Daniel Deronda, George Eliot [portable ebook reader .TXT] 📗

the Roman trick of a statue in black, white, and tawny marble. Seeing her image slowly advancing, she thought “I am beautiful”⁠—not exultingly, but with grave decision. Being beautiful was after all the condition on which she most needed external testimony. If anyone objected to the turn of her nose or the form of her neck and chin, she had not the sense that she could presently show her power of attainment in these branches of feminine perfection.

There was not much time to fill up in this way before the sound of wheels, the loud ring, and the opening doors assured her that she was not by any accident to be disappointed. This slightly 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—something vitriolic that would not cease to burn because you smiled or frowned at it. Poor thing! she was at a higher crisis of her woman’s fate than in her last experience with Grandcourt. The questioning then, was whether she should take a particular man as a husband. The inmost fold of her questioning now was whether she need take a husband at all⁠—whether she could not achieve substantially for herself and know gratified ambition without bondage.

Klesmer made his most deferential bow in the wide doorway of the antechamber⁠—showing also the deference of the finest gray kerseymere trousers and perfect gloves (the “masters of those who know” are happily altogether human). Gwendolen met him with unusual gravity, and holding out her hand said, “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 honor,” said Klesmer, with answering gravity. He was really putting by his own affairs in order to give his utmost attention to what Gwendolen might have to say; but his temperament was still in a state of excitation from the events of yesterday, likely enough to give his expressions a more than usually biting edge.

Gwendolen for once was under too great a strain of feeling to remember formalities. She continued standing near the piano, and Klesmer took his stand near the other end of it with his back to the light and his terribly omniscient eyes upon her. No affectation was of use, and 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, so as to save her from any hardship. The only way I can think of⁠—and I should like it better than anything⁠—is to be an actress⁠—to go 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 be a singer⁠—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 and back again⁠—“I know that my method of singing is very defective; but I have been ill taught. I could be better taught; I could study. And you will understand my wish:⁠—to sing and act too, like Grisi, 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 made this serious appeal the truth would be favorable.

Still Klesmer did not speak. He drew off his gloves quickly, tossed them into his hat, rested his hands on his hips, and walked to the other end of the room. He was filled with compassion for this girl: he wanted to put a guard on his speech. When he turned again, he looked at her with a mild frown of inquiry, and said with gentle though quick utterance, “You have never seen anything, I think, of artists and their lives?⁠—I mean of musicians, actors, artists of that kind?”

“Oh, no,” said Gwendolen, not perturbed by a reference to this obvious fact in the history of a young lady hitherto well provided for.

“You are⁠—pardon me,” said Klesmer, again pausing near the piano⁠—“in coming to a conclusion on such a matter as this, everything must be taken into consideration⁠—you are perhaps twenty?”

“I am twenty-one,” said Gwendolen, a slight fear rising in her. “Do you think I am too old?”

Klesmer pouted his under lip and shook his long fingers upward in a manner totally enigmatic.

“Many persons begin later than others,” said Gwendolen, betrayed by her habitual consciousness of having valuable information to bestow.

Klesmer took no notice, but said with more studied gentleness than ever, “You have probably not thought of an artistic career until now: you did not entertain the notion, the longing⁠—what shall I say?⁠—you did not wish yourself an actress, or anything of that sort, till the present trouble?”

“Not exactly: but I was fond of acting. I have acted; you saw me, if you remember⁠—you saw me here in charades, and as Hermione,” said Gwendolen, really fearing that Klesmer had forgotten.

“Yes, yes,” he answered quickly, “I remember⁠—I remember perfectly,” and again walked to the other end of the room. It was difficult for him to refrain from this kind of movement when he was in any argument either audible or silent.

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, and it seemed to her only graceful to say, “I shall be very much obliged to you for taking the trouble to give me your advice, whatever it maybe.”

“Miss Harleth,” said Klesmer, turning toward her and speaking with a slight increase of accent, “I will veil nothing from you in this matter. I should reckon myself guilty if I put a false visage on things⁠—made