Daniel Deronda
乔治.艾略特 George Eliot
CHAPTER XXVI.
He brings white asses laden with the freightOf Tyrian vessels, purple, gold and balm,To bribe my will: I'll bid them chase him forth,Nor let him breathe the taint of his surmiseOn my secure resolve.Ay, 'tis secure:And therefore let him come to spread his freight.For firmness hath its appetite and cravesThe stronger lure, more strongly to resist;Would know the touch of gold to fling it off;Scent wine to feel its lip the soberer;Behold soft byssus, ivory, and plumesTo say, "They're fair, but I will none of them,"And flout Enticement in the very face.
Mr. Gascoigne one day came to Offendene with what he felt to be thesatisfactory news that Mrs. Mompert had fixed Tuesday in the followingweek for her interview with Gwendolen at Wanchester. He said nothing ofhis having incidentally heard that Mr. Grandcourt had returned to Diplow;knowing no more than she did that Leubronn had been the goal of heradmirer's journeying, and feeling that it would be unkind uselessly torevive the memory of a brilliant prospect under the present reverses. Inhis secret soul he thought of his niece's unintelligible caprice withregret, but he vindicated her to himself by considering that Grandcourthad been the first to behave oddly, in suddenly walking away when therehad the best opportunity for crowning his marked attentions. The rector'spractical judgment told him that his chief duty to his niece now was toencourage her resolutely to face the change in her lot, since there was nomanifest promise of any event that would avert it.
"You will find an interest in varied experience, my dear, and I have nodoubt you will be a more valuable woman for having sustained such a partas you are called to."
"I cannot pretend to believe that I shall like it," said Gwendolen, forthe first time showing her uncle some petulance. "But I am quite awarethat I am obliged to bear it."
She remembered having submitted to his admonition on a different occasionwhen she was expected to like a very different prospect.
"And your good sense will teach you to behave suitably under it," said Mr.Gascoigne, with a shade more gravity. "I feel sure that Mrs. Mompert willbe pleased with you. You will know how to conduct yourself to a woman whoholds in all senses the relation of a superior to you. This trouble hascome on you young, but that makes it in some respects easier, and there isa benefit in all chastisement if we adjust our minds to it."
This was precisely what Gwendolen was unable to do; and after her unclewas gone, the bitter tears, which had rarely come during the late trouble,rose and fell slowly as she sat alone. Her heart denied that the troublewas easier because she was young. When was she to have any happiness, ifit did not come while she was young? Not that her visions of possiblehappiness for herself were as unmixed with necessary evil as they used tobe--not that she could still imagine herself plucking the fruits of lifewithout suspicion of their core. But this general disenchantment with theworld--nay, with herself, since it appeared that she was not made for easypre-eminence--only intensified her sense of forlornness; it was a visiblysterile distance enclosing the dreary path at her feet, in which she hadno courage to tread. She was in that first crisis of passionate youthfulrebellion against what is not fitly called pain, but rather the absence ofjoy--that first rage of disappointment in life's morning, which we whomthe years have subdued are apt to remember but dimly as part of our ownexperience, and so to be intolerant of its self-enclosed unreasonablenessand impiety. What passion seems more absurd, when we have got outside itand looked at calamity as a collective risk, than this amazed anguish thatI and not Thou, He or She, should be just the smitten one? Yet perhapssome who have afterward made themselves a willing fence before the breastof another, and have carried their own heart-wound in heroic silence--somewho have made their deeds great, nevertheless began with this angryamazement at their own smart, and on the mere denial of their fantasticdesires raged as if under the sting of wasps which reduced the universefor them to an unjust infliction of pain. This was nearly poor Gwendolen'scondition. What though such a reverse as hers had often happened to othergirls? The one point she had been all her life learning to care for was,that it had happened to _her_: it was what _she_ felt under Klesmer'sdemonstration that she was not remarkable enough to command fortune byforce of will and merit; it was what _she_ would feel under the rigors ofMrs. Mompert's constant expectation, under the dull demand that she shouldbe cheerful with three Miss Momperts, under the necessity of showingherself entirely submissive, and keeping her thoughts to herself. To be aqueen disthroned is not so hard as some other down-stepping: imagine onewho had been made to believe in his own divinity finding all homagewithdrawn, and himself unable to perform a miracle that would recall thehomage and restore his own confidence. Something akin to this illusion andthis helplessness had befallen the poor spoiled child, with the lovelylips and eyes and the majestic figure--which seemed now to have no magicin them.
She rose from the low ottoman where she had been sitting purposeless, andwalked up and down the drawing-room, resting her elbow on one palm whileshe leaned down her cheek on the other, and a slow tear fell. She thought,"I have always, ever since I was little, felt that mamma was not a happywoman; and now I dare say I shall be more unhappy than she has been."
Her mind dwelt for a few moments on the picture of herself losing heryouth and ceasing to enjoy--not minding whether she did this or that: butsuch picturing inevitably brought back the image of her mother.
Her face was toward the door, and she saw her mother enter. She barely sawthat; for her eyes were large with tears, and she pressed her handkerchiefagainst them hurriedly. Before she took it away she felt her mother's armsround her, and this sensation, which seemed a prolongation of her inwardvision, overcame her will to be reticent; she sobbed anew in spite ofherself, as they pressed their cheeks together.
Mrs. Davilow had brought something in her hand which had already causedher an agitating anxiety, and she dared not speak until her darling hadbecome calmer. But Gwendolen, with whom weeping had always been a painfulmanifestation to be resisted, if possible, again pressed her handkerchiefagainst her eyes, and, with a deep breath, drew her head backward andlooked at her mother, who was pale and tremulous.
"It was nothing, mamma," said Gwendolen, thinking that her mother had beenmoved in this way simply by finding her in distress. "It is all over now."
But Mrs. Davilow had withdrawn her arms, and Gwendolen perceived a letterin her hand.
"What is that letter?--worse news still?" she asked, with a touch ofbitterness.
"I don't know what you will think it, dear," said Mrs. Davilow, keepingthe letter in her hand. "You will hardly guess where it comes from."
"Don't ask me to guess anything," said Gwendolen, rather impatiently, asif a bruise were being pressed.
"It is addressed to you, dear."
Gwendolen gave the slightest perceptible toss of the head.
"It comes from Diplow," said Mrs. Davilow, giving her the letter.
She knew Grandcourt's indistinct handwriting, and her mother was notsurprised to see her blush deeply; but watching her as she read, andwondering much what was the purport of the letter, she saw the color dieout. Gwendolen's lips even were pale as she turned the open note towardher mother. The words were few and formal:
Mr. Grandcourt presents his compliments to Miss Harleth, and begs to knowwhether he may be permitted to call at Offendene tomorrow after two and tosee her alone. Mr. Grandcourt has just returned from Leubronn, where hehad hoped to find Miss Harleth.
Mrs. Davilow read, and then looked at her daughter inquiringly, leavingthe note in her hand. Gwendolen let it fall to the floor, and turned away.
"It must be answered, darling," said Mrs. Davilow, timidly. "The manwaits."
Gwendolen sank on the settee, clasped her hands, and looked straightbefore her, not at her mother. She had the expression of one who had beenstartled by a sound and was listening to know what would come of it. Thesudden change of the situation was bewildering. A few minutes before shewas looking along an inescapable path of repulsive monotony, with hopelessinward rebellion against the imperious lot which left her no choice: andlo, now, a moment of choice was come. Yet--was it triumph she felt most orterror? Impossible for Gwendolen not to feel some triumph in a tribute toher power at a time when she was first tasting the bitterness ofinsignificance: again she seemed to be getting a sort of empire over herown life. But how to use it? Here came the terror. Quick, quick, likepictures in a book beaten open with a sense of hurry, came back vividly,yet in fragments, all that she had gone through in relation to Grandcourt--the allurements, the vacillations, the resolve to accede, the finalrepulsion; the incisive face of that dark-eyed lady with the lovely boy:her own pledge (was it a pledge not to marry him?)--the new disbelief inthe worth of men and things for which that scene of disclosure had becomea symbol. That unalterable experience made a vision at which in the firstagitated moment, before tempering reflections could suggest themselves,her native terror shrank.
Where was the good of choice coming again? What did she wish? Anythingdifferent? No! And yet in the dark seed-growths of consciousness a newwish was forming itself--"I wish I had never known it!" Something,anything she wished for that would have saved her from the dread to letGrandcourt come.
It was no long while--yet it seemed long to Mrs. Davilow, before shethought it well to say, gently--
"It will be necessary for you to write, dear. Or shall I write an answerfor you--which you will dictate?"
"No, mamma," said Gwendolen, drawing a deep breath. "But please lay me outthe pen and paper."
That was gaining time. Was she to decline Grandcourt's visit--close theshutters--not even look out on what would happen?--though with theassurance that she should remain just where she was? The young activitywithin her made a warm current through her terror and stirred towardsomething that would be an event--toward an opportunityin which she could look and speak with the former effectiveness.The interest of the morrow was no longer at a deadlock.
"There is really no reason on earth why you should be soalarmed at the man's waiting a few minutes, mamma," saidGwendolen, remonstrantly, as Mrs. Davilow, having preparedthe writing materials, looked toward her expectantly. "Servants expectnothing else than to wait. It is not to be supposed that I must write onthe instant."
"No, dear," said Mrs. Davilow, in the tone of one corrected, turning tosit down and take up a bit of work that lay at hand; "he can wait anotherquarter of an hour, if you like."
If was very simple speech and action on her part, but it was what mighthave been subtly calculated. Gwendolen felt a contradictory desire to behastened: hurry would save her from deliberate choice.
let us walk in the avenue. I amstifled."wished for that would have saved her from the dread.
"I did not mean him to wait long enough for that needlework to befinished," she said, lifting her hands to stroke the backward curves ofher hair, while she rose from her seat and stood still.
"But if you don't feel able to decide?" said Mrs. Davilow, sympathizingly.
"I _must_ decide," said Gwendolen, walking to the writing-table andseating herself. All the while there was a busy undercurrent in her, likethe thought of a man who keeps up a dialogue while he is considering howhe can slip away. Why should she not let him come? It bound her tonothing. He had been to Leubronn after her: of course he meant a directunmistakable renewal of the suit which before had been only implied. Whatthen? She could reject him. Why was she to deny herself the freedom ofdoing this--which she would like to do?
"If Mr. Grandcourt has only just returned from Leubronn," said Mrs.Davilow, observing that Gwendolen leaned back in her chair after takingthe pen in her hand--"I wonder whether he has heard of our misfortunes?"
"That could make no difference to a man in his position," said Gwendolen,rather contemptuously,
"It would to some men," said Mrs. Davilow. "They would not like to take awife from a family in a state of beggary almost, as we are. Here we are atOffendene with a great shell over us, as usual. But just imagine hisfinding us at Sawyer's Cottage. Most men are afraid of being bored ortaxed by a wife's family. If Mr. Grandcourt did know, I think it a strongproof of his attachment to you."
Mrs. Davilow spoke with unusual emphasis: it was the first time she hadventured to say anything about Grandcourt which would necessarily seemintended as an argument in favor of him, her habitual impression beingthat such arguments would certainly be useless and might be worse. Theeffect of her words now was stronger than she could imagine. They raised anew set of possibilities in Gwendolen's mind--a vision of what Grandcourtmight do for her mother if she, Gwendolen, did--what she was no going todo. She was so moved by a new rush of ideas that, like one conscious ofbeing urgently called away, she felt that the immediate task must behastened: the letter must be written, else it might be endlessly deferred.After all, she acted in a hurry, as she had wished to do. To act in ahurry was to have a reason for keeping away from an absolute decision, andto leave open as many issues as possible.
She wrote: "Miss Harleth presents her compliments to Mr. Grandcourt. Shewill be at home after two o'clock to-morrow."
from deliberate choice.then, for the first time, shesobbed, not in .
Before addressing the note she said, "Pray ring the bell, mamma, if thereis any one to answer it." She really did not know who did the work of thehouse.
It was not till after the letter had been taken away and Gwendolen hadrisen again, stretching out one arm and then resting it on her head, witha low moan which had a sound of relief in it, that Mrs. Davilow venturedto ask--
"What did you say, Gwen?"
"I said that I should be at home," answered Gwendolen, rather loftily.Then after a pause, "You must not expect, because Mr. Grandcourt iscoming, that anything is going to happen, mamma."
"I don't allow myself to expect anything, dear. I desire you to followyour own feeling. You have never told me what that was."
"What is the use of telling?" said Gwendolen, hearing a reproach in thattrue statement. "When I have anything pleasant to tell, you may be sure Iwill tell you."
"But Mr. Grandcourt will consider that you have already accepted him, inallowing him to come. His note tells you plainly enough that he is comingto make you an offer."
"Very well; and I wish to have the pleasure of refusing him."
Mrs. Davilow looked up in wonderment, but Gwendolen implied her wish notto be questioned further by saying--
"Put down that detestable needle-work, and let us walk in the avenue. I amstifled."