Chương Chương 5 · Chapter V

.

“Her wit

Values itself so highly, that to her

All matter else seems weak.”

—_Much Ado About Nothing._

Gwendolen’s reception in the neighborhood fulfilled her uncle’s

expectations. From Brackenshaw Castle to the Firs at Wanchester, where

Mr. Quallon the banker kept a generous house, she was welcomed with

manifest admiration, and even those ladies who did not quite like her,

felt a comfort in having a new, striking girl to invite; for hostesses

who entertain much must make up their parties as ministers make up

their cabinets, on grounds other than personal liking. Then, in order

to have Gwendolen as a guest, it was not necessary to ask any one who

was disagreeable, for Mrs. Davilow always made a quiet, picturesque

figure as a chaperon, and Mr. Gascoigne was everywhere in request for

his own sake.

Among the houses where Gwendolen was not quite liked, and yet invited,

was Quetcham Hall. One of her first invitations was to a large

dinner-party there, which made a sort of general introduction for her

to the society of the neighborhood; for in a select party of thirty and

of well-composed proportions as to age, few visitable families could be

entirely left out. No youthful figure there was comparable to

Gwendolen’s as she passed through the long suite of rooms adorned with

light and flowers, and, visible at first as a slim figure floating

along in white drapery, approached through one wide doorway after

another into fuller illumination and definiteness. She had never had

that sort of promenade before, and she felt exultingly that it befitted

her: any one looking at her for the first time might have supposed that

long galleries and lackeys had always been a matter of course in her

life; while her cousin Anna, who was really more familiar with these

things, felt almost as much embarrassed as a rabbit suddenly deposited

in that well-lit-space.

“Who is that with Gascoigne?” said the archdeacon, neglecting a

discussion of military manoeuvres on which, as a clergyman, he was

naturally appealed to. And his son, on the other side of the room—a

hopeful young scholar, who had already suggested some “not less elegant

than ingenious,” emendations of Greek texts—said nearly at the same

time, “By George! who is that girl with the awfully well-set head and

jolly figure?”

But to a mind of general benevolence, wishing everybody to look well,

it was rather exasperating to see how Gwendolen eclipsed others: how

even the handsome Miss Lawe, explained to be the daughter of Lady Lawe,

looked suddenly broad, heavy and inanimate; and how Miss Arrowpoint,

unfortunately also dressed in white, immediately resembled a

_carte-de-visite_ in which one would fancy the skirt alone to have been

charged for. Since Miss Arrowpoint was generally liked for the amiable

unpretending way in which she wore her fortunes, and made a softening

screen for the oddities of her mother, there seemed to be some

unfitness in Gwendolen’s looking so much more like a person of social

importance.

“She is not really so handsome if you come to examine her features,”

said Mrs. Arrowpoint, later in the evening, confidentially to Mrs.

Vulcany. “It is a certain style she has, which produces a great effect

at first, but afterward she is less agreeable.”

In fact, Gwendolen, not intending it, but intending the contrary, had

offended her hostess, who, though not a splenetic or vindictive woman,

had her susceptibilities. Several conditions had met in the Lady of

Quetcham which to the reasoners in that neighborhood seemed to have an

essential connection with each other. It was occasionally recalled that

she had been the heiress of a fortune gained by some moist or dry

business in the city, in order fully to account for her having a squat

figure, a harsh parrot-like voice, and a systematically high

head-dress; and since these points made her externally rather

ridiculous, it appeared to many only natural that she should have what

are called literary tendencies. A little comparison would have shown

that all these points are to be found apart; daughters of aldermen

being often well-grown and well-featured, pretty women having sometimes

harsh or husky voices, and the production of feeble literature being

found compatible with the most diverse forms of _physique_, masculine

as well as feminine.

Gwendolen, who had a keen sense of absurdity in others, but was kindly

disposed toward any one who could make life agreeable to her, meant to

win Mrs. Arrowpoint by giving her an interest and attention beyond what

others were probably inclined to show. But self-confidence is apt to

address itself to an imaginary dullness in others; as people who are

well off speak in a cajoling tone to the poor, and those who are in the

prime of life raise their voice and talk artificially to seniors,

hastily conceiving them to be deaf and rather imbecile. Gwendolen, with

all her cleverness and purpose to be agreeable, could not escape that

form of stupidity: it followed in her mind, unreflectingly, that

because Mrs. Arrowpoint was ridiculous she was also likely to be

wanting in penetration, and she went through her little scenes without

suspicion that the various shades of her behavior were all noted.

“You are fond of books as well as of music, riding, and archery, I

hear,” Mrs. Arrowpoint said, going to her for a _tête-à-tête_ in the

drawing-room after dinner. “Catherine will be very glad to have so

sympathetic a neighbor.” This little speech might have seemed the most

graceful politeness, spoken in a low, melodious tone; but with a twang,

fatally loud, it gave Gwendolen a sense of exercising patronage when

she answered, gracefully:

“It is I who am fortunate. Miss Arrowpoint will teach me what good

music is. I shall be entirely a learner. I hear that she is a thorough

musician.”

“Catherine has certainly had every advantage. We have a first-rate

musician in the house now—Herr Klesmer; perhaps you know all his

compositions. You must allow me to introduce him to you. You sing, I

believe. Catherine plays three instruments, but she does not sing. I

hope you will let us hear you. I understand you are an accomplished

singer.”

“Oh, no!—‘die Kraft ist schwach, allein die Lust ist gross,’ as

Mephistopheles says.”

“Ah, you are a student of Goethe. Young ladies are so advanced now. I

suppose you have read everything.”

“No, really. I shall be so glad if you will tell me what to read. I

have been looking into all the books in the library at Offendene, but

there is nothing readable. The leaves all stick together and smell

musty. I wish I could write books to amuse myself, as you can! How

delightful it must be to write books after one’s own taste instead of

reading other people’s! Home-made books must be so nice.”

For an instant Mrs. Arrowpoint’s glance was a little sharper, but the

perilous resemblance to satire in the last sentence took the hue of

girlish simplicity when Gwendolen added,

“I would give anything to write a book!”

“And why should you not?” said Mrs. Arrowpoint, encouragingly. “You

have but to begin as I did. Pen, ink, and paper are at everybody’s

command. But I will send you all I have written with pleasure.”

“Thanks. I shall be so glad to read your writings. Being acquainted

with authors must give a peculiar understanding of their books: one

would be able to tell then which parts were funny and which serious. I

am sure I often laugh in the wrong place.” Here Gwendolen herself

became aware of danger, and added quickly, “In Shakespeare, you know,

and other great writers that we can never see. But I always want to

know more than there is in the books.”

“If you are interested in any of my subjects I can lend you many extra

sheets in manuscript,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint—while Gwendolen felt

herself painfully in the position of the young lady who professed to

like potted sprats.

“These are things I dare say I shall publish eventually: several

friends have urged me to do so, and one doesn’t like to be obstinate.

My Tasso, for example—I could have made it twice the size.”

“I dote on Tasso,” said Gwendolen.

“Well, you shall have all my papers, if you like. So many, you know,

have written about Tasso; but they are all wrong. As to the particular

nature of his madness, and his feelings for Leonora, and the real cause

of his imprisonment, and the character of Leonora, who, in my opinion,

was a cold-hearted woman, else she would have married him in spite of

her brother—they are all wrong. I differ from everybody.”

“How very interesting!” said Gwendolen. “I like to differ from

everybody. I think it is so stupid to agree. That is the worst of

writing your opinions; you make people agree with you.” This speech

renewed a slight suspicion in Mrs. Arrowpoint, and again her glance

became for a moment examining. But Gwendolen looked very innocent, and

continued with a docile air:

“I know nothing of Tasso except the _Gerusalemme Liberata_, which we

read and learned by heart at school.”

“Ah, his life is more interesting than his poetry, I have constructed

the early part of his life as a sort of romance. When one thinks of his

father Bernardo, and so on, there is much that must be true.”

“Imagination is often truer than fact,” said Gwendolen, decisively,

though she could no more have explained these glib words than if they

had been Coptic or Etruscan. “I shall be so glad to learn all about

Tasso—and his madness especially. I suppose poets are always a little

mad.”

“To be sure—‘the poet’s eye in a fine frenzy rolling’; and somebody

says of Marlowe,

‘For that fine madness still he did maintain,

Which always should possess the poet’s brain.’”

“But it was not always found out, was it?” said Gwendolen innocently.

“I suppose some of them rolled their eyes in private. Mad people are

often very cunning.”

Again a shade flitted over Mrs. Arrowpoint’s face; but the entrance of

the gentlemen prevented any immediate mischief between her and this too

quick young lady, who had over-acted her _naïveté_.

“Ah, here comes Herr Klesmer,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint, rising; and

presently bringing him to Gwendolen, she left them to a dialogue which

was agreeable on both sides, Herr Klesmer being a felicitous

combination of the German, the Sclave and the Semite, with grand

features, brown hair floating in artistic fashion, and brown eyes in

spectacles. His English had little foreignness except its fluency; and

his alarming cleverness was made less formidable just then by a certain

softening air of silliness which will sometimes befall even Genius in

the desire of being agreeable to Beauty.

Music was soon begun. Miss Arrowpoint and Herr Klesmer played a

four-handed piece on two pianos, which convinced the company in general

that it was long, and Gwendolen in particular that the neutral,

placid-faced Miss Arrowpoint had a mastery of the instrument which put

her own execution out of question—though she was not discouraged as to

her often-praised touch and style. After this every one became anxious

to hear Gwendolen sing; especially Mr. Arrowpoint; as was natural in a

host and a perfect gentleman, of whom no one had anything to say but

that he married Miss Cuttler and imported the best cigars; and he led

her to the piano with easy politeness. Herr Klesmer closed the

instrument in readiness for her, and smiled with pleasure at her

approach; then placed himself at a distance of a few feet so that he

could see her as she sang.

Gwendolen was not nervous; what she undertook to do she did without

trembling, and singing was an enjoyment to her. Her voice was a

moderately powerful soprano (some one had told her it was like Jenny

Lind’s), her ear good, and she was able to keep in tune, so that her

singing gave pleasure to ordinary hearers, and she had been used to

unmingled applause. She had the rare advantage of looking almost

prettier when she was singing than at other times, and that Herr

Klesmer was in front of her seemed not disagreeable. Her song,

determined on beforehand, was a favorite aria of Belini’s, in which she

felt quite sure of herself.

“Charming!” said Mr. Arrowpoint, who had remained near, and the word

was echoed around without more insincerity than we recognize in a

brotherly way as human. But Herr Klesmer stood like a statue—if a

statue can be imagined in spectacles; at least, he was as mute as a

statue. Gwendolen was pressed to keep her seat and double the general

pleasure, and she did not wish to refuse; but before resolving to do

so, she moved a little toward Herr Klesmer, saying with a look of

smiling appeal, “It would be too cruel to a great musician. You cannot

like to hear poor amateur singing.”

“No, truly; but that makes nothing,” said Herr Klesmer, suddenly

speaking in an odious German fashion with staccato endings, quite

unobservable in him before, and apparently depending on a change of

mood, as Irishmen resume their strongest brogue when they are fervid or

quarrelsome. “That makes nothing. It is always acceptable to see you

sing.”

Was there ever so unexpected an assertion of superiority—at least

before the late Teutonic conquest? Gwendolen colored deeply, but, with

her usual presence of mind, did not show an ungraceful resentment by

moving away immediately; and Miss Arrowpoint, who had been near enough

to overhear (and also to observe that Herr Klesmer’s mode of looking at

Gwendolen was more conspicuously admiring than was quite consistent

with good taste), now with the utmost tact and kindness came close to

her and said,

“Imagine what I have to go through with this professor! He can hardly

tolerate anything we English do in music. We can only put up with his

severity, and make use of it to find out the worst that can be said of

us. It is a little comfort to know that; and one can bear it when every

one else is admiring.”

“I should be very much obliged to him for telling me the worst,” said

Gwendolen, recovering herself. “I dare say I have been extremely ill

taught, in addition to having no talent—only liking for music.” This

was very well expressed considering that it had never entered her mind

before.

“Yes, it is true: you have not been well taught,” said Herr Klesmer,

quietly. Woman was dear to him, but music was dearer. “Still, you are

not quite without gifts. You sing in tune, and you have a pretty fair

organ. But you produce your notes badly; and that music which you sing

is beneath you. It is a form of melody which expresses a puerile state

of culture—a dawdling, canting, see-saw kind of stuff—the passion and

thought of people without any breadth of horizon. There is a sort of

self-satisfied folly about every phrase of such melody; no cries of

deep, mysterious passion—no conflict—no sense of the universal. It

makes men small as they listen to it. Sing now something larger. And I

shall see.”

“Oh, not now—by-and-by,” said Gwendolen, with a sinking of heart at

the sudden width of horizon opened round her small musical performance.

For a lady desiring to lead, this first encounter in her campaign was

startling. But she was bent on not behaving foolishly, and Miss

Arrowpoint helped her by saying, “Yes, by-and-by. I always require half

an hour to get up my courage after being criticised by Herr Klesmer. We

will ask him to play to us now: he is bound to show us what is good

music.”

To be quite safe on this point Herr Klesmer played a composition of his

own, a fantasia called _Freudvoll, Leidvoll, Gedankenvoll_—an

extensive commentary on some melodic ideas not too grossly evident; and

he certainly fetched as much variety and depth of passion out of the

piano as that moderately responsive instrument lends itself to, having

an imperious magic in his fingers that seem to send a nerve-thrill

through ivory key and wooden hammer, and compel the strings to make a

quivering lingering speech for him. Gwendolen, in spite of her wounded

egoism, had fullness of nature enough to feel the power of this

playing, and it gradually turned her inward sob of mortification into

an excitement which lifted her for the moment into a desperate

indifference about her own doings, or at least a determination to get a

superiority over them by laughing at them as if they belonged to

somebody else. Her eyes had become brighter, her cheeks slightly

flushed, and her tongue ready for any mischievous remarks.

“I wish you would sing to us again, Miss Harleth,” said young Clintock,

the archdeacon’s classical son, who had been so fortunate as to take

her to dinner, and came up to renew conversation as soon as Herr

Klesmer’s performance was ended, “That is the style of music for me. I

never can make anything of this tip-top playing. It is like a jar of

leeches, where you can never tell either beginnings or endings. I could

listen to your singing all day.”

“Yes, we should be glad of something popular now—another song from you

would be a relaxation,” said Mrs. Arrowpoint, who had also come near

with polite intentions.

“That must be because you are in a puerile state of culture, and have

no breadth of horizon. I have just learned that. I have been taught how

bad my taste is, and am feeling growing pains. They are never

pleasant,” said Gwendolen, not taking any notice of Mrs. Arrowpoint,

and looking up with a bright smile at young Clintock.

Mrs. Arrowpoint was not insensible to this rudeness, but merely said,

“Well, we will not press anything disagreeably,” and as there was a

perceptible outburst of imprisoned conversation just then, and a

movement of guests seeking each other, she remained seated where she

was, and looked around her with the relief of a hostess at finding she

is not needed.

“I am glad you like this neighborhood,” said young Clintock,

well-pleased with his station in front of Gwendolen.

“Exceedingly. There seems to be a little of everything and not much of

anything.”

“That is rather equivocal praise.”

“Not with me. I like a little of everything; a little absurdity, for

example, is very amusing. I am thankful for a few queer people; but

much of them is a bore.”

(Mrs. Arrowpoint, who was hearing this dialogue, perceived quite a new

tone in Gwendolen’s speech, and felt a revival of doubt as to her

interest in Tasso’s madness.)

“I think there should be more croquet, for one thing,” said young Clintock;

“I am usually away, but if I were more here I should go in for a

croquet club. You are one of the archers, I think. But depend upon it

croquet is the game of the future. It wants writing up, though. One of

our best men has written a poem on it, in four cantos;—as good as

Pope. I want him to publish it—You never read anything better.”

“I shall study croquet to-morrow. I shall take to it instead of

singing.”

“No, no, not that; but do take to croquet. I will send you Jenning’s

poem if you like. I have a manuscript copy.”

“Is he a great friend of yours?”

“Well, rather.”

“Oh, if he is only rather, I think I will decline. Or, if you send it

to me, will you promise not to catechise me upon it and ask me which

part I like best? Because it is not so easy to know a poem without

reading it as to know a sermon without listening.”

“Decidedly,” Mrs. Arrowpoint thought, “this girl is double and

satirical. I shall be on my guard against her.”

But Gwendolen, nevertheless, continued to receive polite attentions

from the family at Quetcham, not merely because invitations have larger

grounds than those of personal liking, but because the trying little

scene at the piano had awakened a kindly solicitude toward her in the

gentle mind of Miss Arrowpoint, who managed all the invitations and

visits, her mother being otherwise occupied.