentshe was conscious of. But she controlled herself, and rose from her seatbefore she made any answer. It seemed natural that she should pause. Shewent to the piano and looked absently at leaves of music, pinching up thecorners. At last she turned toward Klesmer and said, with almost her usualair of proud equality, which in this interview had not been hithertoperceptible.
"I congratulate you sincerely, Herr Klesmer. I think I never saw any oneso admirable as Miss Arrowpoint. And I have to thank you for every sort ofkindness this morning. But I can't decide now. If I make the resolve youhave spoken of, I will use your permission--I will let you know. But Ifear the obstacles are too great. In any case, I am deeply obliged to you.It was very bold of me to ask you to take this trouble."
Klesmer's inward remark was, "She will never let me know." But with themost thorough respect in his manner, he said, "Command me at any time.There is an address on this card which will always find me with littledelay."
When he had taken up his hat and was going to make his bow, Gwendolen'sbetter self, conscious of an ingratitude which the clear-seeing Klesmermust have penetrated, made a desperate effort to find its way above thestifling layers of egoistic disappointment and irritation. Looking at himwith a glance of the old gayety, she put out her hand, and said with asmile, "If I take the wrong road, it will not be because of yourflattery."
"God forbid that you should take any road but one where you will find andgive happiness!" said Klesmer, fervently. Then, in foreign fashion, hetouched her fingers lightly with his lips, and in another minute she heardthe sound of his departing wheels getting more distant on the gravel.
Gwendolen had never in her life felt so miserable. No sob came, no passionof tears, to relieve her. Her eyes were burning; and the noonday onlybrought into more dreary clearness the absence of interest from her life.All memories, all objects, the pieces of music displayed, the open piano--the very reflection of herself in the glass--seemed no better than thepacked-up shows of a departing fair. For the first time since herconsciousness began, she was having a vision of herself on the commonlevel, and had lost the innate sense that there were reasons why sheshould not be slighted, elbowed, jostled--treated like a passenger with athird-class ticket, in spite of private objections on her own part. Shedid not move about; the prospects begotten by disappointment were toooppressively preoccupying; she threw herself into the shadiest corner of asettee, and pressed her fingers over her burning eyelids. Every word thatKlesmer had said seemed to have been branded into her memory, as mostwords are which bring with them a new set of impressions and make an epochfor us. Only a few hours before, the dawning smile of self-contentmentrested on her lips as she vaguely imagined a future suited to her wishes:it seemed but the affair of a year or so for her to become the mostapproved Juliet of the time: or, if Klesmer encouraged her idea of being asinger, to proceed by more gradual steps to her place in the opera, whileshe won money and applause by occasional performances. Why not? At home,at school, among acquaintances, she had been used to have her conscioussuperiority admitted; and she had moved in a society where everything,from low arithmetic to high art, is of the amateur kind, politely supposedto fall short of perfection only because gentlemen and ladies are notobliged to do more than they like--otherwise they would probably giveforth abler writings, and show themselves more commanding artists than anythe world is at present obliged to put up with. The self-confident visionsthat had beguiled her were not of a highly exceptional kind; and she hadat least shown some nationality in consulting the person who knew the mostand had flattered her the least. In asking Klesmer's advice, however, shehad rather been borne up by a belief in his latent admiration than bent onknowing anything more unfavorable that might have lain behind his slightobjections to her singing; and the truth she had asked for, with anexpectation that it would be agreeable, had come like a lacerating thong.
"Too old--should have begun seven years ago--you will not, at best,achieve more than mediocrity--hard, incessant work, uncertain praise--bread coming slowly, scantily, perhaps not at all--mortifications, peopleno longer feigning not to see your blunders--glaring insignificance"--allthese phrases rankled in her; and even more galling was the hint that shecould only be accepted on the stage as a beauty who hoped to get ahusband. The "indignities" that she might be visited with had no verydefinite form for her, but the mere association of anything called"indignity" with herself, roused a resentful alarm. And along with thevaguer images which were raised by those biting words, came the preciseconception of disagreeables which her experience enabled her to imagine.How could she take her mamma and the four sisters to London? if it werenot possible for her to earn money at once? And as for submitting to be a_protégé_, and asking her mamma to submit with her to the humiliation ofbeing supported by Miss Arrowpoint--that was as bad as being a governess;nay, worse; for suppose the end of all her study to be as worthless asKlesmer clearly expected it to be, the sense of favors received and neverrepaid, would embitter the miseries of disappointment. Klesmer doubtlesshad magnificent ideas about helping artists; but how could he know thefeelings of ladies in such matters? It was all over: she had entertained amistaken hope; and there was an end of it.
"An end of it!" said Gwendolen, aloud, starting from her seat as she heardthe steps and voices of her mamma and sisters coming in from church. Shehurried to the piano and began gathering together her pieces of music withassumed diligence, while the expression on her pale face and in herburning eyes was what would have suited a woman enduring a wrong which shemight not resent, but would probably revenge.
"Well, my darling," said gentle Mrs. Davilow, entering, "I see by thewheel-marks that Klesmer has been here. Have you been satisfied with theinterview?" She had some guesses as to its object, but felt timid aboutimplying them.
"Satisfied, mamma? oh, yes," said Gwendolen, in a high, hard tone, forwhich she must be excused, because she dreaded a scene of emotion. If shedid not set herself resolutely to feign proud indifference, she felt thatshe must fall into a passionate outburst of despair, which would cut hermamma more deeply than all the rest of their calamities.
"Your uncle and aunt were disappointed at not seeing you," said Mrs.Davilow, coming near the piano, and watching Gwendolen's movements. "Ionly said that you wanted rest."
"Quite right, mamma," said Gwendolen, in the same tone, turning to putaway some music.
"Am I not to know anything now, Gwendolen? Am I always to be in the dark?"said Mrs. Davilow, too keenly sensitive to her daughter's manner andexpression not to fear that something painful had occurred.
"There is really nothing to tell now, mamma," said Gwendolen, in a stillhigher voice. "I had a mistaken idea about something I could do. HerrKlesmer has undeceived me. That is all."
Gwendolen looked at her a moment in silence, biting her inner lip; thenshe went up to her, and putting her hands on her mamma's shoulders, said,with a drop in her voice to the lowest undertone, "Mamma, don't speak tome now. It is useless to cry and waste our strength over what can't bealtered. You will live at Sawyer's Cottage, and I am going to the bishop'sdaughters. There is no more to be said. Things cannot be altered, and whocares? It makes no difference to any one else what we do. We must try notto care ourselves. We must not give way. I dread giving way. Help me to bequiet."
Mrs. Davilow was like a frightened child under her daughter's face andvoice; her tears were arrested and she went away in silence.