Daniel Deronda
乔治.艾略特 George Eliot
CHAPTER XXXVI. Page 2
Others had followed Sir Hugo's lead, and there was an end of any liabilityto confidences for that day. But the next was New Year's Eve; and a granddance, to which the chief tenants were invited, was to be held in thepicture-gallery above the cloister--the sort of entertainment in whichnumbers and general movement may create privacy. When Gwendolen wasdressing, she longed, in remembrance of Leubronn, to put on the oldturquoise necklace for her sole ornament; but she dared not offend herhusband by appearing in that shabby way on an occasion when he woulddemand her utmost splendor. Determined to wear the memorial necklacesomehow, she wound it thrice round her wrist and made a bracelet of it--having gone to her room to put it on just before the time of entering theball-room.
It was always a beautiful scene, this dance on New Year's Eve, which hadbeen kept up by the family tradition as nearly in the old fashion asinexorable change would allow. Red carpet was laid down for the occasion:hot-house plants and evergreens were arranged in bowers at the extremitiesand in every recess of the gallery; and the old portraits stretching backthrough generations, even to the pre-portraying period, made a piquantline of spectators. Some neighboring gentry, major and minor, wereinvited; and it was certainly an occasion when a prospective master andmistress of Abbott's and King's Topping might see their future glory in anagreeable light, as a picturesque provincial supremacy with a rent-rollpersonified by the most prosperous-looking tenants. Sir Hugo expectedGrandcourt to feel flattered by being asked to the Abbey at a time whichincluded this festival in honor of the family estate; but he also hopedthat his own hale appearance might impress his successor with the probablelength of time that would elapse before the succession came, and with thewisdom of preferring a good actual sum to a minor property that must bewaited for. All present, down to the least important farmer's daughter,knew that they were to see "young Grandcourt," Sir Hugo's nephew, thepresumptive heir and future baronet, now visiting the Abbey with his brideafter an absence of many years; any coolness between uncle and nephewhaving, it is understood, given way to a friendly warmth. The brideopening the ball with Sir Hugo was necessarily the cynosure of all eyes;and less than a year before, if some magic mirror could have shownGwendolen her actual position, she would have imagined herself moving init with a glow of triumphant pleasure, conscious that she held in herhands a life full of favorable chances which her cleverness and spiritwould enable her to make the best of. And now she was wondering that shecould get so little joy out of the exultation to which she had beensuddenly lifted, away from the distasteful petty empire of her girlhoodwith its irksome lack of distinction and superfluity of sisters. She wouldhave been glad to be even unreasonably elated, and to forget everythingbut the flattery of the moment; but she was like one courting sleep, inwhom thoughts insist like willful tormentors.
Wondering in this way at her own dullness, and all the while longing foran excitement that would deaden importunate aches, she was passing throughfiles of admiring beholders in the country-dance with which it wastraditional to open the ball, and was being generally regarded by her ownsex as an enviable woman. It was remarked that she carried herself with awonderful air, considering that she had been nobody in particular, andwithout a farthing to her fortune. If she had been a duke's daughter, orone of the royal princesses, she could not have taken the honors of theevening more as a matter of course. Poor Gwendolen! It would by-and-bybecome a sort of skill in which she was automatically practiced to hearthis last great gambling loss with an air of perfect self-possession.
The next couple that passed were also worth looking at. Lady Pentreath hadsaid, "I shall stand up for one dance, but I shall choose my partner. Mr.Deronda, you are the youngest man, I mean to dance with you. Nobody is oldenough to make a good pair with me. I must have a contrast." And thecontrast certainly set off the old lady to the utmost. She was one ofthose women who are never handsome till they are old, and she had had thewisdom to embrace the beauty of age as early as possible. What might haveseemed harshness in her features when she was young, had turned now into asatisfactory strength of form and expression which defied wrinkles, andwas set off by a crown of white hair; her well-built figure was wellcovered with black drapery, her ears and neck comfortably caressed withlace, showing none of those withered spaces which one would think it apitiable condition of poverty to expose. She glided along gracefullyenough, her dark eyes still with a mischievous smile in them as sheobserved the company. Her partner's young richness of tint against theflattened hues and rougher forms of her aged head had an effect somethinglike that of a fine flower against a lichenous branch. Perhaps the tenantshardly appreciated this pair. Lady Pentreath was nothing more than astraight, active old lady: Mr. Deronda was a familiar figure regarded withfriendliness; but if he had been the heir, it would have been regrettedthat his face was not as unmistakably English as Sir Hugo's.
Grandcourt's appearance when he came up with Lady Mallinger was notimpeached with foreignness: still the satisfaction in it was not complete.It would have been matter of congratulation if one who had the luck toinherit two old family estates had had move hair, a fresher color, and alook of greater animation; but that fine families dwindled off intofemales, and estates ran together into the single heirship of a mealy-complexioned male, was a tendency in things which seemed to be accountedfor by a citation of other instances. It was agreed that Mr. Grandcourtcould never be taken for anything but what he was--a born gentleman; andthat, in fact, he looked like an heir. Perhaps the person leastcomplacently disposed toward him at that moment was Lady Mallinger, towhom going in procession up this country-dance with Grandcourt was ablazonment of herself as the infelicitous wife who had produced nothingbut daughters, little better than no children, poor dear things, exceptfor her own fondness and for Sir Hugo's wonderful goodness to them. Butsuch inward discomfort could not prevent the gentle lady from looking fairand stout to admiration, or her full blue eyes from glancing mildly at herneighbors. All the mothers and fathers held it a thousand pities that shehad not had a. fine boy, or even several--which might have been expected,to look at her when she was first married.
The gallery included only three sides of the quadrangle, the fourth beingshut off as a lobby or corridor: one side was used for dancing, and theopposite side for the supper-table, while the intermediate part was lessbrilliantly lit, and fitted with comfortable seats. Later in the eveningGwendolen was in one of these seats, and Grandcourt was standing near her.They were not talking to each other: she was leaning backward in herchair, and he against the wall; and Deronda, happening to observe this,went up to ask her if she had resolved not to dance any more. Havinghimself been doing hard duty in this way among the guests, he thought hehad earned the right to sink for a little while into the background, andhe had spoken little to Gwendolen since their conversation at the pianothe day before. Grandcourt's presence would only make it the easier toshow that pleasure in talking to her even about trivialities which wouldbe a sign of friendliness; and he fancied that her face looked blank. Asmile beamed over it as she saw him coming, and she raised herself fromher leaning posture. Grandcourt had been grumbling at the _ennui_ ofstaying so long in this stupid dance, and proposing that they shouldvanish: she had resisted on the ground of politeness--not without being alittle frightened at the probability that he was silently, angry with her.She had her reason for staying, though she had begun to despair of theopportunity for the sake of which she had put the old necklace on herwrist. But now at last Deronda had come.
"Yes; I shall not dance any more. Are you not glad?" she said, with somegayety, "you might have felt obliged humbly to offer yourself as apartner, and I feel sure you have danced more than you like already."
"I will not deny that," said Deronda, "since you have danced as much asyou like."
"But will you take trouble for me in another way, and fetch me a glass ofthat fresh water?"
It was but a few steps that Deronda had to go for the water. Gwendolen waswrapped in the lightest, softest of white woolen burnouses, under whichher hands were hidden. While he was gone she had drawn off her glove,which was finished with a lace ruffle, and when she put up her hand totake the glass and lifted it to her mouth, the necklace-bracelet, which inits triple winding adapted itself clumsily to her wrist, was necessarilyconspicuous. Grandcourt saw it, and saw that it was attracting Deronda'snotice.
"What is that hideous thing you have got on your wrist?" said the husband.
"That?" said Gwendolen, composedly, pointing to the turquoises, while shestill held the glass; "it is an old necklace I like to wear. I lost itonce, and someone found it for me."
With that she gave the glass again to Deronda, who immediately carried itaway, and on returning said, in order to banish any consciousness aboutthe necklace--
"It is worth while for you to go and look out at one of the windows onthat side. You can see the finest possible moonlight on the stone pillarsand carving, and shadows waving across it in the wind."
"I should like to see it. Will you go?" said Gwendolen, looking up at herhusband.
He cast his eyes down at her, and saying, "No, Deronda will take you,"slowly moved from his leaning attitude, and walked away.
Gwendolen's face for a moment showed a fleeting vexation: she resentedthis show of indifference toward her. Deronda felt annoyed, chiefly forher sake; and with a quick sense, that it would relieve her most to behaveas if nothing peculiar had occurred, he said, "Will you take my arm andgo, while only servants are there?" He thought that he understood well heraction in drawing his attention to the necklace: she wished him to inferthat she had submitted her mind to rebuke--her speech and manner had fromthe first fluctuated toward that submission--and that she felt nolingering resentment. Her evident confidence in his interpretation of herappealed to him as a peculiar claim.
When they were walking together, Gwendolen felt as it the annoyance whichhad just happened had removed another film of reserve from between them,and she had more right than before to be as open as she wished. She didnot speak, being filled with the sense of silent confidence, until theywere in front of the window looking out on the moonlit court. A sort ofbower had been made round the window, turning it into a recess. Quittinghis arm, she folded her hands in her burnous, and pressed her brow againstthe glass. He moved slightly away, and held the lapels of his coat withhis thumbs under the collar as his manner was: he had a wonderful power ofstanding perfectly still, and in that position reminded one sometimes ofDante's _spiriti magni con occhi tardi e gravi_. (Doubtless some of thesedanced in their youth, doubted of their own vocation, and found their owntimes too modern.) He abstained from remarking on the scene before them,fearing that any indifferent words might jar on her: already the calmlight and shadow, the ancient steadfast forms, and aloofness enough fromthose inward troubles which he felt sure were agitating her. And he judgedaright: she would have been impatient of polite conversation. Theincidents of the last minute or two had receded behind former thoughtswhich she had imagined herself uttering to Deronda, which now urgedthemselves to her lips. In a subdued voice, she said--
"Suppose I had gambled again, and lost the necklace again, what should youhave thought of me?"
"Worse than I do now."
"Then you are mistaken about me. You wanted me not to do that--not to makemy gain out of another's loss in that way--and I have done a great dealworse."
"What should you do if you were like me--feeling that you were wrong andmiserable, and dreading everything to come?" It seemed that she washurrying to make the utmost use of this opportunity to speak as she would.
"That is not to be amended by doing one thing only--but many," saidDeronda, decisively.
"What?" said Gwendolen, hastily, moving her brow from the glass andlooking at him.
He looked full at her in return, with what she thought was severity. Hefelt that it was not a moment in which he must let himself be tender, andflinch from implying a hard opinion.
"I mean there are many thoughts and habits that may help us to bearinevitable sorrow. Multitudes have to bear it."
She turned her brow to the window again, and said impatiently, "You musttell me then what to think and what to do; else why did you not let me goon doing as I liked and not minding? If I had gone on gambling I mighthave won again, and I might have got not to care for anything else. Youwould not let me do that. Why shouldn't I do as I like, and not mind?Other people do." Poor Gwendolen's speech expressed nothing very clearlyexcept her irritation.
"I don't believe you would ever get not to mind," said Deronda, with deep-toned decision. "If it were true that baseness and cruelty made an escapefrom pain, what difference would that make to people who can't be quitebase or cruel? Idiots escape some pain; but you can't be an idiot. Somemay do wrong to another without remorse; but suppose one does feelremorse? I believe you could never lead an injurious life--all recklesslives are injurious, pestilential--without feeling remorse." Deronda'sunconscious fervor had gathered as he went on: he was uttering thoughtswhich he had used for himself in moments of painful meditation.
"Then tell me what better I can do," said Gwendolen, insistently.
"Many things. Look on other lives besides your own. See what theirtroubles are, and how they are borne. Try to care about something in thisvast world besides the gratification of small selfish desires. Try to carefor what is best in thought and action--something that is good apart fromthe accidents of your own lot."
For an instant or two Gwendolen was mute. Then, again moving her brow fromthe glass, she said--
"You mean that I am selfish and ignorant."
He met her fixed look in silence before he answered firmly--"You will notgo on being selfish and ignorant!"
She did not turn away her glance or let her eyelids fall, but a changecame over her face--that subtle change in nerve and muscle which willsometimes give a childlike expression even to the elderly: it is thesubsidence of self-assertion.
"Shall I lead you back?" said Deronda, gently, turning and offering herhis arm again. She took it silently, and in that way they came in sight ofGrandcourt, who was walking slowly near their former place. Gwendolen wentup to him and said, "I am ready to go now. Mr. Deronda will excuse us toLady Mallinger."
"Certainly," said Deronda. "Lord and Lady Pentreath disappeared some timeago."
Grandcourt gave his arm in silent compliance, nodding over his shoulder toDeronda, and Gwendolen too only half turned to bow and say, "Thanks." Thehusband and wife left the gallery and paced the corridors in silence. Whenthe door had closed on them in the boudoir, Grandcourt threw himself intoa chair and said, with undertoned peremptoriness, "Sit down." She, alreadyin the expectation of something unpleasant, had thrown off her burnouswith nervous unconsciousness, and immediately obeyed. Turning his eyestoward her, he began--
"Oblige me in future by not showing whims like a mad woman in a play."
"What do you mean?" said Gwendolen.
"I suppose there is some understanding between you and Deronda about thatthing you have on your wrist. If you have anything to say to him, say it.But don't carry on a telegraphing which other people are supposed not tosee. It's damnably vulgar."
thing you have got on your wrist?" said the husband. contrast with her habitual resolute concealment?
"You can know all about the necklace," said Gwendolen, her angry prideresisting the nightmare of fear.
"I don't want to know. Keep to yourself whatever you like." Grandcourtpaused between each sentence, and in each his speech seemed to become morepreternaturally distinct in its inward tones. "What I care to know I shallknow without your telling me. Only you will please to behave as becomes mywife. And not make a spectacle of yourself."
"Do you object to my talking to Mr. Deronda?"
"I don't care two straws about Deronda, or any other conceited hanger-on.You may talk to him as much as you like. He is not going to take my place.You are my wife. And you will either fill your place properly--to theworld and to me--or you will go to the devil."
"I never intended anything but to fill my place properly," said Gwendolen,with bitterest mortification in her soul.
"You put that thing on your wrist, and hid it from me till you wanted himto see it. Only fools go into that deaf and dumb talk, and think they'resecret. You will understand that you are not to compromise yourself.Behave with dignity. That's all I have to say."
With that last word Grandcourt rose, turned his back to the fire andlooked down on her. She was mute. There was no reproach that she dared tofling back at him in return for these insulting admonitions, and the veryreason she felt them to be insulting was that their purport went with themost absolute dictate of her pride. What she would least like to incur wasthe making a fool of herself and being compromised. It was futile andirrelevant to try and explain that Deronda too had only been a monitor--the strongest of all monitors. Grandcourt was contemptuous, not jealous;contemptuously certain of all the subjection he cared for. Why could shenot rebel and defy him? She longed to do it. But she might as well havetried to defy the texture of her nerves and the palpitation of her heart.Her husband had a ghostly army at his back, that could close round herwherever she might turn. She sat in her splendid attire, like a whiteimage of helplessness, and he seemed to gratify himself with looking ather. She could not even make a passionate exclamation, or throw up herarms, as she would have done in her maiden days. The sense of his scornkept her still.
"Shall I ring?" he said, after what seemed to her a long while. She movedher head in assent, and after ringing he went to his dressing-room.
Certain words were gnawing within her. "The wrong you have done me will beyour own curse." As he closed the door, the bitter tears rose, and thegnawing words provoked an answer: "Why did you put your fangs into me andnot into him?" It was uttered in a whisper, as the tears came up silently.But she immediately pressed her handkerchief against her eyes, and checkedher tendency to sob.