unit, and must fix on a point in the stars’ unceasing journey when his
sidereal1 clock shall pretend that time is at Nought2. His less accurate
grandmother Poetry has always been understood to start in the middle;
but on reflection it appears that her proceeding3 is not very different
from his; since Science, too, reckons backward as well as forward,
divides his unit into billions, and with his clock-finger at Nought
really sets off in medias res. No retrospect4 will take us to
the true beginning; and whether our prologue5 be in heaven or on earth,
it is but a fraction of that all-presupposing fact with which our
story sets out.
Was she beautiful or not beautiful? and what was the secret of form or expression which gave the dynamic quality to her glance? Was the good or the evil genius dominant6 in those beams? Probably the evil; else why was the effect that of unrest rather than of undisturbed charm? Why was the wish to look again felt as coercion7 and not as a longing8 in which the whole being consents?
She who raised these questions in Daniel Deronda’s mind was occupied in gambling9: not in the open air under a southern sky, tossing coppers10 on a ruined wall, with rags about her limbs; but in one of those splendid resorts which the enlightenment of ages has prepared for the same species of pleasure at a heavy cost of gilt11 mouldings, dark-toned color and chubby12 nudities, all correspondingly heavy—forming a suitable condenser13 for human breath belonging, in great part, to the highest fashion, and not easily procurable14 to be breathed in elsewhere in the like proportion, at least by persons of little fashion.
It was near four o’clock on a September day, so that the atmosphere was well-brewed to a visible haze15. There was deep stillness, broken only by a light rattle16, a light chink, a small sweeping17 sound, and an occasional monotone in French, such as might be expected to issue from an ingeniously constructed automaton18. Round two long tables were gathered two serried19 crowds of human beings, all save one having their faces and attention bent20 on the tables. The one exception was a melancholy21 little boy, with his knees and calves22 simply in their natural clothing of epidermis23, but for the rest of his person in a fancy dress. He alone had his face turned toward the doorway24, and fixing on it the blank gaze of a bedizened child stationed as a masquerading advertisement on the platform of an itinerant25 show, stood close behind a lady deeply engaged at the roulette-table.
About this table fifty or sixty persons were assembled, many in the outer rows, where there was occasionally a deposit of new-comers, being mere26 spectators, only that one of them, usually a woman, might now and then be observed putting down a five-franc with a simpering air, just to see what the passion of gambling really was. Those who were taking their pleasure at a higher strength, and were absorbed in play, showed very distant varieties of European type: Livonian and Spanish, Graeco-Italian and miscellaneous German, English aristocratic and English plebeian27. Here certainly was a striking admission of human equality. The white bejewelled fingers of an English countess were very near touching28 a bony, yellow, crab-like hand stretching a bared wrist to clutch a heap of coin—a hand easy to sort with the square, gaunt face, deep-set eyes, grizzled eyebrows29, and ill-combed scanty30 hair which seemed a slight metamorphosis of the vulture. And where else would her ladyship have graciously consented to sit by that dry-lipped feminine figure prematurely31 old, withered32 after short bloom like her artificial flowers, holding a shabby velvet33 reticule before her, and occasionally putting in her mouth the point with which she pricked34 her card? There too, very near the fair countess, was a respectable London tradesman, blonde and soft-handed, his sleek35 hair scrupulously36 parted behind and before, conscious of circulars addressed to the nobility and gentry37, whose distinguished38 patronage39 enabled him to take his holidays fashionably, and to a certain extent in their distinguished company. Not his the gambler’s passion that nullifies appetite, but a well-fed leisure, which, in the intervals40 of winning money in business and spending it showily, sees no better resource than winning money in play and spending it yet more showily—reflecting always that Providence41 had never manifested any disapprobation of his amusement, and dispassionate enough to leave off if the sweetness of winning much and seeing others lose had turned to the sourness of losing much and seeing others win. For the vice42 of gambling lay in losing money at it. In his bearing there might be something of the tradesman, but in his pleasures he was fit to rank with the owners of the oldest titles. Standing43 close to his chair was a handsome Italian, calm, statuesque, reaching across him to place the first pile of napoleons from a new bagful just brought him by an envoy44 with a scrolled45 mustache. The pile was in half a minute pushed over to an old bewigged woman with eye-glasses pinching her nose. There was a slight gleam, a faint mumbling47 smile about the lips of the old woman; but the statuesque Italian remained impassive, and—probably secure in an infallible system which placed his foot on the neck of chance—immediately prepared a new pile. So did a man with the air of an emaciated48 beau or worn-out libertine49, who looked at life through one eye-glass, and held out his hand tremulously when he asked for change. It could surely be no severity of system, but rather some dream of white crows, or the induction50 that the eighth of the month was lucky, which inspired the fierce yet tottering51 impulsiveness52 of his play.
But, while every single player differed markedly from every other, there was a certain uniform negativeness of expression which had the effect of a mask—as if they had all eaten of some root that for the time compelled the brains of each to the same narrow monotony of action.
Deronda’s first thought when his eyes fell on this scene of dull, gas-poisoned absorption, was that the gambling of Spanish shepherd-boys had seemed to him more enviable:—so far Rousseau might be justified53 in maintaining that art and science had done a poor service to mankind. But suddenly he felt the moment become dramatic. His attention was arrested by a young lady who, standing at an angle not far from him, was the last to whom his eyes traveled. She was bending and speaking English to a middle-aged54 lady seated at play beside her: but the next instant she returned to her play, and showed the full height of a graceful55 figure, with a face which might possibly be looked at without admiration56, but could hardly be passed with indifference57.
The inward debate which she raised in Deronda gave to his eyes a growing expression of scrutiny58, tending farther and farther away from the glow of mingled59 undefined sensibilities forming admiration. At one moment they followed the movements of the figure, of the arms and hands, as this problematic sylph bent forward to deposit her stake with an air of firm choice; and the next they returned to the face which, at present unaffected by beholders, was directed steadily60 toward the game. The sylph was a winner; and as her taper61 fingers, delicately gloved in pale-gray, were adjusting the coins which had been pushed toward her in order to pass them back again to the winning point, she looked round her with a survey too markedly cold and neutral not to have in it a little of that nature which we call art concealing62 an inward exultation63.
But in the course of that survey her eyes met Deronda’s, and instead of averting64 them as she would have desired to do, she was unpleasantly conscious that they were arrested—how long? The darting65 sense that he was measuring her and looking down on her as an inferior, that he was of different quality from the human dross66 around her, that he felt himself in a region outside and above her, and was examining her as a specimen67 of a lower order, roused a tingling68 resentment69 which stretched the moment with conflict. It did not bring the blood to her cheeks, but it sent it away from her lips. She controlled herself by the help of an inward defiance70, and without other sign of emotion than this lip-paleness turned to her play. But Deronda’s gaze seemed to have acted as an evil eye. Her stake was gone. No matter; she had been winning ever since she took to roulette with a few napoleons at command, and had a considerable reserve. She had begun to believe in her luck, others had begun to believe in it: she had visions of being followed by a cortège who would worship her as a goddess of luck and watch her play as a directing augury71. Such things had been known of male gamblers; why should not a woman have a like supremacy72? Her friend and chaperon who had not wished her to play at first was beginning to approve, only administering the prudent73 advice to stop at the right moment and carry money back to England—advice to which Gwendolen had replied that she cared for the excitement of play, not the winnings. On that supposition the present moment ought to have made the flood-tide in her eager experience of gambling. Yet, when her next stake was swept away, she felt the orbits of her eyes getting hot, and the certainty she had (without looking) of that man still watching her was something like a pressure which begins to be torturing. The more reason to her why she should not flinch74, but go on playing as if she were indifferent to loss or gain. Her friend touched her elbow and proposed that they should quit the table. For reply Gwendolen put ten louis on the same spot: she was in that mood of defiance in which the mind loses sight of any end beyond the satisfaction of enraged75 resistance; and with the puerile76 stupidity of a dominant impulse includes luck among its objects of defiance. Since she was not winning strikingly, the next best thing was to lose strikingly. She controlled her muscles, and showed no tremor77 of mouth or hands. Each time her stake was swept off she doubled it. Many were now watching her, but the sole observation she was conscious of was Deronda’s, who, though she never looked toward him, she was sure had not moved away. Such a drama takes no long while to play out: development and catastrophe78 can often be measured by nothing clumsier than the moment-hand. “Faites votre jeu, mesdames et messieurs,” said the automatic voice of destiny from between the mustache and imperial of the croupier: and Gwendolen’s arm was stretched to deposit her last poor heap of napoleons. “Le jeu ne va plus,” said destiny. And in five seconds Gwendolen turned from the table, but turned resolutely79 with her face toward Deronda and looked at him. There was a smile of irony80 in his eyes as their glances met; but it was at least better that he should have kept his attention fixed81 on her than that he disregarded her as one of an insect swarm82 who had no individual physiognomy. Besides, in spite of his superciliousness83 and irony, it was difficult to believe that he did not admire her spirit as well as her person: he was young, handsome, distinguished in appearance—not one of these ridiculous and dowdy84 Philistines85 who thought it incumbent86 on them to blight87 the gaming-table with a sour look of protest as they passed by it. The general conviction that we are admirable does not easily give way before a single negative; rather when any of Vanity’s large family, male or female, find their performance received coldly, they are apt to believe that a little more of it will win over the unaccountable dissident. In Gwendolen’s habits of mind it had been taken for granted that she knew what was admirable and that she herself was admired. This basis of her thinking had received a disagreeable concussion88, and reeled a little, but was not easily to be overthrown89.
In the evening the same room was more stiflingly90 heated, was brilliant with gas and with the costumes of ladies who floated their trains along it or were seated on the ottomans.
The Nereid in sea-green robes and silver ornaments91, with a pale sea-green feather fastened in silver falling backward over her green hat and light brown hair, was Gwendolen Harleth. She was under the wing, or rather soared by the shoulder, of the lady who had sat by her at the roulette-table; and with them was a gentleman with a white mustache and clipped hair: solid-browed, stiff and German. They were walking about or standing to chat with acquaintances, and Gwendolen was much observed by the seated groups.
“A striking girl—that Miss Harleth—unlike others.”
“Yes, she has got herself up as a sort of serpent now—all green and silver, and winds her neck about a little more than usual.”
“Oh, she must always be doing something extraordinary. She is that kind of girl, I fancy. Do you think her pretty, Mr. Vandernoodt?”
“Very. A man might risk hanging for her—I mean a fool might.”
“You like a nez retroussé, then, and long narrow eyes?”
“When they go with such an ensemble92.”
“The ensemble du serpent?”
“If you will. Woman was tempted93 by a serpent; why not man?”
“She is certainly very graceful; but she wants a tinge94 of color in her cheeks. It is a sort of Lamia beauty she has.”
“On the contrary, I think her complexion95 one of her chief charms. It is a warm paleness; it looks thoroughly96 healthy. And that delicate nose with its gradual little upward curve is distracting. And then her mouth—there never was a prettier mouth, the lips curled backward so finely, eh, Mackworth?”
“Think so? I cannot endure that sort of mouth. It looks so self-complacent, as if it knew its own beauty—the curves are too immovable. I like a mouth that trembles more.”
“For my part, I think her odious,” said a dowager. “It is wonderful what unpleasant girls get into vogue97. Who are these Langens? Does anybody know them?”
“They are quite comme il faut. I have dined with them several times at the Russie. The baroness99 is English. Miss Harleth calls her cousin. The girl herself is thoroughly well-bred, and as clever as possible.”
“Dear me! and the baron98?”.
“A very good furniture picture.”
“Your baroness is always at the roulette-table,” said Mackworth. “I fancy she has taught the girl to gamble.”
“Oh, the old woman plays a very sober game; drops a ten-franc piece here and there. The girl is more headlong. But it is only a freak.”
“I hear she has lost all her winnings to-day. Are they rich? Who knows?”
“Ah, who knows? Who knows that about anybody?” said Mr. Vandernoodt, moving off to join the Langens.
The remark that Gwendolen wound her neck about more than usual this evening was true. But it was not that she might carry out the serpent idea more completely: it was that she watched for any chance of seeing Deronda, so that she might inquire about this stranger, under whose measuring gaze she was still wincing100. At last her opportunity came.
“Mr. Vandernoodt, you know everybody,” said Gwendolen, not too eagerly, rather with a certain languor101 of utterance102 which she sometimes gave to her clear soprano. “Who is that near the door?”
“There are half a dozen near the door. Do you mean that old Adonis in the George the Fourth wig46?”
“No, no; the dark-haired young man on the right with the dreadful expression.”
“Dreadful, do you call it? I think he is an uncommonly103 fine fellow.”
“But who is he?”
“He is lately come to our hotel with Sir Hugo Mallinger.”
“Sir Hugo Mallinger?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“No.” (Gwendolen colored slightly.) “He has a place near us, but he never comes to it. What did you say was the name of that gentleman near the door?”
“Deronda—Mr. Deronda.”
“What a delightful104 name! Is he an Englishman?”
“Yes. He is reported to be rather closely related to the baronet. You are interested in him?”
“Yes. I think he is not like young men in general.”
“And you don’t admire young men in general?”
“Not in the least. I always know what they will say. I can’t at all guess what this Mr. Deronda would say. What does he say?”
“Nothing, chiefly. I sat with his party for a good hour last night on the terrace, and he never spoke—and was not smoking either. He looked bored.”
“Another reason why I should like to know him. I am always bored.”
“I should think he would be charmed to have an introduction. Shall I bring it about? Will you allow it, baroness?”
“Why not?—since he is related to Sir Hugo Mallinger. It is a new rôle of yours, Gwendolen, to be always bored,” continued Madame von Langen, when Mr. Vandernoodt had moved away. “Until now you have always seemed eager about something from morning till night.”
“That is just because I am bored to death. If I am to leave off play I must break my arm or my collar-bone. I must make something happen; unless you will go into Switzerland and take me up the Matterhorn.”
“Perhaps this Mr. Deronda’s acquaintance will do instead of the Matterhorn.”
“Perhaps.”
But Gwendolen did not make Deronda’s acquaintance on this occasion. Mr. Vandernoodt did not succeed in bringing him up to her that evening, and when she re-entered her own room she found a letter recalling her home.
米德尔马契 Middlemarch
