Men can do nothing without the make-believe of a beginning. Even science, the
strict measurer, is obliged to start with a make-believe unit, and must fix on a
point in the stars' unceasing journey when his sidereal clock shall pretend that
time is at Nought. His less accurate grandmother Poetry has always been
understood to start in the middle; but on reflection it appears that her proceeding
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 retrospect will take us to the true beginning; and
whether our prologue 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 dominant 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 coercion and not as a longing in which the whole being consents?
She who raised these questions in Daniel Deronda's mind was occupied in
gambling: not in the open air under a southern sky, tossing coppers 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 guilt mouldings, dark-toned color and chubby nudities, all correspondingly
heavy--forming a suitable condenser for human breath belonging, in great part, to
the highest fashion, and not easily procurable 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 haze. There was deep stillness, broken only by a light rattle, a
light chink, a small sweeping sound, and an occasional monotone in French,
such as might be expected to issue from an ingeniously constructed automaton.
Round two long tables were gathered two serried crowds of human beings, all
save one having their faces and attention bent on the tables. The one exception
was a melancholy little boy, with his knees and calves simply in their natural
clothing of epidermis, but for the rest of his person in a fancy dress. He alone had
his face turned toward the doorway, and fixing on it the blank gaze of a
bedizened child stationed as a masquerading advertisement on the platform of
an itinerant 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 mere 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