George Eliot's Daniel Deronda: Abridged by Emma Laybourn

  Chapter Four

  It would be a little hard to blame the rector of Pennicote for regarding Gwendolen as a girl likely to make a brilliant marriage. Why should he be expected to differ from his contemporaries in this matter? To his credit, his feelings on the subject were entirely good-natured. Mr. Gascoigne, being a rational man, did not even think of getting too frisky a horse in order that Gwendolen might be threatened with an accident and be rescued by a man of property. He wished his niece well, and he meant her to be seen to advantage in the best society of the neighbourhood.

  This fell in perfectly with Gwendolen’s own wishes. But let no one suppose that she also contemplated a brilliant marriage as the result of her bewitching grace on horseback. She assumed that she was to be married some time or other, and felt sure that her marriage would not be a mediocre one, such as most girls were contented with. But her thoughts never dwelt on marriage; the dramas in which she imagined herself a heroine did not end that way. To be hopelessly sighed for as a bride was indeed an agreeable sign of womanly power; but to become a wife and wear domestic fetters was an unpleasant necessity. She thought of marriage as a dreary state in which a woman could not do what she liked, had more children than she wished, and was dull and humdrum.

  Of course marriage was social promotion; she could not look forward to a single life; but Gwendolen meant to lead. For such passions dwell in feminine breasts as well as men’s. In Gwendolen’s, however, they dwelt among strictly feminine furniture, and had nothing to do with learning or politics. She meant to do what was pleasant to herself in a striking manner; or rather, to strike others with admiration and get in that reflected way a more ardent sense of living.

  “Gwendolen will not rest without having the world at her feet,” said Miss Merry, the governess: words often used in exaggeration. And words could hardly be too vague to indicate the hazy prospects facing poor Gwendolen on the heights of her young self-exultation. Other people allowed themselves to be made slaves of, and to have their lives blown hither and thither like empty ships. It was not to be so with her; she would not be sacrificed to creatures worth less than herself, but would make the very best of the chances that life offered her, and conquer circumstances by her exceptional cleverness.

  Certainly, to be settled at Offendene, with the archery club and dinner invitations at the Arrowpoints’ as the highest lights in her scenery, was not a position that seemed to offer remarkable chances; but Gwendolen had confidence in herself. She felt well equipped for the mastery of life. Although she had suffered disadvantages, she felt that these did not include her education. In the school-room she had quickly picked up enough rules and facts to save her from feeling ignorant; and as for other knowledge, she thought herself sufficiently acquainted with it through novels, plays and poems. About her French and music, she felt no ground for uneasiness; and when to all these qualifications we add her sense of capability, which persuaded her that she could form a correct judgment on any subject, who can wonder if Gwendolen felt ready to manage her own destiny?

  There were many subjects in the world – perhaps most – in which she felt no interest, because they were stupid; for subjects are apt to appear stupid to the young as light seems dim to the old; but she would not have felt at all helpless if they had turned up in conversation. It must be remembered that no one had disputed her superiority. The first thought of those at Offendene was always, what will Gwendolen think? If the wood smoked in the bedroom fireplace, Mrs. Davilow, whose own weak eyes suffered much from it, apologised to her daughter. If Gwendolen did not appear at the breakfast table till everyone else had finished, the only question was how her coffee and toast should be kept hot and crisp; and when she appeared with her freshly-brushed hair streaming backward and awaiting her mamma’s hand to coil it up, it was always she herself who had to be tolerant – to beg that Alice would not stick up her shoulders in that frightful manner, and that Isabel, instead of asking questions, would go away.

  Always she was the princess in exile, who was to have the best of everything. Why was this? The answer may seem to lie in her beauty, in the decision of will which made itself felt in her graceful movements and clear unhesitating tones. This potent charm, added to the fact that she was the eldest daughter, toward whom her mamma felt apologetic for the evils brought on her by a step-father, may seem sufficient reason for Gwendolen’s domestic empire.

  But I have seen the same attention given to persons who were not at all beautiful, whose firmness showed itself without grace, and who were not eldest daughters with a tender, timid mother. Some of them were very common sort of men. The only point of resemblance among them all was a strong determination to have what was pleasant, with a total fearlessness in making themselves disagreeable or dangerous when they did not get it. Even without her powerful charm, Gwendolen might still have played the queen in exile, with her energy of egoistic desire, and her power of inspiring fear as to what she might say or do.

  However, she had the charm, and those who feared her were also fond of her; the fear and the fondness being both heightened by what may be called the iridescence of her character, and its contrary nature.