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cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/27.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_26_part_0.txt

Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 27

chapter 27

{"name": "Chapter 27", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-27", "summary": "The swarming of the bees was late that June. Bathsheba watched them finally gravitating toward one high branch of an unwieldy tree, forming a huge black mass. Since the farmhands were all haying, she decided to hive the bees alone. Wearing clothes that covered her completely, including gloves, hat, and a veil, she fetched a ladder and mounted it. Troy appeared and offered his help, declaring how fortunate he was to be arriving at just the right moment. Bathsheba insisted that he don the protective hat, veil, and gloves. \"He looked such an extraordinary object in this guise that, flurried as she was, she could not avoid laughing outright. It was the removal of yet another stake from the palisade of cold manners which had kept him off.\" Troy brought the filled hive down, a cloud of bees trailing behind it. He remarked that holding the hive made his arm ache more than a week of sword exercises did. When Bathsheba said that she had never seen an exhibition of swordplay, he volunteered to give one for her, privately, that evening. Reconsidering her plan to bring Liddy with her, after Troy reacted to it coldly, Bathsheba agreed to come unaccompanied, \"for a very short time.\" \"'It will not take five minutes,' said Troy.\"", "analysis": "This chapter contains lighthearted conversation and rare laughter. The ludicrous costuming of Troy adds to the merriment. Also, in this further encounter between Bathsheba and Troy and their plans for still another meeting, the pace of the plot is quickened."}

HIVING THE BEES The Weatherbury bees were late in their swarming this year. It was in the latter part of June, and the day after the interview with Troy in the hayfield, that Bathsheba was standing in her garden, watching a swarm in the air and guessing their probable settling place. Not only were they late this year, but unruly. Sometimes throughout a whole season all the swarms would alight on the lowest attainable bough--such as part of a currant-bush or espalier apple-tree; next year they would, with just the same unanimity, make straight off to the uppermost member of some tall, gaunt costard, or quarrenden, and there defy all invaders who did not come armed with ladders and staves to take them. This was the case at present. Bathsheba's eyes, shaded by one hand, were following the ascending multitude against the unexplorable stretch of blue till they ultimately halted by one of the unwieldy trees spoken of. A process somewhat analogous to that of alleged formations of the universe, time and times ago, was observable. The bustling swarm had swept the sky in a scattered and uniform haze, which now thickened to a nebulous centre: this glided on to a bough and grew still denser, till it formed a solid black spot upon the light. The men and women being all busily engaged in saving the hay--even Liddy had left the house for the purpose of lending a hand--Bathsheba resolved to hive the bees herself, if possible. She had dressed the hive with herbs and honey, fetched a ladder, brush, and crook, made herself impregnable with armour of leather gloves, straw hat, and large gauze veil--once green but now faded to snuff colour--and ascended a dozen rungs of the ladder. At once she heard, not ten yards off, a voice that was beginning to have a strange power in agitating her. "Miss Everdene, let me assist you; you should not attempt such a thing alone." Troy was just opening the garden gate. Bathsheba flung down the brush, crook, and empty hive, pulled the skirt of her dress tightly round her ankles in a tremendous flurry, and as well as she could slid down the ladder. By the time she reached the bottom Troy was there also, and he stooped to pick up the hive. "How fortunate I am to have dropped in at this moment!" exclaimed the sergeant. She found her voice in a minute. "What! and will you shake them in for me?" she asked, in what, for a defiant girl, was a faltering way; though, for a timid girl, it would have seemed a brave way enough. "Will I!" said Troy. "Why, of course I will. How blooming you are to-day!" Troy flung down his cane and put his foot on the ladder to ascend. "But you must have on the veil and gloves, or you'll be stung fearfully!" "Ah, yes. I must put on the veil and gloves. Will you kindly show me how to fix them properly?" "And you must have the broad-brimmed hat, too, for your cap has no brim to keep the veil off, and they'd reach your face." "The broad-brimmed hat, too, by all means." So a whimsical fate ordered that her hat should be taken off--veil and all attached--and placed upon his head, Troy tossing his own into a gooseberry bush. Then the veil had to be tied at its lower edge round his collar and the gloves put on him. He looked such an extraordinary object in this guise that, flurried as she was, she could not avoid laughing outright. It was the removal of yet another stake from the palisade of cold manners which had kept him off. Bathsheba looked on from the ground whilst he was busy sweeping and shaking the bees from the tree, holding up the hive with the other hand for them to fall into. She made use of an unobserved minute whilst his attention was absorbed in the operation to arrange her plumes a little. He came down holding the hive at arm's length, behind which trailed a cloud of bees. "Upon my life," said Troy, through the veil, "holding up this hive makes one's arm ache worse than a week of sword-exercise." When the manoeuvre was complete he approached her. "Would you be good enough to untie me and let me out? I am nearly stifled inside this silk cage." To hide her embarrassment during the unwonted process of untying the string about his neck, she said:-- "I have never seen that you spoke of." "What?" "The sword-exercise." "Ah! would you like to?" said Troy. Bathsheba hesitated. She had heard wondrous reports from time to time by dwellers in Weatherbury, who had by chance sojourned awhile in Casterbridge, near the barracks, of this strange and glorious performance, the sword-exercise. Men and boys who had peeped through chinks or over walls into the barrack-yard returned with accounts of its being the most flashing affair conceivable; accoutrements and weapons glistening like stars--here, there, around--yet all by rule and compass. So she said mildly what she felt strongly. "Yes; I should like to see it very much." "And so you shall; you shall see me go through it." "No! How?" "Let me consider." "Not with a walking-stick--I don't care to see that. It must be a real sword." "Yes, I know; and I have no sword here; but I think I could get one by the evening. Now, will you do this?" Troy bent over her and murmured some suggestion in a low voice. "Oh no, indeed!" said Bathsheba, blushing. "Thank you very much, but I couldn't on any account." "Surely you might? Nobody would know." She shook her head, but with a weakened negation. "If I were to," she said, "I must bring Liddy too. Might I not?" Troy looked far away. "I don't see why you want to bring her," he said coldly. An unconscious look of assent in Bathsheba's eyes betrayed that something more than his coldness had made her also feel that Liddy would be superfluous in the suggested scene. She had felt it, even whilst making the proposal. "Well, I won't bring Liddy--and I'll come. But only for a very short time," she added; "a very short time." "It will not take five minutes," said Troy.

Chapter 27

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-27

The swarming of the bees was late that June. Bathsheba watched them finally gravitating toward one high branch of an unwieldy tree, forming a huge black mass. Since the farmhands were all haying, she decided to hive the bees alone. Wearing clothes that covered her completely, including gloves, hat, and a veil, she fetched a ladder and mounted it. Troy appeared and offered his help, declaring how fortunate he was to be arriving at just the right moment. Bathsheba insisted that he don the protective hat, veil, and gloves. "He looked such an extraordinary object in this guise that, flurried as she was, she could not avoid laughing outright. It was the removal of yet another stake from the palisade of cold manners which had kept him off." Troy brought the filled hive down, a cloud of bees trailing behind it. He remarked that holding the hive made his arm ache more than a week of sword exercises did. When Bathsheba said that she had never seen an exhibition of swordplay, he volunteered to give one for her, privately, that evening. Reconsidering her plan to bring Liddy with her, after Troy reacted to it coldly, Bathsheba agreed to come unaccompanied, "for a very short time." "'It will not take five minutes,' said Troy."

This chapter contains lighthearted conversation and rare laughter. The ludicrous costuming of Troy adds to the merriment. Also, in this further encounter between Bathsheba and Troy and their plans for still another meeting, the pace of the plot is quickened.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/70.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_13_part_2.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 11.chapter 1

book 11, chapter 1

{"name": "book 11, Chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section14/", "summary": "At Grushenka's On a wintry day almost two months after Dmitri's arrest, Alyosha travels to visit Grushenka. Alyosha and Grushenka have grown closer since Dmitri's arrest, and are now close friends. Grushenka fell ill three days after the arrest, but is now almost fully recovered. As her friendship with Alyosha has deepened, Grushenka has begun to show signs of spiritual redemption as well. Her fiery temper and her pride are still intact, but her eyes now shine with a new light of gentleness. She tells Alyosha that she and Dmitri have had an argument, and that she fears that Dmitri is in love with Katerina again, even though Katerina has not once visited him in prison. Grushenka also believes that Dmitri and Ivan are hiding something from her. She asks Alyosha to find out what it is, and Alyosha agrees to do so", "analysis": ""}

Book XI. Ivan Chapter I. At Grushenka's Alyosha went towards the cathedral square to the widow Morozov's house to see Grushenka, who had sent Fenya to him early in the morning with an urgent message begging him to come. Questioning Fenya, Alyosha learned that her mistress had been particularly distressed since the previous day. During the two months that had passed since Mitya's arrest, Alyosha had called frequently at the widow Morozov's house, both from his own inclination and to take messages for Mitya. Three days after Mitya's arrest, Grushenka was taken very ill and was ill for nearly five weeks. For one whole week she was unconscious. She was very much changed--thinner and a little sallow, though she had for the past fortnight been well enough to go out. But to Alyosha her face was even more attractive than before, and he liked to meet her eyes when he went in to her. A look of firmness and intelligent purpose had developed in her face. There were signs of a spiritual transformation in her, and a steadfast, fine and humble determination that nothing could shake could be discerned in her. There was a small vertical line between her brows which gave her charming face a look of concentrated thought, almost austere at the first glance. There was scarcely a trace of her former frivolity. It seemed strange to Alyosha, too, that in spite of the calamity that had overtaken the poor girl, betrothed to a man who had been arrested for a terrible crime, almost at the instant of their betrothal, in spite of her illness and the almost inevitable sentence hanging over Mitya, Grushenka had not yet lost her youthful cheerfulness. There was a soft light in the once proud eyes, though at times they gleamed with the old vindictive fire when she was visited by one disturbing thought stronger than ever in her heart. The object of that uneasiness was the same as ever--Katerina Ivanovna, of whom Grushenka had even raved when she lay in delirium. Alyosha knew that she was fearfully jealous of her. Yet Katerina Ivanovna had not once visited Mitya in his prison, though she might have done it whenever she liked. All this made a difficult problem for Alyosha, for he was the only person to whom Grushenka opened her heart and from whom she was continually asking advice. Sometimes he was unable to say anything. Full of anxiety he entered her lodging. She was at home. She had returned from seeing Mitya half an hour before, and from the rapid movement with which she leapt up from her chair to meet him he saw that she had been expecting him with great impatience. A pack of cards dealt for a game of "fools" lay on the table. A bed had been made up on the leather sofa on the other side and Maximov lay, half-reclining, on it. He wore a dressing- gown and a cotton nightcap, and was evidently ill and weak, though he was smiling blissfully. When the homeless old man returned with Grushenka from Mokroe two months before, he had simply stayed on and was still staying with her. He arrived with her in rain and sleet, sat down on the sofa, drenched and scared, and gazed mutely at her with a timid, appealing smile. Grushenka, who was in terrible grief and in the first stage of fever, almost forgot his existence in all she had to do the first half- hour after her arrival. Suddenly she chanced to look at him intently: he laughed a pitiful, helpless little laugh. She called Fenya and told her to give him something to eat. All that day he sat in the same place, almost without stirring. When it got dark and the shutters were closed, Fenya asked her mistress: "Is the gentleman going to stay the night, mistress?" "Yes; make him a bed on the sofa," answered Grushenka. Questioning him more in detail, Grushenka learned from him that he had literally nowhere to go, and that "Mr. Kalganov, my benefactor, told me straight that he wouldn't receive me again and gave me five roubles." "Well, God bless you, you'd better stay, then," Grushenka decided in her grief, smiling compassionately at him. Her smile wrung the old man's heart and his lips twitched with grateful tears. And so the destitute wanderer had stayed with her ever since. He did not leave the house even when she was ill. Fenya and her grandmother, the cook, did not turn him out, but went on serving him meals and making up his bed on the sofa. Grushenka had grown used to him, and coming back from seeing Mitya (whom she had begun to visit in prison before she was really well) she would sit down and begin talking to "Maximushka" about trifling matters, to keep her from thinking of her sorrow. The old man turned out to be a good story-teller on occasions, so that at last he became necessary to her. Grushenka saw scarcely any one else beside Alyosha, who did not come every day and never stayed long. Her old merchant lay seriously ill at this time, "at his last gasp" as they said in the town, and he did, in fact, die a week after Mitya's trial. Three weeks before his death, feeling the end approaching, he made his sons, their wives and children, come upstairs to him at last and bade them not leave him again. From that moment he gave strict orders to his servants not to admit Grushenka and to tell her if she came, "The master wishes you long life and happiness and tells you to forget him." But Grushenka sent almost every day to inquire after him. "You've come at last!" she cried, flinging down the cards and joyfully greeting Alyosha, "and Maximushka's been scaring me that perhaps you wouldn't come. Ah, how I need you! Sit down to the table. What will you have--coffee?" "Yes, please," said Alyosha, sitting down at the table. "I am very hungry." "That's right. Fenya, Fenya, coffee," cried Grushenka. "It's been made a long time ready for you. And bring some little pies, and mind they are hot. Do you know, we've had a storm over those pies to-day. I took them to the prison for him, and would you believe it, he threw them back to me: he would not eat them. He flung one of them on the floor and stamped on it. So I said to him: 'I shall leave them with the warder; if you don't eat them before evening, it will be that your venomous spite is enough for you!' With that I went away. We quarreled again, would you believe it? Whenever I go we quarrel." Grushenka said all this in one breath in her agitation. Maximov, feeling nervous, at once smiled and looked on the floor. "What did you quarrel about this time?" asked Alyosha. "I didn't expect it in the least. Only fancy, he is jealous of the Pole. 'Why are you keeping him?' he said. 'So you've begun keeping him.' He is jealous, jealous of me all the time, jealous eating and sleeping! He even took it into his head to be jealous of Kuzma last week." "But he knew about the Pole before?" "Yes, but there it is. He has known about him from the very beginning, but to-day he suddenly got up and began scolding about him. I am ashamed to repeat what he said. Silly fellow! Rakitin went in as I came out. Perhaps Rakitin is egging him on. What do you think?" she added carelessly. "He loves you, that's what it is: he loves you so much. And now he is particularly worried." "I should think he might be, with the trial to-morrow. And I went to him to say something about to-morrow, for I dread to think what's going to happen then. You say that he is worried, but how worried I am! And he talks about the Pole! He's too silly! He is not jealous of Maximushka yet, anyway." "My wife was dreadfully jealous over me, too," Maximov put in his word. "Jealous of you?" Grushenka laughed in spite of herself. "Of whom could she have been jealous?" "Of the servant girls." "Hold your tongue, Maximushka, I am in no laughing mood now; I feel angry. Don't ogle the pies. I shan't give you any; they are not good for you, and I won't give you any vodka either. I have to look after him, too, just as though I kept an almshouse," she laughed. "I don't deserve your kindness. I am a worthless creature," said Maximov, with tears in his voice. "You would do better to spend your kindness on people of more use than me." "Ech, every one is of use, Maximushka, and how can we tell who's of most use? If only that Pole didn't exist, Alyosha. He's taken it into his head to fall ill, too, to-day. I've been to see him also. And I shall send him some pies, too, on purpose. I hadn't sent him any, but Mitya accused me of it, so now I shall send some! Ah, here's Fenya with a letter! Yes, it's from the Poles--begging again!" Pan Mussyalovitch had indeed sent an extremely long and characteristically eloquent letter in which he begged her to lend him three roubles. In the letter was enclosed a receipt for the sum, with a promise to repay it within three months, signed by Pan Vrublevsky as well. Grushenka had received many such letters, accompanied by such receipts, from her former lover during the fortnight of her convalescence. But she knew that the two Poles had been to ask after her health during her illness. The first letter Grushenka got from them was a long one, written on large notepaper and with a big family crest on the seal. It was so obscure and rhetorical that Grushenka put it down before she had read half, unable to make head or tail of it. She could not attend to letters then. The first letter was followed next day by another in which Pan Mussyalovitch begged her for a loan of two thousand roubles for a very short period. Grushenka left that letter, too, unanswered. A whole series of letters had followed--one every day--all as pompous and rhetorical, but the loan asked for, gradually diminishing, dropped to a hundred roubles, then to twenty-five, to ten, and finally Grushenka received a letter in which both the Poles begged her for only one rouble and included a receipt signed by both. Then Grushenka suddenly felt sorry for them, and at dusk she went round herself to their lodging. She found the two Poles in great poverty, almost destitution, without food or fuel, without cigarettes, in debt to their landlady. The two hundred roubles they had carried off from Mitya at Mokroe had soon disappeared. But Grushenka was surprised at their meeting her with arrogant dignity and self-assertion, with the greatest punctilio and pompous speeches. Grushenka simply laughed, and gave her former admirer ten roubles. Then, laughing, she told Mitya of it and he was not in the least jealous. But ever since, the Poles had attached themselves to Grushenka and bombarded her daily with requests for money and she had always sent them small sums. And now that day Mitya had taken it into his head to be fearfully jealous. "Like a fool, I went round to him just for a minute, on the way to see Mitya, for he is ill, too, my Pole," Grushenka began again with nervous haste. "I was laughing, telling Mitya about it. 'Fancy,' I said, 'my Pole had the happy thought to sing his old songs to me to the guitar. He thought I would be touched and marry him!' Mitya leapt up swearing.... So, there, I'll send them the pies! Fenya, is it that little girl they've sent? Here, give her three roubles and pack a dozen pies up in a paper and tell her to take them. And you, Alyosha, be sure to tell Mitya that I did send them the pies." "I wouldn't tell him for anything," said Alyosha, smiling. "Ech! You think he is unhappy about it. Why, he's jealous on purpose. He doesn't care," said Grushenka bitterly. "On purpose?" queried Alyosha. "I tell you you are silly, Alyosha. You know nothing about it, with all your cleverness. I am not offended that he is jealous of a girl like me. I would be offended if he were not jealous. I am like that. I am not offended at jealousy. I have a fierce heart, too. I can be jealous myself. Only what offends me is that he doesn't love me at all. I tell you he is jealous now _on purpose_. Am I blind? Don't I see? He began talking to me just now of that woman, of Katerina, saying she was this and that, how she had ordered a doctor from Moscow for him, to try and save him; how she had ordered the best counsel, the most learned one, too. So he loves her, if he'll praise her to my face, more shame to him! He's treated me badly himself, so he attacked me, to make out I am in fault first and to throw it all on me. 'You were with your Pole before me, so I can't be blamed for Katerina,' that's what it amounts to. He wants to throw the whole blame on me. He attacked me on purpose, on purpose, I tell you, but I'll--" Grushenka could not finish saying what she would do. She hid her eyes in her handkerchief and sobbed violently. "He doesn't love Katerina Ivanovna," said Alyosha firmly. "Well, whether he loves her or not, I'll soon find out for myself," said Grushenka, with a menacing note in her voice, taking the handkerchief from her eyes. Her face was distorted. Alyosha saw sorrowfully that from being mild and serene, it had become sullen and spiteful. "Enough of this foolishness," she said suddenly; "it's not for that I sent for you. Alyosha, darling, to-morrow--what will happen to-morrow? That's what worries me! And it's only me it worries! I look at every one and no one is thinking of it. No one cares about it. Are you thinking about it even? To-morrow he'll be tried, you know. Tell me, how will he be tried? You know it's the valet, the valet killed him! Good heavens! Can they condemn him in place of the valet and will no one stand up for him? They haven't troubled the valet at all, have they?" "He's been severely cross-examined," observed Alyosha thoughtfully; "but every one came to the conclusion it was not he. Now he is lying very ill. He has been ill ever since that attack. Really ill," added Alyosha. "Oh, dear! couldn't you go to that counsel yourself and tell him the whole thing by yourself? He's been brought from Petersburg for three thousand roubles, they say." "We gave these three thousand together--Ivan, Katerina Ivanovna and I--but she paid two thousand for the doctor from Moscow herself. The counsel Fetyukovitch would have charged more, but the case has become known all over Russia; it's talked of in all the papers and journals. Fetyukovitch agreed to come more for the glory of the thing, because the case has become so notorious. I saw him yesterday." "Well? Did you talk to him?" Grushenka put in eagerly. "He listened and said nothing. He told me that he had already formed his opinion. But he promised to give my words consideration." "Consideration! Ah, they are swindlers! They'll ruin him. And why did she send for the doctor?" "As an expert. They want to prove that Mitya's mad and committed the murder when he didn't know what he was doing"; Alyosha smiled gently; "but Mitya won't agree to that." "Yes; but that would be the truth if he had killed him!" cried Grushenka. "He was mad then, perfectly mad, and that was my fault, wretch that I am! But, of course, he didn't do it, he didn't do it! And they are all against him, the whole town. Even Fenya's evidence went to prove he had done it. And the people at the shop, and that official, and at the tavern, too, before, people had heard him say so! They are all, all against him, all crying out against him." "Yes, there's a fearful accumulation of evidence," Alyosha observed grimly. "And Grigory--Grigory Vassilyevitch--sticks to his story that the door was open, persists that he saw it--there's no shaking him. I went and talked to him myself. He's rude about it, too." "Yes, that's perhaps the strongest evidence against him," said Alyosha. "And as for Mitya's being mad, he certainly seems like it now," Grushenka began with a peculiarly anxious and mysterious air. "Do you know, Alyosha, I've been wanting to talk to you about it for a long time. I go to him every day and simply wonder at him. Tell me, now, what do you suppose he's always talking about? He talks and talks and I can make nothing of it. I fancied he was talking of something intellectual that I couldn't understand in my foolishness. Only he suddenly began talking to me about a babe--that is, about some child. 'Why is the babe poor?' he said. 'It's for that babe I am going to Siberia now. I am not a murderer, but I must go to Siberia!' What that meant, what babe, I couldn't tell for the life of me. Only I cried when he said it, because he said it so nicely. He cried himself, and I cried, too. He suddenly kissed me and made the sign of the cross over me. What did it mean, Alyosha, tell me? What is this babe?" "It must be Rakitin, who's been going to see him lately," smiled Alyosha, "though ... that's not Rakitin's doing. I didn't see Mitya yesterday. I'll see him to-day." "No, it's not Rakitin; it's his brother Ivan Fyodorovitch upsetting him. It's his going to see him, that's what it is," Grushenka began, and suddenly broke off. Alyosha gazed at her in amazement. "Ivan's going? Has he been to see him? Mitya told me himself that Ivan hasn't been once." "There ... there! What a girl I am! Blurting things out!" exclaimed Grushenka, confused and suddenly blushing. "Stay, Alyosha, hush! Since I've said so much I'll tell the whole truth--he's been to see him twice, the first directly he arrived. He galloped here from Moscow at once, of course, before I was taken ill; and the second time was a week ago. He told Mitya not to tell you about it, under any circumstances; and not to tell any one, in fact. He came secretly." Alyosha sat plunged in thought, considering something. The news evidently impressed him. "Ivan doesn't talk to me of Mitya's case," he said slowly. "He's said very little to me these last two months. And whenever I go to see him, he seems vexed at my coming, so I've not been to him for the last three weeks. H'm!... if he was there a week ago ... there certainly has been a change in Mitya this week." "There has been a change," Grushenka assented quickly. "They have a secret, they have a secret! Mitya told me himself there was a secret, and such a secret that Mitya can't rest. Before then, he was cheerful--and, indeed, he is cheerful now--but when he shakes his head like that, you know, and strides about the room and keeps pulling at the hair on his right temple with his right hand, I know there is something on his mind worrying him.... I know! He was cheerful before, though, indeed, he is cheerful to-day." "But you said he was worried." "Yes, he is worried and yet cheerful. He keeps on being irritable for a minute and then cheerful and then irritable again. And you know, Alyosha, I am constantly wondering at him--with this awful thing hanging over him, he sometimes laughs at such trifles as though he were a baby himself." "And did he really tell you not to tell me about Ivan? Did he say, 'Don't tell him'?" "Yes, he told me, 'Don't tell him.' It's you that Mitya's most afraid of. Because it's a secret: he said himself it was a secret. Alyosha, darling, go to him and find out what their secret is and come and tell me," Grushenka besought him with sudden eagerness. "Set my mind at rest that I may know the worst that's in store for me. That's why I sent for you." "You think it's something to do with you? If it were, he wouldn't have told you there was a secret." "I don't know. Perhaps he wants to tell me, but doesn't dare to. He warns me. There is a secret, he tells me, but he won't tell me what it is." "What do you think yourself?" "What do I think? It's the end for me, that's what I think. They all three have been plotting my end, for Katerina's in it. It's all Katerina, it all comes from her. She is this and that, and that means that I am not. He tells me that beforehand--warns me. He is planning to throw me over, that's the whole secret. They've planned it together, the three of them--Mitya, Katerina, and Ivan Fyodorovitch. Alyosha, I've been wanting to ask you a long time. A week ago he suddenly told me that Ivan was in love with Katerina, because he often goes to see her. Did he tell me the truth or not? Tell me, on your conscience, tell me the worst." "I won't tell you a lie. Ivan is not in love with Katerina Ivanovna, I think." "Oh, that's what I thought! He is lying to me, shameless deceiver, that's what it is! And he was jealous of me just now, so as to put the blame on me afterwards. He is stupid, he can't disguise what he is doing; he is so open, you know.... But I'll give it to him, I'll give it to him! 'You believe I did it,' he said. He said that to me, to me. He reproached me with that! God forgive him! You wait, I'll make it hot for Katerina at the trial! I'll just say a word then ... I'll tell everything then!" And again she cried bitterly. "This I can tell you for certain, Grushenka," Alyosha said, getting up. "First, that he loves you, loves you more than any one in the world, and you only, believe me. I know. I do know. The second thing is that I don't want to worm his secret out of him, but if he'll tell me of himself to- day, I shall tell him straight out that I have promised to tell you. Then I'll come to you to-day, and tell you. Only ... I fancy ... Katerina Ivanovna has nothing to do with it, and that the secret is about something else. That's certain. It isn't likely it's about Katerina Ivanovna, it seems to me. Good-by for now." Alyosha shook hands with her. Grushenka was still crying. He saw that she put little faith in his consolation, but she was better for having had her sorrow out, for having spoken of it. He was sorry to leave her in such a state of mind, but he was in haste. He had a great many things to do still.

book 11, Chapter 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section14/

At Grushenka's On a wintry day almost two months after Dmitri's arrest, Alyosha travels to visit Grushenka. Alyosha and Grushenka have grown closer since Dmitri's arrest, and are now close friends. Grushenka fell ill three days after the arrest, but is now almost fully recovered. As her friendship with Alyosha has deepened, Grushenka has begun to show signs of spiritual redemption as well. Her fiery temper and her pride are still intact, but her eyes now shine with a new light of gentleness. She tells Alyosha that she and Dmitri have had an argument, and that she fears that Dmitri is in love with Katerina again, even though Katerina has not once visited him in prison. Grushenka also believes that Dmitri and Ivan are hiding something from her. She asks Alyosha to find out what it is, and Alyosha agrees to do so

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/44.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_43_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 2.chapter 14

part 2, chapter 14

{"name": "Part 2, Chapter 14", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-14", "summary": "Mathilde waits for some sort of reply to her letter to Julien. She is overwhelmed with happiness. Meanwhile, Julien gets a servant to put his trunk near the front door to make Mathilde think he has left for Languedoc. He does this just to tease her desire a little more. He runs into Mathilde later the next night and hands her his written reply to her note. She takes it and runs away. About an hour later, Mathilde shows up at the door of the study and throws a letter at him, running away again. He writes another letter quickly and gives it to Mathilde while passing her on the stairs. He gets a third letter from Mathilde that night, which shows him just how obsessed she's become. He gets nervous, though, when he reads the letter and finds out that Mathilde wants him to meet her in the garden at one a.m. She says there'll be a ladder there that can lead him up to her room. Now he really thinks he's being led into a trap, because this sounds too bold to be true.", "analysis": ""}

CHAPTER XLIV A YOUNG GIRL'S THOUGHTS What perplexity! What sleepless nights! Great God. Am I going to make myself contemptible? He will despise me himself. But he is leaving, he is going away. _Alfred de Musset_ Mathilde had not written without a struggle. Whatever might have been the beginning of her interest in Julien, it soon dominated that pride which had reigned unchallenged in her heart since she had begun to know herself. This cold and haughty soul was swept away for the first time by a sentiment of passion, but if this passion dominated her pride, it still kept faithfully to the habits of that pride. Two months of struggles and new sensations had transformed, so to speak her whole moral life. Mathilde thought she was in sight of happiness. This vista, irresistible as it is for those who combine a superior intellect with a courageous soul, had to struggle for a long time against her self respect and all her vulgar duties. One day she went into her mother's room at seven o'clock in the morning and asked permission to take refuge in Villequier. The marquise did not even deign to answer her, and advised her to go back to bed. This was the last effort of vulgar prudence and respect for tradition. The fear of doing wrong and of offending those ideas which the Caylus's, the de Luz's, the Croisenois' held for sacred had little power over her soul. She considered such creatures incapable of understanding her. She would have consulted them, if it had been a matter of buying a carriage or an estate. Her real fear was that Julien was displeased with her. "Perhaps he, too, has only the appearance of a superior man?" She abhorred lack of character; that was her one objection to the handsome young men who surrounded her. The more they made elegant fun of everything which deviated from the prevailing mode, or which conformed to it but indifferently, the lower they fell in her eyes. They were brave and that was all. "And after all in what way were they brave?" she said to herself. "In duels, but the duel is nothing more than a formality. The whole thing is mapped out beforehand, even the correct thing to say when you fall. Stretched on the turf, and with your hand on your heart, you must vouchsafe a generous forgiveness to the adversary, and a few words for a fair lady, who is often imaginary, or if she does exist, will go to a ball on the day of your death for fear of arousing suspicion." "One braves danger at the head of a squadron brilliant with steel, but how about that danger which is solitary, strange, unforeseen and really ugly." "Alas," said Mathilde to herself, "it was at the court of Henri III. that men who were great both by character and by birth were to be found! Yes! If Julien had served at Jarnac or Moncontour, I should no longer doubt. In those days of strength and vigour Frenchmen were not dolls. The day of the battle was almost the one which presented the fewest problems." Their life was not imprisoned, like an Egyptian mummy in a covering which was common to all, and always the same. "Yes," she added, "there was more real courage in going home alone at eleven o'clock in the evening when one came out of the Hotel de Soissons where Catherine de' Medici lived than there is nowadays in running over to Algiers. A man's life was then a series of hazards. Nowadays civilisation has banished hazard. There are no more surprises. If anything new appears in any idea there are not sufficient epigrams to immortalise it, but if anything new appears in actual life, our panic reaches the lowest depth of cowardice. Whatever folly panic makes us commit is excused. What a degenerate and boring age! What would Boniface de la Mole have said if, lifting his cut-off head out of the tomb, he had seen seventeen of his descendants allow themselves to be caught like sheep in 1793 in order to be guillotined two days afterwards! Death was certain, but it would have been bad form to have defended themselves and to have killed at least one or two Jacobins. Yes! in the heroic days of France, in the age of Boniface de la Mole, Julien would have been the chief of a squadron, while my brother would have been the young priest with decorous manners, with wisdom in his eyes and reason on his lips." Some months previously Mathilde had given up all hope of meeting any being who was a little different from the common pattern. She had found some happiness in allowing herself to write to some young society men. This rash procedure, which was so unbecoming and so imprudent in a young girl, might have disgraced her in the eyes of M. de Croisenois, the Duke de Chaulnes, his father, and the whole Hotel de Chaulnes, who on seeing the projected marriage broken off would have wanted to know the reason. At that time Mathilde had been unable to sleep on those days when she had written one of her letters. But those letters were only answers. But now she ventured to declare her own love. She wrote first (what a terrible word!) to a man of the lowest social grade. This circumstance rendered her eternal disgrace quite inevitable in the event of detection. Who of the women who visited her mother would have dared to take her part? What official excuse could be evolved which could successfully cope with the awful contempt of society. Besides speaking was awful enough, but writing! "There are some things which are not written!" Napoleon had exclaimed on learning of the capitulation of Baylen. And it was Julien who had told her that epigram, as though giving her a lesson that was to come in useful subsequently. But all this was comparatively unimportant, Mathilde's anguish had other causes. Forgetting the terrible effect it would produce on society, and the ineffable blot on her scutcheon that would follow such an outrage on her own caste, Mathilde was going to write to a person of a very different character to the Croisenois', the de Luz's, the Caylus's. She would have been frightened at the depth and mystery in Julien's character, even if she had merely entered into a conventional acquaintance with him. And she was going to make him her lover, perhaps her master. "What will his pretensions not be, if he is ever in a position to do everything with me? Well! I shall say, like Medea: _Au milieu de tant de perils il me reste Moi_." She believed that Julien had no respect for nobility of blood. What was more, he probably did not love her. In these last moments of awful doubt her feminine pride suggested to her certain ideas. "Everything is bound to be extraordinary in the life of a girl like me," exclaimed Mathilde impatiently. The pride, which had been drilled into her since her cradle, began to struggle with her virtue. It was at this moment that Julien's departure precipitated everything. (Such characters are luckily very rare.) Very late in the evening, Julien was malicious enough to have a very heavy trunk taken down to the porter's lodge. He called the valet, who was courting mademoiselle de la Mole's chambermaid, to move it. "This manoeuvre cannot result in anything," he said to himself, "but if it does succeed, she will think that I have gone." Very tickled by this humorous thought, he fell asleep. Mathilde did not sleep a wink. Julien left the hotel very early the next morning without being seen, but he came back before eight o'clock. He had scarcely entered the library before M. de la Mole appeared on the threshold. He handed her his answer. He thought that it was his duty to speak to her, it was certainly perfectly feasible, but mademoiselle de la Mole would not listen to him and disappeared. Julien was delighted. He did not know what to say. "If all this is not a put up job with comte Norbert, it is clear that it is my cold looks which have kindled the strange love which this aristocratic girl chooses to entertain for me. I should be really too much of a fool if I ever allowed myself to take a fancy to that big blonde doll." This train of reasoning left him colder and more calculating than he had ever been. "In the battle for which we are preparing," he added, "pride of birth will be like a high hill which constitutes a military position between her and me. That must be the field of the manoeuvres. I made a great mistake in staying in Paris; this postponing of my departure cheapens and exposes me, if all this is simply a trick. What danger was there in leaving? If they were making fun of me, I was making fun of them. If her interest for me was in any way real, I was making that interest a hundred times more intense." Mademoiselle de la Mole's letter had given Julien's vanity so keen a pleasure, that wreathed as he was in smiles at his good fortune he had forgotten to think seriously about the propriety of leaving. It was one of the fatal elements of his character to be extremely sensitive to his own weaknesses. He was extremely upset by this one, and had almost forgotten the incredible victory which had preceded this slight check, when about nine o'clock mademoiselle de la Mole appeared on the threshold of the library, flung him a letter and ran away. "So this is going to be the romance by letters," he said as he picked it up. "The enemy makes a false move; I will reply by coldness and virtue." He was asked with a poignancy which merely increased his inner gaiety to give a definite answer. He indulged in the pleasure of mystifying those persons who he thought wanted to make fun of him for two pages, and it was out of humour again that he announced towards the end of his answer his definite departure on the following morning. "The garden will be a useful place to hand her the letter," he thought after he had finished it, and he went there. He looked at the window of mademoiselle de la Mole's room. It was on the first storey, next to her mother's apartment, but there was a large ground floor. This latter was so high that, as Julien walked under the avenue of pines with his letter in his hands, he could not be seen from mademoiselle de la Mole's window. The dome formed by the well clipped pines intercepted the view. "What!" said Julien to himself angrily, "another indiscretion! If they have really begun making fun of me, showing myself with a letter is playing into my enemy's hands." Norbert's room was exactly above his sister's and if Julien came out from under the dome formed by the clipped branches of the pine, the comte and his friend could follow all his movements. Mademoiselle de la Mole appeared behind her window; he half showed his letter; she lowered her head, then Julien ran up to his own room and met accidentally on the main staircase the fair Mathilde, who seized the letter with complete self-possession and smiling eyes. "What passion there was in the eyes of that poor madame de Renal," said Julien to himself, "when she ventured to receive a letter from me, even after six months of intimate relationship! I don't think she ever looked at me with smiling eyes in her whole life." He did not formulate so precisely the rest of his answer; was he perhaps ashamed of the triviality of the motive which were actuating him? "But how different too," he went on to think, "are her elegant morning dress and her distinguished appearance! A man of taste on seeing mademoiselle de la Mole thirty yards off would infer the position which she occupies in society. That is what can be called a specific merit." In spite of all this humorousness, Julien was not yet quite honest with himself; madame de Renal had no marquis de Croisenois to sacrifice to him. His only rival was that grotesque sub-prefect, M. Charcot, who assumed the name of Maugiron, because there were no Maugirons left in France. At five o'clock Julien received a third letter. It was thrown to him from the library door. Mademoiselle de la Mole ran away again. "What a mania for writing," he said to himself with a laugh, "when one can talk so easily. The enemy wants my letters, that is clear, and many of them." He did not hurry to open this one. "More elegant phrases," he thought; but he paled as he read it. There were only eight lines. "I need to speak to you; I must speak to you this evening. Be in the garden at the moment when one o'clock is striking. Take the big gardeners' ladder near the well; place it against my window, and climb up to my room. It is moonlight; never mind."

Part 2, Chapter 14

https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-14

Mathilde waits for some sort of reply to her letter to Julien. She is overwhelmed with happiness. Meanwhile, Julien gets a servant to put his trunk near the front door to make Mathilde think he has left for Languedoc. He does this just to tease her desire a little more. He runs into Mathilde later the next night and hands her his written reply to her note. She takes it and runs away. About an hour later, Mathilde shows up at the door of the study and throws a letter at him, running away again. He writes another letter quickly and gives it to Mathilde while passing her on the stairs. He gets a third letter from Mathilde that night, which shows him just how obsessed she's become. He gets nervous, though, when he reads the letter and finds out that Mathilde wants him to meet her in the garden at one a.m. She says there'll be a ladder there that can lead him up to her room. Now he really thinks he's being led into a trap, because this sounds too bold to be true.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/49.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_18_part_1.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 48

chapter 48

{"name": "CHAPTER 48", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD58.asp", "summary": "Alec continues to visit Tess and offer his help. He reminds her that he has the financial means to help both her and her family. Tess clearly states that she will take nothing from him, no matter how hard she must work. Tess continues to center all of her attention on Angel. She writes him a touching letter, filled with emotion. She swears her devotion to him, begs him to come to her, and tells him she is threatened. She also reminds him of the happy times they had shared at Talbothays.", "analysis": "Notes Tess's letter is meant to appeal to Angel's sentimental and gentle heart. By baring her soul to him in Brazil, she hopes to win him back. After more than a year, Tess still refuses to give up hope"}

In the afternoon the farmer made it known that the rick was to be finished that night, since there was a moon by which they could see to work, and the man with the engine was engaged for another farm on the morrow. Hence the twanging and humming and rustling proceeded with even less intermission than usual. It was not till "nammet"-time, about three o-clock, that Tess raised her eyes and gave a momentary glance round. She felt but little surprise at seeing that Alec d'Urberville had come back, and was standing under the hedge by the gate. He had seen her lift her eyes, and waved his hand urbanely to her, while he blew her a kiss. It meant that their quarrel was over. Tess looked down again, and carefully abstained from gazing in that direction. Thus the afternoon dragged on. The wheat-rick shrank lower, and the straw-rick grew higher, and the corn-sacks were carted away. At six o'clock the wheat-rick was about shoulder-high from the ground. But the unthreshed sheaves remaining untouched seemed countless still, notwithstanding the enormous numbers that had been gulped down by the insatiable swallower, fed by the man and Tess, through whose two young hands the greater part of them had passed. And the immense stack of straw where in the morning there had been nothing, appeared as the faeces of the same buzzing red glutton. From the west sky a wrathful shine--all that wild March could afford in the way of sunset--had burst forth after the cloudy day, flooding the tired and sticky faces of the threshers, and dyeing them with a coppery light, as also the flapping garments of the women, which clung to them like dull flames. A panting ache ran through the rick. The man who fed was weary, and Tess could see that the red nape of his neck was encrusted with dirt and husks. She still stood at her post, her flushed and perspiring face coated with the corndust, and her white bonnet embrowned by it. She was the only woman whose place was upon the machine so as to be shaken bodily by its spinning, and the decrease of the stack now separated her from Marian and Izz, and prevented their changing duties with her as they had done. The incessant quivering, in which every fibre of her frame participated, had thrown her into a stupefied reverie in which her arms worked on independently of her consciousness. She hardly knew where she was, and did not hear Izz Huett tell her from below that her hair was tumbling down. By degrees the freshest among them began to grow cadaverous and saucer-eyed. Whenever Tess lifted her head she beheld always the great upgrown straw-stack, with the men in shirt-sleeves upon it, against the gray north sky; in front of it the long red elevator like a Jacob's ladder, on which a perpetual stream of threshed straw ascended, a yellow river running uphill, and spouting out on the top of the rick. She knew that Alec d'Urberville was still on the scene, observing her from some point or other, though she could not say where. There was an excuse for his remaining, for when the threshed rick drew near its final sheaves a little ratting was always done, and men unconnected with the threshing sometimes dropped in for that performance--sporting characters of all descriptions, gents with terriers and facetious pipes, roughs with sticks and stones. But there was another hour's work before the layer of live rats at the base of the stack would be reached; and as the evening light in the direction of the Giant's Hill by Abbot's-Cernel dissolved away, the white-faced moon of the season arose from the horizon that lay towards Middleton Abbey and Shottsford on the other side. For the last hour or two Marian had felt uneasy about Tess, whom she could not get near enough to speak to, the other women having kept up their strength by drinking ale, and Tess having done without it through traditionary dread, owing to its results at her home in childhood. But Tess still kept going: if she could not fill her part she would have to leave; and this contingency, which she would have regarded with equanimity and even with relief a month or two earlier, had become a terror since d'Urberville had begun to hover round her. The sheaf-pitchers and feeders had now worked the rick so low that people on the ground could talk to them. To Tess's surprise Farmer Groby came up on the machine to her, and said that if she desired to join her friend he did not wish her to keep on any longer, and would send somebody else to take her place. The "friend" was d'Urberville, she knew, and also that this concession had been granted in obedience to the request of that friend, or enemy. She shook her head and toiled on. The time for the rat-catching arrived at last, and the hunt began. The creatures had crept downwards with the subsidence of the rick till they were all together at the bottom, and being now uncovered from their last refuge, they ran across the open ground in all directions, a loud shriek from the by-this-time half-tipsy Marian informing her companions that one of the rats had invaded her person--a terror which the rest of the women had guarded against by various schemes of skirt-tucking and self-elevation. The rat was at last dislodged, and, amid the barking of dogs, masculine shouts, feminine screams, oaths, stampings, and confusion as of Pandemonium, Tess untied her last sheaf; the drum slowed, the whizzing ceased, and she stepped from the machine to the ground. Her lover, who had only looked on at the rat-catching, was promptly at her side. "What--after all--my insulting slap, too!" said she in an underbreath. She was so utterly exhausted that she had not strength to speak louder. "I should indeed be foolish to feel offended at anything you say or do," he answered, in the seductive voice of the Trantridge time. "How the little limbs tremble! You are as weak as a bled calf, you know you are; and yet you need have done nothing since I arrived. How could you be so obstinate? However, I have told the farmer that he has no right to employ women at steam-threshing. It is not proper work for them; and on all the better class of farms it has been given up, as he knows very well. I will walk with you as far as your home." "O yes," she answered with a jaded gait. "Walk wi' me if you will! I do bear in mind that you came to marry me before you knew o' my state. Perhaps--perhaps you are a little better and kinder than I have been thinking you were. Whatever is meant as kindness I am grateful for; whatever is meant in any other way I am angered at. I cannot sense your meaning sometimes." "If I cannot legitimize our former relations at least I can assist you. And I will do it with much more regard for your feelings than I formerly showed. My religious mania, or whatever it was, is over. But I retain a little good nature; I hope I do. Now, Tess, by all that's tender and strong between man and woman, trust me! I have enough and more than enough to put you out of anxiety, both for yourself and your parents and sisters. I can make them all comfortable if you will only show confidence in me." "Have you seen 'em lately?" she quickly inquired. "Yes. They didn't know where you were. It was only by chance that I found you here." The cold moon looked aslant upon Tess's fagged face between the twigs of the garden-hedge as she paused outside the cottage which was her temporary home, d'Urberville pausing beside her. "Don't mention my little brothers and sisters--don't make me break down quite!" she said. "If you want to help them--God knows they need it--do it without telling me. But no, no!" she cried. "I will take nothing from you, either for them or for me!" He did not accompany her further, since, as she lived with the household, all was public indoors. No sooner had she herself entered, laved herself in a washing-tub, and shared supper with the family than she fell into thought, and withdrawing to the table under the wall, by the light of her own little lamp wrote in a passionate mood-- MY OWN HUSBAND,-- Let me call you so--I must--even if it makes you angry to think of such an unworthy wife as I. I must cry to you in my trouble--I have no one else! I am so exposed to temptation, Angel. I fear to say who it is, and I do not like to write about it at all. But I cling to you in a way you cannot think! Can you not come to me now, at once, before anything terrible happens? O, I know you cannot, because you are so far away! I think I must die if you do not come soon, or tell me to come to you. The punishment you have measured out to me is deserved--I do know that-- well deserved--and you are right and just to be angry with me. But, Angel, please, please, not to be just--only a little kind to me, even if I do not deserve it, and come to me! If you would come, I could die in your arms! I would be well content to do that if so be you had forgiven me! Angel, I live entirely for you. I love you too much to blame you for going away, and I know it was necessary you should find a farm. Do not think I shall say a word of sting or bitterness. Only come back to me. I am desolate without you, my darling, O, so desolate! I do not mind having to work: but if you will send me one little line, and say, "I am coming soon," I will bide on, Angel--O, so cheerfully! It has been so much my religion ever since we were married to be faithful to you in every thought and look, that even when a man speaks a compliment to me before I am aware, it seems wronging you. Have you never felt one little bit of what you used to feel when we were at the dairy? If you have, how can you keep away from me? I am the same women, Angel, as you fell in love with; yes, the very same!--not the one you disliked but never saw. What was the past to me as soon as I met you? It was a dead thing altogether. I became another woman, filled full of new life from you. How could I be the early one? Why do you not see this? Dear, if you would only be a little more conceited, and believe in yourself so far as to see that you were strong enough to work this change in me, you would perhaps be in a mind to come to me, your poor wife. How silly I was in my happiness when I thought I could trust you always to love me! I ought to have known that such as that was not for poor me. But I am sick at heart, not only for old times, but for the present. Think--think how it do hurt my heart not to see you ever--ever! Ah, if I could only make your dear heart ache one little minute of each day as mine does every day and all day long, it might lead you to show pity to your poor lonely one. People still say that I am rather pretty, Angel (handsome is the word they use, since I wish to be truthful). Perhaps I am what they say. But I do not value my good looks; I only like to have them because they belong to you, my dear, and that there may be at least one thing about me worth your having. So much have I felt this, that when I met with annoyance on account of the same, I tied up my face in a bandage as long as people would believe in it. O Angel, I tell you all this not from vanity--you will certainly know I do not--but only that you may come to me! If you really cannot come to me, will you let me come to you? I am, as I say, worried, pressed to do what I will not do. It cannot be that I shall yield one inch, yet I am in terror as to what an accident might lead to, and I so defenceless on account of my first error. I cannot say more about this--it makes me too miserable. But if I break down by falling into some fearful snare, my last state will be worse than my first. O God, I cannot think of it! Let me come at once, or at once come to me! I would be content, ay, glad, to live with you as your servant, if I may not as your wife; so that I could only be near you, and get glimpses of you, and think of you as mine. The daylight has nothing to show me, since you are not here, and I don't like to see the rooks and starlings in the field, because I grieve and grieve to miss you who used to see them with me. I long for only one thing in heaven or earth or under the earth, to meet you, my own dear! Come to me--come to me, and save me from what threatens me!-- Your faithful heartbroken TESS

CHAPTER 48

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD58.asp

Alec continues to visit Tess and offer his help. He reminds her that he has the financial means to help both her and her family. Tess clearly states that she will take nothing from him, no matter how hard she must work. Tess continues to center all of her attention on Angel. She writes him a touching letter, filled with emotion. She swears her devotion to him, begs him to come to her, and tells him she is threatened. She also reminds him of the happy times they had shared at Talbothays.

Notes Tess's letter is meant to appeal to Angel's sentimental and gentle heart. By baring her soul to him in Brazil, she hopes to win him back. After more than a year, Tess still refuses to give up hope

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/chapters_23_to_27.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Sense and Sensibility/section_5_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapters 23-27

chapters 23-27

{"name": "Chapters 23-27", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210123003206/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/sensibility/section6/", "summary": "Elinor reflects on Lucy's news and reasons that her engagement to Edward must have been the product of youthful infatuation. She is certain that Edward could not possibly still love Lucy after four years of getting to know this frivolous and ignorant woman. She is also relieved that she does not have to share Lucy's news with her mother and sister, since she has been sworn to secrecy. She and Lucy converse at length about Edward Ferrars during a dinner party at Barton Park shortly thereafter. While Marianne is playing the piano and everyone else is absorbed in a card game, Elinor and Lucy sit rolling papers for a filigree basket for Lady Middleton's daughter, Annamaria. Lucy confesses to Elinor that she is a very jealous woman, but that she has no reason to suspect Edward of unfaithfulness. She states that it would be madness for her and Edward to marry while he has only two thousand pounds; they must wait until they inherit Mrs. Ferrars's wealth. If they were to announce their engagement while Mrs. Ferrars was still living, the headstrong woman would disinherit Edward and give all her money to her younger son Robert; thus, they must be patient and secretive. Following this conversation, Lucy loses no opportunity to speak to Elinor about her secret engagement, much to the latter's consternation. Lucy expresses disappointment that Elinor has no plans to come to London in the winter, but soon after this Mrs. Jennings invites the Dashwood sisters to join her at her home in town near Portman Square. At first, the girls decline her offer on the grounds that they cannot leave their mother alone at Barton, but Mrs. Dashwood assures them that it would give her great pleasure to allow her daughters to enjoy themselves in London. Marianne is overjoyed that she will get to see Willoughby at long last, but Elinor is apprehensive about the journey because she does not want to find herself in the company of both Lucy and Edward together. After a journey lasting three days in Mrs. Jennings' carriage, the Dashwood sisters arrive in London. Elinor immediately writes a letter to their mother, while Marianne composes a brief note announcing their arrival to John Willoughby. Marianne eagerly awaits Willoughby's visit, and is exceedingly disappointed that evening when Colonel Brandon shows up instead. Marianne leaves the room in frustration and Colonel Brandon delivers the message that Mrs. Palmer plans to arrive the next day. When Mrs. Palmer arrives, she goes shopping in town with the Dashwood sisters and Mrs. Jennings. Immediately upon their return home, Marianne rushes to see if she has received mail from Willoughby, but there are no letters for her. When Mrs. Jennings comments on the rainy weather, Marianne reasons that Willoughby must be stuck in the country on account of the rain. Sir John and Lady Middleton arrive in town and host a ball at their home for about twenty young people, including the Palmers and the Dashwoods. Because Willoughby is not in attendance, Marianne is dejected and withdrawn. When they return from the party, Mrs. Jennings informs them that Willoughby had been invited to the ball but declined the invitation. Marianne is astonished and miserable, and Elinor concludes that she must ask her mother to inquire into Marianne and Willoughby's status once and for all. Colonel Brandon arrives at Mrs. Jennings's London home to speak with Elinor. He asks her if it is true, as everyone claims, that Marianne and Willoughby are engaged. Elinor is surprised that so many people are discussing an engagement that has not been officially announced. She diplomatically informs Colonel Brandon that though she knows nothing of her sister's engagement, she has no doubt of their mutual affection. Brandon leaves after expressing his wish that Marianne be happy--and that Willoughby endeavor to deserve her.", "analysis": "Commentary Even when Lucy Steele is revealing her greatest secret to Elinor, she must do so in hushed tones and with an atmosphere of concealment. As the rest of the dinner party plays cards, Lucy whispers to Elinor the story of her long and secret engagement to Edward. Although Lucy describes the history of their relationship accurately, her claims about Edward's steadfast faithfulness and their mutual affection are as fabricated as the basket in her hands; Edward, as Elinor assures herself, has eyes for her alone. Marianne's name suits her well: like the Mariana of Shakespeare's Measure for Measure, who waits by the moated grange for her lover, Austen's heroine pines away for Willoughby and awaits his visit from the moment she first arrives in town with Mrs. Jennings and Elinor. Marianne's name is also a mirror image of Annamaria, Lady Middleton's spoiled young daughter, who will be \"miserable\" if her filigree basket is not completed before she goes to bed. By this close kinship of names, Austen suggests that Marianne's excessive sensibility and romanticism resembles the eagerness and impatience of a spoiled little girl. Willoughby does not appear in any of these chapters, yet he figures prominently in the thoughts of those characters who do. Mrs. Jennings implies that Marianne would welcome the opportunity to travel to town with her in the hope of seeing Willoughby, and Marianne is enthusiastic about the prospect for this very reason. When they arrive in town, she is increasingly wretched with each passing day that he does not visit. Elinor, too, thinks of Willoughby at length because she is concerned about her sister's welfare. Even Colonel Brandon calls on Elinor in order to discuss Marianne's relationship with Willoughby and to inform Elinor that everyone in town is discussing their engagement. These frequent references to Willoughby heighten our anxiety concerning the true nature of his commitment to Marianne, and enable us as readers to experience some of Marianne's longing for that which is never present. Though Willoughby does not appear, Marianne mistakes Colonel Brandon for him when the latter comes to visit the Dashwood sisters in London. This is one of many suggestions in the novel that people may be substituted for one another: Marianne had earlier mistaken Edward Ferrars on horseback for John Willoughby; Elinor mistakes Lucy's hair for her own in Edward's ring; and Elinor initially mistakes Robert for Edward as the object of Lucy's affections. These scenes in which some characters fail to recognize others provide subtext for a novel in which one young woman thinks she is in love with one man but ends up loving someone else, and another young woman becomes engaged to one brother but then decides to marry the other."}

However small Elinor's general dependence on Lucy's veracity might be, it was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it in the present case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of inventing a falsehood of such a description. What Lucy had asserted to be true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared not longer doubt; supported as it was too on every side by such probabilities and proofs, and contradicted by nothing but her own wishes. Their opportunity of acquaintance in the house of Mr. Pratt was a foundation for the rest, at once indisputable and alarming; and Edward's visit near Plymouth, his melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at his own prospects, his uncertain behaviour towards herself, the intimate knowledge of the Miss Steeles as to Norland and their family connections, which had often surprised her, the picture, the letter, the ring, formed altogether such a body of evidence, as overcame every fear of condemning him unfairly, and established as a fact, which no partiality could set aside, his ill-treatment of herself.--Her resentment of such behaviour, her indignation at having been its dupe, for a short time made her feel only for herself; but other ideas, other considerations, soon arose. Had Edward been intentionally deceiving her? Had he feigned a regard for her which he did not feel? Was his engagement to Lucy an engagement of the heart? No; whatever it might once have been, she could not believe it such at present. His affection was all her own. She could not be deceived in that. Her mother, sisters, Fanny, all had been conscious of his regard for her at Norland; it was not an illusion of her own vanity. He certainly loved her. What a softener of the heart was this persuasion! How much could it not tempt her to forgive! He had been blamable, highly blamable, in remaining at Norland after he first felt her influence over him to be more than it ought to be. In that, he could not be defended; but if he had injured her, how much more had he injured himself; if her case were pitiable, his was hopeless. His imprudence had made her miserable for a while; but it seemed to have deprived himself of all chance of ever being otherwise. She might in time regain tranquillity; but HE, what had he to look forward to? Could he ever be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele; could he, were his affection for herself out of the question, with his integrity, his delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like her--illiterate, artful, and selfish? The youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to every thing but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding years--years, which if rationally spent, give such improvement to the understanding, must have opened his eyes to her defects of education, while the same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society and more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed her of that simplicity which might once have given an interesting character to her beauty. If in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his difficulties from his mother had seemed great, how much greater were they now likely to be, when the object of his engagement was undoubtedly inferior in connections, and probably inferior in fortune to herself. These difficulties, indeed, with a heart so alienated from Lucy, might not press very hard upon his patience; but melancholy was the state of the person by whom the expectation of family opposition and unkindness, could be felt as a relief! As these considerations occurred to her in painful succession, she wept for him, more than for herself. Supported by the conviction of having done nothing to merit her present unhappiness, and consoled by the belief that Edward had done nothing to forfeit her esteem, she thought she could even now, under the first smart of the heavy blow, command herself enough to guard every suspicion of the truth from her mother and sisters. And so well was she able to answer her own expectations, that when she joined them at dinner only two hours after she had first suffered the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one would have supposed from the appearance of the sisters, that Elinor was mourning in secret over obstacles which must divide her for ever from the object of her love, and that Marianne was internally dwelling on the perfections of a man, of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly possessed, and whom she expected to see in every carriage which drove near their house. The necessity of concealing from her mother and Marianne, what had been entrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to unceasing exertion, was no aggravation of Elinor's distress. On the contrary it was a relief to her, to be spared the communication of what would give such affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from hearing that condemnation of Edward, which would probably flow from the excess of their partial affection for herself, and which was more than she felt equal to support. From their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could receive no assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress, while her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their example nor from their praise. She was stronger alone, and her own good sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken, her appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so poignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be. Much as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy on the subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for more reasons than one. She wanted to hear many particulars of their engagement repeated again, she wanted more clearly to understand what Lucy really felt for Edward, whether there were any sincerity in her declaration of tender regard for him, and she particularly wanted to convince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matter again, and her calmness in conversing on it, that she was no otherwise interested in it than as a friend, which she very much feared her involuntary agitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least doubtful. That Lucy was disposed to be jealous of her appeared very probable: it was plain that Edward had always spoken highly in her praise, not merely from Lucy's assertion, but from her venturing to trust her on so short a personal acquaintance, with a secret so confessedly and evidently important. And even Sir John's joking intelligence must have had some weight. But indeed, while Elinor remained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by Edward, it required no other consideration of probabilities to make it natural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her very confidence was a proof. What other reason for the disclosure of the affair could there be, but that Elinor might be informed by it of Lucy's superior claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid him in future? She had little difficulty in understanding thus much of her rival's intentions, and while she was firmly resolved to act by her as every principle of honour and honesty directed, to combat her own affection for Edward and to see him as little as possible; she could not deny herself the comfort of endeavouring to convince Lucy that her heart was unwounded. And as she could now have nothing more painful to hear on the subject than had already been told, she did not mistrust her own ability of going through a repetition of particulars with composure. But it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be commanded, though Lucy was as well disposed as herself to take advantage of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine enough to allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most easily separate themselves from the others; and though they met at least every other evening either at the park or cottage, and chiefly at the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of conversation. Such a thought would never enter either Sir John or Lady Middleton's head; and therefore very little leisure was ever given for a general chat, and none at all for particular discourse. They met for the sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards, or consequences, or any other game that was sufficiently noisy. One or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording Elinor any chance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called at the cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they would all dine with Lady Middleton that day, as he was obliged to attend the club at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone, except her mother and the two Miss Steeles. Elinor, who foresaw a fairer opening for the point she had in view, in such a party as this was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil and well-bred direction of Lady Middleton than when her husband united them together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the invitation; Margaret, with her mother's permission, was equally compliant, and Marianne, though always unwilling to join any of their parties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to have her seclude herself from any chance of amusement, to go likewise. The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved from the frightful solitude which had threatened her. The insipidity of the meeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected; it produced not one novelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less interesting than the whole of their discourse both in the dining parlour and drawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied them, and while they remained there, she was too well convinced of the impossibility of engaging Lucy's attention to attempt it. They quitted it only with the removal of the tea-things. The card-table was then placed, and Elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope of finding time for conversation at the park. They all rose up in preparation for a round game. "I am glad," said Lady Middleton to Lucy, "you are not going to finish poor little Annamaria's basket this evening; for I am sure it must hurt your eyes to work filigree by candlelight. And we will make the dear little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and then I hope she will not much mind it." This hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instantly and replied, "Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting to know whether you can make your party without me, or I should have been at my filigree already. I would not disappoint the little angel for all the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, I am resolved to finish the basket after supper." "You are very good, I hope it won't hurt your eyes--will you ring the bell for some working candles? My poor little girl would be sadly disappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for though I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon having it done." Lucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with an alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could taste no greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt child. Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino to the others. No one made any objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to the forms of general civility, exclaimed, "Your Ladyship will have the goodness to excuse ME--you know I detest cards. I shall go to the piano-forte; I have not touched it since it was tuned." And without farther ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument. Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that SHE had never made so rude a speech. "Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma'am," said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and I do not much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever heard." The remaining five were now to draw their cards. "Perhaps," continued Elinor, "if I should happen to cut out, I may be of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossible I think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. I should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it." "Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help," cried Lucy, "for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there was; and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Annamaria after all." "Oh! that would be terrible, indeed," said Miss Steele-- "Dear little soul, how I do love her!" "You are very kind," said Lady Middleton to Elinor; "and as you really like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in till another rubber, or will you take your chance now?" Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by a little of that address which Marianne could never condescend to practise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same time. Lucy made room for her with ready attention, and the two fair rivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work. The pianoforte at which Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own thoughts, had by this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides herself, was luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she might safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting subject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table. In a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began. "I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with, if I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its subject. I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again." "Thank you," cried Lucy warmly, "for breaking the ice; you have set my heart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I had offended you by what I told you that Monday." "Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me," and Elinor spoke it with the truest sincerity, "nothing could be farther from my intention than to give you such an idea. Could you have a motive for the trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?" "And yet I do assure you," replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes full of meaning, "there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your manner that made me quite uncomfortable. I felt sure that you was angry with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for having took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs. But I am very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not blame me. If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my heart speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of my life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else I am sure." "Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you, to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall never have reason to repent it. Your case is a very unfortunate one; you seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have need of all your mutual affection to support you under them. Mr. Ferrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother." "He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to marry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every prospect of more without a sigh. I have been always used to a very small income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love him too well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his mother might give him if he married to please her. We must wait, it may be for many years. With almost every other man in the world, it would be an alarming prospect; but Edward's affection and constancy nothing can deprive me of I know." "That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly supported by the same trust in your's. If the strength of your reciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under many circumstances it naturally would during a four years' engagement, your situation would have been pitiable, indeed." Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her countenance from every expression that could give her words a suspicious tendency. "Edward's love for me," said Lucy, "has been pretty well put to the test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt it now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's alarm on that account from the first." Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion. Lucy went on. "I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the world than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any lowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had talked more of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at Longstaple than he used to be. I do not mean to say that I am particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case I am sure I could not be deceived." "All this," thought Elinor, "is very pretty; but it can impose upon neither of us." "But what," said she after a short silence, "are your views? or have you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars's death, which is a melancholy and shocking extremity?--Is her son determined to submit to this, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a while by owning the truth?" "If we could be certain that it would be only for a while! But Mrs. Ferrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of anger upon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to Robert, and the idea of that, for Edward's sake, frightens away all my inclination for hasty measures." "And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness beyond reason." Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent. "Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?" asked Elinor. "Not at all--I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his brother--silly and a great coxcomb." "A great coxcomb!" repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those words by a sudden pause in Marianne's music.-- "Oh, they are talking of their favourite beaux, I dare say." "No sister," cried Lucy, "you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux are NOT great coxcombs." "I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood's is not," said Mrs. Jennings, laughing heartily; "for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved young men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little creature, there is no finding out who SHE likes." "Oh," cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them, "I dare say Lucy's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss Dashwood's." Elinor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit her lip, and looked angrily at her sister. A mutual silence took place for some time. Lucy first put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Marianne was then giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent concerto-- "I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my head, for bringing matters to bear; indeed I am bound to let you into the secret, for you are a party concerned. I dare say you have seen enough of Edward to know that he would prefer the church to every other profession; now my plan is that he should take orders as soon as he can, and then through your interest, which I am sure you would be kind enough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope out of some regard to me, your brother might be persuaded to give him Norland living; which I understand is a very good one, and the present incumbent not likely to live a great while. That would be enough for us to marry upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest." "I should always be happy," replied Elinor, "to show any mark of my esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do you not perceive that my interest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary? He is brother to Mrs. John Dashwood--THAT must be recommendation enough to her husband." "But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward's going into orders." "Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little." They were again silent for many minutes. At length Lucy exclaimed with a deep sigh, "I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at once by dissolving the engagement. We seem so beset with difficulties on every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we should be happier perhaps in the end. But you will not give me your advice, Miss Dashwood?" "No," answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated feelings, "on such a subject I certainly will not. You know very well that my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the side of your wishes." "Indeed you wrong me," replied Lucy, with great solemnity; "I know nobody of whose judgment I think so highly as I do of yours; and I do really believe, that if you was to say to me, 'I advise you by all means to put an end to your engagement with Edward Ferrars, it will be more for the happiness of both of you,' I should resolve upon doing it immediately." Elinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward's future wife, and replied, "This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving any opinion on the subject had I formed one. It raises my influence much too high; the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too much for an indifferent person." "'Tis because you are an indifferent person," said Lucy, with some pique, and laying a particular stress on those words, "that your judgment might justly have such weight with me. If you could be supposed to be biased in any respect by your own feelings, your opinion would not be worth having." Elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve; and was even partly determined never to mention the subject again. Another pause therefore of many minutes' duration, succeeded this speech, and Lucy was still the first to end it. "Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?" said she with all her accustomary complacency. "Certainly not." "I am sorry for that," returned the other, while her eyes brightened at the information, "it would have gave me such pleasure to meet you there! But I dare say you will go for all that. To be sure, your brother and sister will ask you to come to them." "It will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do." "How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there. Anne and me are to go the latter end of January to some relations who have been wanting us to visit them these several years! But I only go for the sake of seeing Edward. He will be there in February, otherwise London would have no charms for me; I have not spirits for it." Elinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the first rubber, and the confidential discourse of the two ladies was therefore at an end, to which both of them submitted without any reluctance, for nothing had been said on either side to make them dislike each other less than they had done before; and Elinor sat down to the card table with the melancholy persuasion that Edward was not only without affection for the person who was to be his wife; but that he had not even the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which sincere affection on HER side would have given, for self-interest alone could induce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which she seemed so thoroughly aware that he was weary. From this time the subject was never revived by Elinor, and when entered on by Lucy, who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing it, and was particularly careful to inform her confidante, of her happiness whenever she received a letter from Edward, it was treated by the former with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as civility would allow; for she felt such conversations to be an indulgence which Lucy did not deserve, and which were dangerous to herself. The visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was lengthened far beyond what the first invitation implied. Their favour increased; they could not be spared; Sir John would not hear of their going; and in spite of their numerous and long arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of the absolute necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, which was in full force at the end of every week, they were prevailed on to stay nearly two months at the park, and to assist in the due celebration of that festival which requires a more than ordinary share of private balls and large dinners to proclaim its importance. Though Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without a settled habitation of her own. Since the death of her husband, who had traded with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had resided every winter in a house in one of the streets near Portman Square. Towards this home, she began on the approach of January to turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and very unexpectedly by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to accompany her. Elinor, without observing the varying complexion of her sister, and the animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself to be speaking their united inclinations. The reason alleged was their determined resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the year. Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some surprise, and repeated her invitation immediately. "Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I DO beg you will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart upon it. Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I shan't put myself at all out of my way for you. It will only be sending Betty by the coach, and I hope I can afford THAT. We three shall be able to go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town, if you do not like to go wherever I do, well and good, you may always go with one of my daughters. I am sure your mother will not object to it; for I have had such good luck in getting my own children off my hands that she will think me a very fit person to have the charge of you; and if I don't get one of you at least well married before I have done with you, it shall not be my fault. I shall speak a good word for you to all the young men, you may depend upon it." "I have a notion," said Sir John, "that Miss Marianne would not object to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it. It is very hard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss Dashwood does not wish it. So I would advise you two, to set off for town, when you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss Dashwood about it." "Nay," cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of Miss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only the more the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable for them to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might talk to one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back. But one or the other, if not both of them, I must have. Lord bless me! how do you think I can live poking by myself, I who have been always used till this winter to have Charlotte with me. Come, Miss Marianne, let us strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her mind by and bye, why so much the better." "I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you," said Marianne, with warmth: "your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would give me such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of, to be able to accept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother,--I feel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made less happy, less comfortable by our absence--Oh! no, nothing should tempt me to leave her. It should not, must not be a struggle." Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare them perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister, and saw to what indifference to almost every thing else she was carried by her eagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no farther direct opposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's decision, from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any support in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not approve of for Marianne, and which on her own account she had particular reasons to avoid. Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her mother would be eager to promote--she could not expect to influence the latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which she had never been able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared not explain the motive of her own disinclination for going to London. That Marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs. Jennings' manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be most wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object, was such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object to her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to witness. On being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that such an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her daughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to herself, how much the heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of their declining the offer upon HER account; insisted on their both accepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her usual cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all, from this separation. "I am delighted with the plan," she cried, "it is exactly what I could wish. Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves. When you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and happily together with our books and our music! You will find Margaret so improved when you come back again! I have a little plan of alteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without any inconvenience to any one. It is very right that you SHOULD go to town; I would have every young woman of your condition in life acquainted with the manners and amusements of London. You will be under the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to you I can have no doubt. And in all probability you will see your brother, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife, when I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly estranged from each other." "Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness," said Elinor, "you have been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which occurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion, cannot be so easily removed." Marianne's countenance sunk. "And what," said Mrs. Dashwood, "is my dear prudent Elinor going to suggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? Do let me hear a word about the expense of it." "My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings's heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or whose protection will give us consequence." "That is very true," replied her mother, "but of her society, separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing at all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady Middleton." "If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings," said Marianne, "at least it need not prevent MY accepting her invitation. I have no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every unpleasantness of that kind with very little effort." Elinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards the manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in persuading Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved within herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go likewise, as she did not think it proper that Marianne should be left to the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should be abandoned to the mercy of Marianne for all the comfort of her domestic hours. To this determination she was the more easily reconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy's account, was not to be in town before February; and that their visit, without any unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished. "I will have you BOTH go," said Mrs. Dashwood; "these objections are nonsensical. You will have much pleasure in being in London, and especially in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to anticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of sources; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving her acquaintance with her sister-in-law's family." Elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her mother's dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that the shock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on this attack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to begin her design by saying, as calmly as she could, "I like Edward Ferrars very much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the rest of the family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, whether I am ever known to them or not." Mrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing. Marianne lifted up her eyes in astonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have held her tongue. After very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the invitation should be fully accepted. Mrs. Jennings received the information with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness and care; nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her. Sir John was delighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of being alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in London, was something. Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of being delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as for the Miss Steeles, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in their lives as this intelligence made them. Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with less reluctance than she had expected to feel. With regard to herself, it was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and when she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her sister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all her usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow herself to distrust the consequence. Marianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the perturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone. Her unwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness; and at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive. Her mother's affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one of the three, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing short of eternal. Their departure took place in the first week in January. The Middletons were to follow in about a week. The Miss Steeles kept their station at the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the family. Elinor could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings, and beginning a journey to London under her protection, and as her guest, without wondering at her own situation, so short had their acquaintance with that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age and disposition, and so many had been her objections against such a measure only a few days before! But these objections had all, with that happy ardour of youth which Marianne and her mother equally shared, been overcome or overlooked; and Elinor, in spite of every occasional doubt of Willoughby's constancy, could not witness the rapture of delightful expectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of Marianne, without feeling how blank was her own prospect, how cheerless her own state of mind in the comparison, and how gladly she would engage in the solicitude of Marianne's situation to have the same animating object in view, the same possibility of hope. A short, a very short time however must now decide what Willoughby's intentions were; in all probability he was already in town. Marianne's eagerness to be gone declared her dependence on finding him there; and Elinor was resolved not only upon gaining every new light as to his character which her own observation or the intelligence of others could give her, but likewise upon watching his behaviour to her sister with such zealous attention, as to ascertain what he was and what he meant, before many meetings had taken place. Should the result of her observations be unfavourable, she was determined at all events to open the eyes of her sister; should it be otherwise, her exertions would be of a different nature--she must then learn to avoid every selfish comparison, and banish every regret which might lessen her satisfaction in the happiness of Marianne. They were three days on their journey, and Marianne's behaviour as they travelled was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and companionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be. She sat in silence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely ever voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty within their view drew from her an exclamation of delight exclusively addressed to her sister. To atone for this conduct therefore, Elinor took immediate possession of the post of civility which she had assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to Mrs. Jennings, talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever she could; and Mrs. Jennings on her side treated them both with all possible kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their ease and enjoyment, and only disturbed that she could not make them choose their own dinners at the inn, nor extort a confession of their preferring salmon to cod, or boiled fowls to veal cutlets. They reached town by three o'clock the third day, glad to be released, after such a journey, from the confinement of a carriage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury of a good fire. The house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and the young ladies were immediately put in possession of a very comfortable apartment. It had formerly been Charlotte's, and over the mantelpiece still hung a landscape in coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her having spent seven years at a great school in town to some effect. As dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their arrival, Elinor determined to employ the interval in writing to her mother, and sat down for that purpose. In a few moments Marianne did the same. "I am writing home, Marianne," said Elinor; "had not you better defer your letter for a day or two?" "I am NOT going to write to my mother," replied Marianne, hastily, and as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry. Elinor said no more; it immediately struck her that she must then be writing to Willoughby; and the conclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however mysteriously they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be engaged. This conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her pleasure, and she continued her letter with greater alacrity. Marianne's was finished in a very few minutes; in length it could be no more than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, and directed with eager rapidity. Elinor thought she could distinguish a large W in the direction; and no sooner was it complete than Marianne, ringing the bell, requested the footman who answered it to get that letter conveyed for her to the two-penny post. This decided the matter at once. Her spirits still continued very high; but there was a flutter in them which prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this agitation increased as the evening drew on. She could scarcely eat any dinner, and when they afterwards returned to the drawing room, seemed anxiously listening to the sound of every carriage. It was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs. Jennings, by being much engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing. The tea things were brought in, and already had Marianne been disappointed more than once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was suddenly heard which could not be mistaken for one at any other house, Elinor felt secure of its announcing Willoughby's approach, and Marianne, starting up, moved towards the door. Every thing was silent; this could not be borne many seconds; she opened the door, advanced a few steps towards the stairs, and after listening half a minute, returned into the room in all the agitation which a conviction of having heard him would naturally produce; in the ecstasy of her feelings at that instant she could not help exclaiming, "Oh, Elinor, it is Willoughby, indeed it is!" and seemed almost ready to throw herself into his arms, when Colonel Brandon appeared. It was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she immediately left the room. Elinor was disappointed too; but at the same time her regard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her; and she felt particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister should perceive that she experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing him. She instantly saw that it was not unnoticed by him, that he even observed Marianne as she quitted the room, with such astonishment and concern, as hardly left him the recollection of what civility demanded towards herself. "Is your sister ill?" said he. Elinor answered in some distress that she was, and then talked of head-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of every thing to which she could decently attribute her sister's behaviour. He heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect himself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of his pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual inquiries about their journey, and the friends they had left behind. In this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side, they continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts of both engaged elsewhere. Elinor wished very much to ask whether Willoughby were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by any enquiry after his rival; and at length, by way of saying something, she asked if he had been in London ever since she had seen him last. "Yes," he replied, with some embarrassment, "almost ever since; I have been once or twice at Delaford for a few days, but it has never been in my power to return to Barton." This, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back to her remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with the uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs. Jennings, and she was fearful that her question had implied much more curiosity on the subject than she had ever felt. Mrs. Jennings soon came in. "Oh! Colonel," said she, with her usual noisy cheerfulness, "I am monstrous glad to see you--sorry I could not come before--beg your pardon, but I have been forced to look about me a little, and settle my matters; for it is a long while since I have been at home, and you know one has always a world of little odd things to do after one has been away for any time; and then I have had Cartwright to settle with-- Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever since dinner! But pray, Colonel, how came you to conjure out that I should be in town today?" "I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmer's, where I have been dining." "Oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at their house? How does Charlotte do? I warrant you she is a fine size by this time." "Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well, and I am commissioned to tell you, that you will certainly see her to-morrow." "Ay, to be sure, I thought as much. Well, Colonel, I have brought two young ladies with me, you see--that is, you see but one of them now, but there is another somewhere. Your friend, Miss Marianne, too--which you will not be sorry to hear. I do not know what you and Mr. Willoughby will do between you about her. Ay, it is a fine thing to be young and handsome. Well! I was young once, but I never was very handsome--worse luck for me. However, I got a very good husband, and I don't know what the greatest beauty can do more. Ah! poor man! he has been dead these eight years and better. But Colonel, where have you been to since we parted? And how does your business go on? Come, come, let's have no secrets among friends." He replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but without satisfying her in any. Elinor now began to make the tea, and Marianne was obliged to appear again. After her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more thoughtful and silent than he had been before, and Mrs. Jennings could not prevail on him to stay long. No other visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were unanimous in agreeing to go early to bed. Marianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy looks. The disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the expectation of what was to happen that day. They had not long finished their breakfast before Mrs. Palmer's barouche stopped at the door, and in a few minutes she came laughing into the room: so delighted to see them all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure from meeting her mother or the Miss Dashwoods again. So surprised at their coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all along; so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after having declined her own, though at the same time she would never have forgiven them if they had not come! "Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you," said she; "What do you think he said when he heard of your coming with Mama? I forget what it was now, but it was something so droll!" After an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable chat, or in other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their acquaintance on Mrs. Jennings's side, and in laughter without cause on Mrs. Palmer's, it was proposed by the latter that they should all accompany her to some shops where she had business that morning, to which Mrs. Jennings and Elinor readily consented, as having likewise some purchases to make themselves; and Marianne, though declining it at first was induced to go likewise. Wherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch. In Bond Street especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in constant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her mind was equally abstracted from every thing actually before them, from all that interested and occupied the others. Restless and dissatisfied every where, her sister could never obtain her opinion of any article of purchase, however it might equally concern them both: she received no pleasure from anything; was only impatient to be at home again, and could with difficulty govern her vexation at the tediousness of Mrs. Palmer, whose eye was caught by every thing pretty, expensive, or new; who was wild to buy all, could determine on none, and dawdled away her time in rapture and indecision. It was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner had they entered the house than Marianne flew eagerly up stairs, and when Elinor followed, she found her turning from the table with a sorrowful countenance, which declared that no Willoughby had been there. "Has no letter been left here for me since we went out?" said she to the footman who then entered with the parcels. She was answered in the negative. "Are you quite sure of it?" she replied. "Are you certain that no servant, no porter has left any letter or note?" The man replied that none had. "How very odd!" said she, in a low and disappointed voice, as she turned away to the window. "How odd, indeed!" repeated Elinor within herself, regarding her sister with uneasiness. "If she had not known him to be in town she would not have written to him, as she did; she would have written to Combe Magna; and if he is in town, how odd that he should neither come nor write! Oh! my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an engagement between a daughter so young, a man so little known, to be carried on in so doubtful, so mysterious a manner! I long to inquire; and how will MY interference be borne." She determined, after some consideration, that if appearances continued many days longer as unpleasant as they now were, she would represent in the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some serious enquiry into the affair. Mrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings's intimate acquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with them. The former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening engagements; and Elinor was obliged to assist in making a whist table for the others. Marianne was of no use on these occasions, as she would never learn the game; but though her time was therefore at her own disposal, the evening was by no means more productive of pleasure to her than to Elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of expectation and the pain of disappointment. She sometimes endeavoured for a few minutes to read; but the book was soon thrown aside, and she returned to the more interesting employment of walking backwards and forwards across the room, pausing for a moment whenever she came to the window, in hopes of distinguishing the long-expected rap. "If this open weather holds much longer," said Mrs. Jennings, when they met at breakfast the following morning, "Sir John will not like leaving Barton next week; 'tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a day's pleasure. Poor souls! I always pity them when they do; they seem to take it so much to heart." "That is true," cried Marianne, in a cheerful voice, and walking to the window as she spoke, to examine the day. "I had not thought of that. This weather will keep many sportsmen in the country." It was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were restored by it. "It is charming weather for THEM indeed," she continued, as she sat down to the breakfast table with a happy countenance. "How much they must enjoy it! But" (with a little return of anxiety) "it cannot be expected to last long. At this time of the year, and after such a series of rain, we shall certainly have very little more of it. Frosts will soon set in, and in all probability with severity. In another day or two perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last longer--nay, perhaps it may freeze tonight!" "At any rate," said Elinor, wishing to prevent Mrs. Jennings from seeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as she did, "I dare say we shall have Sir John and Lady Middleton in town by the end of next week." "Ay, my dear, I'll warrant you we do. Mary always has her own way." "And now," silently conjectured Elinor, "she will write to Combe by this day's post." But if she DID, the letter was written and sent away with a privacy which eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact. Whatever the truth of it might be, and far as Elinor was from feeling thorough contentment about it, yet while she saw Marianne in spirits, she could not be very uncomfortable herself. And Marianne was in spirits; happy in the mildness of the weather, and still happier in her expectation of a frost. The morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of Mrs. Jennings's acquaintance to inform them of her being in town; and Marianne was all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind, watching the variations of the sky and imagining an alteration in the air. "Don't you find it colder than it was in the morning, Elinor? There seems to me a very decided difference. I can hardly keep my hands warm even in my muff. It was not so yesterday, I think. The clouds seem parting too, the sun will be out in a moment, and we shall have a clear afternoon." Elinor was alternately diverted and pained; but Marianne persevered, and saw every night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning in the appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of approaching frost. The Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs. Jennings's style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her behaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind. Every thing in her household arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and excepting a few old city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton's regret, she had never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction could at all discompose the feelings of her young companions. Pleased to find herself more comfortably situated in that particular than she had expected, Elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much real enjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at home or abroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her. Colonel Brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was with them almost every day; he came to look at Marianne and talk to Elinor, who often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him than from any other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with much concern his continued regard for her sister. She feared it was a strengthening regard. It grieved her to see the earnestness with which he often watched Marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse than when at Barton. About a week after their arrival, it became certain that Willoughby was also arrived. His card was on the table when they came in from the morning's drive. "Good God!" cried Marianne, "he has been here while we were out." Elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured to say, "Depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow." But Marianne seemed hardly to hear her, and on Mrs. Jennings's entrance, escaped with the precious card. This event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor, restored to those of her sister all, and more than all, their former agitation. From this moment her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him every hour of the day, made her unfit for any thing. She insisted on being left behind, the next morning, when the others went out. Elinor's thoughts were full of what might be passing in Berkeley Street during their absence; but a moment's glance at her sister when they returned was enough to inform her, that Willoughby had paid no second visit there. A note was just then brought in, and laid on the table. "For me!" cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward. "No, ma'am, for my mistress." But Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up. "It is indeed for Mrs. Jennings; how provoking!" "You are expecting a letter, then?" said Elinor, unable to be longer silent. "Yes, a little--not much." After a short pause. "You have no confidence in me, Marianne." "Nay, Elinor, this reproach from YOU--you who have confidence in no one!" "Me!" returned Elinor in some confusion; "indeed, Marianne, I have nothing to tell." "Nor I," answered Marianne with energy, "our situations then are alike. We have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you do not communicate, and I, because I conceal nothing." Elinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she was not at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to press for greater openness in Marianne. Mrs. Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read it aloud. It was from Lady Middleton, announcing their arrival in Conduit Street the night before, and requesting the company of her mother and cousins the following evening. Business on Sir John's part, and a violent cold on her own, prevented their calling in Berkeley Street. The invitation was accepted; but when the hour of appointment drew near, necessary as it was in common civility to Mrs. Jennings, that they should both attend her on such a visit, Elinor had some difficulty in persuading her sister to go, for still she had seen nothing of Willoughby; and therefore was not more indisposed for amusement abroad, than unwilling to run the risk of his calling again in her absence. Elinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not materially altered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled in town, Sir John had contrived to collect around him, nearly twenty young people, and to amuse them with a ball. This was an affair, however, of which Lady Middleton did not approve. In the country, an unpremeditated dance was very allowable; but in London, where the reputation of elegance was more important and less easily attained, it was risking too much for the gratification of a few girls, to have it known that Lady Middleton had given a small dance of eight or nine couple, with two violins, and a mere side-board collation. Mr. and Mrs. Palmer were of the party; from the former, whom they had not seen before since their arrival in town, as he was careful to avoid the appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and therefore never came near her, they received no mark of recognition on their entrance. He looked at them slightly, without seeming to know who they were, and merely nodded to Mrs. Jennings from the other side of the room. Marianne gave one glance round the apartment as she entered: it was enough--HE was not there--and she sat down, equally ill-disposed to receive or communicate pleasure. After they had been assembled about an hour, Mr. Palmer sauntered towards the Miss Dashwoods to express his surprise on seeing them in town, though Colonel Brandon had been first informed of their arrival at his house, and he had himself said something very droll on hearing that they were to come. "I thought you were both in Devonshire," said he. "Did you?" replied Elinor. "When do you go back again?" "I do not know." And thus ended their discourse. Never had Marianne been so unwilling to dance in her life, as she was that evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise. She complained of it as they returned to Berkeley Street. "Aye, aye," said Mrs. Jennings, "we know the reason of all that very well; if a certain person who shall be nameless, had been there, you would not have been a bit tired: and to say the truth it was not very pretty of him not to give you the meeting when he was invited." "Invited!" cried Marianne. "So my daughter Middleton told me, for it seems Sir John met him somewhere in the street this morning." Marianne said no more, but looked exceedingly hurt. Impatient in this situation to be doing something that might lead to her sister's relief, Elinor resolved to write the next morning to her mother, and hoped by awakening her fears for the health of Marianne, to procure those inquiries which had been so long delayed; and she was still more eagerly bent on this measure by perceiving after breakfast on the morrow, that Marianne was again writing to Willoughby, for she could not suppose it to be to any other person. About the middle of the day, Mrs. Jennings went out by herself on business, and Elinor began her letter directly, while Marianne, too restless for employment, too anxious for conversation, walked from one window to the other, or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation. Elinor was very earnest in her application to her mother, relating all that had passed, her suspicions of Willoughby's inconstancy, urging her by every plea of duty and affection to demand from Marianne an account of her real situation with respect to him. Her letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and Colonel Brandon was announced. Marianne, who had seen him from the window, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he entered it. He looked more than usually grave, and though expressing satisfaction at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat in particular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word. Elinor, persuaded that he had some communication to make in which her sister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening. It was not the first time of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for, more than once before, beginning with the observation of "your sister looks unwell to-day," or "your sister seems out of spirits," he had appeared on the point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring, something particular about her. After a pause of several minutes, their silence was broken, by his asking her in a voice of some agitation, when he was to congratulate her on the acquisition of a brother? Elinor was not prepared for such a question, and having no answer ready, was obliged to adopt the simple and common expedient, of asking what he meant? He tried to smile as he replied, "your sister's engagement to Mr. Willoughby is very generally known." "It cannot be generally known," returned Elinor, "for her own family do not know it." He looked surprised and said, "I beg your pardon, I am afraid my inquiry has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy intended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally talked of." "How can that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned?" "By many--by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you are most intimate, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons. But still I might not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps rather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to support its doubts, if I had not, when the servant let me in today, accidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to Mr. Willoughby in your sister's writing. I came to inquire, but I was convinced before I could ask the question. Is every thing finally settled? Is it impossible to-? But I have no right, and I could have no chance of succeeding. Excuse me, Miss Dashwood. I believe I have been wrong in saying so much, but I hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I have the strongest dependence. Tell me that it is all absolutely resolved on, that any attempt, that in short concealment, if concealment be possible, is all that remains." These words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal of his love for her sister, affected her very much. She was not immediately able to say anything, and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated for a short time, on the answer it would be most proper to give. The real state of things between Willoughby and her sister was so little known to herself, that in endeavouring to explain it, she might be as liable to say too much as too little. Yet as she was convinced that Marianne's affection for Willoughby, could leave no hope of Colonel Brandon's success, whatever the event of that affection might be, and at the same time wished to shield her conduct from censure, she thought it most prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say more than she really knew or believed. She acknowledged, therefore, that though she had never been informed by themselves of the terms on which they stood with each other, of their mutual affection she had no doubt, and of their correspondence she was not astonished to hear. He listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak, rose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion, "to your sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he may endeavour to deserve her,"--took leave, and went away. Elinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation, to lessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points; she was left, on the contrary, with a melancholy impression of Colonel Brandon's unhappiness, and was prevented even from wishing it removed, by her anxiety for the very event that must confirm it.

Chapters 23-27

https://web.archive.org/web/20210123003206/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/sensibility/section6/

Elinor reflects on Lucy's news and reasons that her engagement to Edward must have been the product of youthful infatuation. She is certain that Edward could not possibly still love Lucy after four years of getting to know this frivolous and ignorant woman. She is also relieved that she does not have to share Lucy's news with her mother and sister, since she has been sworn to secrecy. She and Lucy converse at length about Edward Ferrars during a dinner party at Barton Park shortly thereafter. While Marianne is playing the piano and everyone else is absorbed in a card game, Elinor and Lucy sit rolling papers for a filigree basket for Lady Middleton's daughter, Annamaria. Lucy confesses to Elinor that she is a very jealous woman, but that she has no reason to suspect Edward of unfaithfulness. She states that it would be madness for her and Edward to marry while he has only two thousand pounds; they must wait until they inherit Mrs. Ferrars's wealth. If they were to announce their engagement while Mrs. Ferrars was still living, the headstrong woman would disinherit Edward and give all her money to her younger son Robert; thus, they must be patient and secretive. Following this conversation, Lucy loses no opportunity to speak to Elinor about her secret engagement, much to the latter's consternation. Lucy expresses disappointment that Elinor has no plans to come to London in the winter, but soon after this Mrs. Jennings invites the Dashwood sisters to join her at her home in town near Portman Square. At first, the girls decline her offer on the grounds that they cannot leave their mother alone at Barton, but Mrs. Dashwood assures them that it would give her great pleasure to allow her daughters to enjoy themselves in London. Marianne is overjoyed that she will get to see Willoughby at long last, but Elinor is apprehensive about the journey because she does not want to find herself in the company of both Lucy and Edward together. After a journey lasting three days in Mrs. Jennings' carriage, the Dashwood sisters arrive in London. Elinor immediately writes a letter to their mother, while Marianne composes a brief note announcing their arrival to John Willoughby. Marianne eagerly awaits Willoughby's visit, and is exceedingly disappointed that evening when Colonel Brandon shows up instead. Marianne leaves the room in frustration and Colonel Brandon delivers the message that Mrs. Palmer plans to arrive the next day. When Mrs. Palmer arrives, she goes shopping in town with the Dashwood sisters and Mrs. Jennings. Immediately upon their return home, Marianne rushes to see if she has received mail from Willoughby, but there are no letters for her. When Mrs. Jennings comments on the rainy weather, Marianne reasons that Willoughby must be stuck in the country on account of the rain. Sir John and Lady Middleton arrive in town and host a ball at their home for about twenty young people, including the Palmers and the Dashwoods. Because Willoughby is not in attendance, Marianne is dejected and withdrawn. When they return from the party, Mrs. Jennings informs them that Willoughby had been invited to the ball but declined the invitation. Marianne is astonished and miserable, and Elinor concludes that she must ask her mother to inquire into Marianne and Willoughby's status once and for all. Colonel Brandon arrives at Mrs. Jennings's London home to speak with Elinor. He asks her if it is true, as everyone claims, that Marianne and Willoughby are engaged. Elinor is surprised that so many people are discussing an engagement that has not been officially announced. She diplomatically informs Colonel Brandon that though she knows nothing of her sister's engagement, she has no doubt of their mutual affection. Brandon leaves after expressing his wish that Marianne be happy--and that Willoughby endeavor to deserve her.

Commentary Even when Lucy Steele is revealing her greatest secret to Elinor, she must do so in hushed tones and with an atmosphere of concealment. As the rest of the dinner party plays cards, Lucy whispers to Elinor the story of her long and secret engagement to Edward. Although Lucy describes the history of their relationship accurately, her claims about Edward's steadfast faithfulness and their mutual affection are as fabricated as the basket in her hands; Edward, as Elinor assures herself, has eyes for her alone. Marianne's name suits her well: like the Mariana of Shakespeare's Measure for Measure, who waits by the moated grange for her lover, Austen's heroine pines away for Willoughby and awaits his visit from the moment she first arrives in town with Mrs. Jennings and Elinor. Marianne's name is also a mirror image of Annamaria, Lady Middleton's spoiled young daughter, who will be "miserable" if her filigree basket is not completed before she goes to bed. By this close kinship of names, Austen suggests that Marianne's excessive sensibility and romanticism resembles the eagerness and impatience of a spoiled little girl. Willoughby does not appear in any of these chapters, yet he figures prominently in the thoughts of those characters who do. Mrs. Jennings implies that Marianne would welcome the opportunity to travel to town with her in the hope of seeing Willoughby, and Marianne is enthusiastic about the prospect for this very reason. When they arrive in town, she is increasingly wretched with each passing day that he does not visit. Elinor, too, thinks of Willoughby at length because she is concerned about her sister's welfare. Even Colonel Brandon calls on Elinor in order to discuss Marianne's relationship with Willoughby and to inform Elinor that everyone in town is discussing their engagement. These frequent references to Willoughby heighten our anxiety concerning the true nature of his commitment to Marianne, and enable us as readers to experience some of Marianne's longing for that which is never present. Though Willoughby does not appear, Marianne mistakes Colonel Brandon for him when the latter comes to visit the Dashwood sisters in London. This is one of many suggestions in the novel that people may be substituted for one another: Marianne had earlier mistaken Edward Ferrars on horseback for John Willoughby; Elinor mistakes Lucy's hair for her own in Edward's ring; and Elinor initially mistakes Robert for Edward as the object of Lucy's affections. These scenes in which some characters fail to recognize others provide subtext for a novel in which one young woman thinks she is in love with one man but ends up loving someone else, and another young woman becomes engaged to one brother but then decides to marry the other.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/09.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_2_part_3.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 9

chapter 9

{"name": "CHAPTER 9", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD17.asp", "summary": "On reaching her destination, Tess is shocked to discover that Mrs. D'Urberville is blind. She also finds the elderly woman to be cold and uncaring towards her. Tess learns from her that in addition to tending the Trantridge fowl, she is to whistle for the bullfinches every morning. Alec seizes this opportunity to teach Tess how to whistle and encourages her to practice. He tries to find reasons to spend time with her. Tess tries to ignore him and settles into her new existence.", "analysis": "Notes The reader is introduced to the D'Urberville house, which Tess judges to be a bit unruly. She is shocked to find that Mrs. D'Urberville is blind and too naive to realize that the elderly woman knows nothing about who Tess is. She thinks that the woman's indifference to her is simply due to her wealth. Alec has obviously not explained anything to his mother, but he delights in calling Tess \"cousin\" when they are alone. In spite of Alec's all too frequent presence, Tess settles into her new routine and is happy looking after the birds"}

The community of fowls to which Tess had been appointed as supervisor, purveyor, nurse, surgeon, and friend made its headquarters in an old thatched cottage standing in an enclosure that had once been a garden, but was now a trampled and sanded square. The house was overrun with ivy, its chimney being enlarged by the boughs of the parasite to the aspect of a ruined tower. The lower rooms were entirely given over to the birds, who walked about them with a proprietary air, as though the place had been built by themselves, and not by certain dusty copyholders who now lay east and west in the churchyard. The descendants of these bygone owners felt it almost as a slight to their family when the house which had so much of their affection, had cost so much of their forefathers' money, and had been in their possession for several generations before the d'Urbervilles came and built here, was indifferently turned into a fowl-house by Mrs Stoke-d'Urberville as soon as the property fell into hand according to law. "'Twas good enough for Christians in grandfather's time," they said. The rooms wherein dozens of infants had wailed at their nursing now resounded with the tapping of nascent chicks. Distracted hens in coops occupied spots where formerly stood chairs supporting sedate agriculturists. The chimney-corner and once-blazing hearth was now filled with inverted beehives, in which the hens laid their eggs; while out of doors the plots that each succeeding householder had carefully shaped with his spade were torn by the cocks in wildest fashion. The garden in which the cottage stood was surrounded by a wall, and could only be entered through a door. When Tess had occupied herself about an hour the next morning in altering and improving the arrangements, according to her skilled ideas as the daughter of a professed poulterer, the door in the wall opened and a servant in white cap and apron entered. She had come from the manor-house. "Mrs d'Urberville wants the fowls as usual," she said; but perceiving that Tess did not quite understand, she explained, "Mis'ess is a old lady, and blind." "Blind!" said Tess. Almost before her misgiving at the news could find time to shape itself she took, under her companion's direction, two of the most beautiful of the Hamburghs in her arms, and followed the maid-servant, who had likewise taken two, to the adjacent mansion, which, though ornate and imposing, showed traces everywhere on this side that some occupant of its chambers could bend to the love of dumb creatures--feathers floating within view of the front, and hen-coops standing on the grass. In a sitting-room on the ground-floor, ensconced in an armchair with her back to the light, was the owner and mistress of the estate, a white-haired woman of not more than sixty, or even less, wearing a large cap. She had the mobile face frequent in those whose sight has decayed by stages, has been laboriously striven after, and reluctantly let go, rather than the stagnant mien apparent in persons long sightless or born blind. Tess walked up to this lady with her feathered charges--one sitting on each arm. "Ah, you are the young woman come to look after my birds?" said Mrs d'Urberville, recognizing a new footstep. "I hope you will be kind to them. My bailiff tells me you are quite the proper person. Well, where are they? Ah, this is Strut! But he is hardly so lively to-day, is he? He is alarmed at being handled by a stranger, I suppose. And Phena too--yes, they are a little frightened--aren't you, dears? But they will soon get used to you." While the old lady had been speaking Tess and the other maid, in obedience to her gestures, had placed the fowls severally in her lap, and she had felt them over from head to tail, examining their beaks, their combs, the manes of the cocks, their wings, and their claws. Her touch enabled her to recognize them in a moment, and to discover if a single feather were crippled or draggled. She handled their crops, and knew what they had eaten, and if too little or too much; her face enacting a vivid pantomime of the criticisms passing in her mind. The birds that the two girls had brought in were duly returned to the yard, and the process was repeated till all the pet cocks and hens had been submitted to the old woman--Hamburghs, Bantams, Cochins, Brahmas, Dorkings, and such other sorts as were in fashion just then--her perception of each visitor being seldom at fault as she received the bird upon her knees. It reminded Tess of a Confirmation, in which Mrs d'Urberville was the bishop, the fowls the young people presented, and herself and the maid-servant the parson and curate of the parish bringing them up. At the end of the ceremony Mrs d'Urberville abruptly asked Tess, wrinkling and twitching her face into undulations, "Can you whistle?" "Whistle, Ma'am?" "Yes, whistle tunes." Tess could whistle like most other country-girls, though the accomplishment was one which she did not care to profess in genteel company. However, she blandly admitted that such was the fact. "Then you will have to practise it every day. I had a lad who did it very well, but he has left. I want you to whistle to my bullfinches; as I cannot see them, I like to hear them, and we teach 'em airs that way. Tell her where the cages are, Elizabeth. You must begin to-morrow, or they will go back in their piping. They have been neglected these several days." "Mr d'Urberville whistled to 'em this morning, ma'am," said Elizabeth. "He! Pooh!" The old lady's face creased into furrows of repugnance, and she made no further reply. Thus the reception of Tess by her fancied kinswoman terminated, and the birds were taken back to their quarters. The girl's surprise at Mrs d'Urberville's manner was not great; for since seeing the size of the house she had expected no more. But she was far from being aware that the old lady had never heard a word of the so-called kinship. She gathered that no great affection flowed between the blind woman and her son. But in that, too, she was mistaken. Mrs d'Urberville was not the first mother compelled to love her offspring resentfully, and to be bitterly fond. In spite of the unpleasant initiation of the day before, Tess inclined to the freedom and novelty of her new position in the morning when the sun shone, now that she was once installed there; and she was curious to test her powers in the unexpected direction asked of her, so as to ascertain her chance of retaining her post. As soon as she was alone within the walled garden she sat herself down on a coop, and seriously screwed up her mouth for the long-neglected practice. She found her former ability to have degenerated to the production of a hollow rush of wind through the lips, and no clear note at all. She remained fruitlessly blowing and blowing, wondering how she could have so grown out of the art which had come by nature, till she became aware of a movement among the ivy-boughs which cloaked the garden-wall no less then the cottage. Looking that way she beheld a form springing from the coping to the plot. It was Alec d'Urberville, whom she had not set eyes on since he had conducted her the day before to the door of the gardener's cottage where she had lodgings. "Upon my honour!" cried he, "there was never before such a beautiful thing in Nature or Art as you look, 'Cousin' Tess ('Cousin' had a faint ring of mockery). I have been watching you from over the wall--sitting like IM-patience on a monument, and pouting up that pretty red mouth to whistling shape, and whooing and whooing, and privately swearing, and never being able to produce a note. Why, you are quite cross because you can't do it." "I may be cross, but I didn't swear." "Ah! I understand why you are trying--those bullies! My mother wants you to carry on their musical education. How selfish of her! As if attending to these curst cocks and hens here were not enough work for any girl. I would flatly refuse, if I were you." "But she wants me particularly to do it, and to be ready by to-morrow morning." "Does she? Well then--I'll give you a lesson or two." "Oh no, you won't!" said Tess, withdrawing towards the door. "Nonsense; I don't want to touch you. See--I'll stand on this side of the wire-netting, and you can keep on the other; so you may feel quite safe. Now, look here; you screw up your lips too harshly. There 'tis--so." He suited the action to the word, and whistled a line of "Take, O take those lips away." But the allusion was lost upon Tess. "Now try," said d'Urberville. She attempted to look reserved; her face put on a sculptural severity. But he persisted in his demand, and at last, to get rid of him, she did put up her lips as directed for producing a clear note; laughing distressfully, however, and then blushing with vexation that she had laughed. He encouraged her with "Try again!" Tess was quite serious, painfully serious by this time; and she tried--ultimately and unexpectedly emitting a real round sound. The momentary pleasure of success got the better of her; her eyes enlarged, and she involuntarily smiled in his face. "That's it! Now I have started you--you'll go on beautifully. There--I said I would not come near you; and, in spite of such temptation as never before fell to mortal man, I'll keep my word... Tess, do you think my mother a queer old soul?" "I don't know much of her yet, sir." "You'll find her so; she must be, to make you learn to whistle to her bullfinches. I am rather out of her books just now, but you will be quite in favour if you treat her live-stock well. Good morning. If you meet with any difficulties and want help here, don't go to the bailiff, come to me." It was in the economy of this _regime_ that Tess Durbeyfield had undertaken to fill a place. Her first day's experiences were fairly typical of those which followed through many succeeding days. A familiarity with Alec d'Urberville's presence--which that young man carefully cultivated in her by playful dialogue, and by jestingly calling her his cousin when they were alone--removed much of her original shyness of him, without, however, implanting any feeling which could engender shyness of a new and tenderer kind. But she was more pliable under his hands than a mere companionship would have made her, owing to her unavoidable dependence upon his mother, and, through that lady's comparative helplessness, upon him. She soon found that whistling to the bullfinches in Mrs d'Urberville's room was no such onerous business when she had regained the art, for she had caught from her musical mother numerous airs that suited those songsters admirably. A far more satisfactory time than when she practised in the garden was this whistling by the cages each morning. Unrestrained by the young man's presence she threw up her mouth, put her lips near the bars, and piped away in easeful grace to the attentive listeners. Mrs d'Urberville slept in a large four-post bedstead hung with heavy damask curtains, and the bullfinches occupied the same apartment, where they flitted about freely at certain hours, and made little white spots on the furniture and upholstery. Once while Tess was at the window where the cages were ranged, giving her lesson as usual, she thought she heard a rustling behind the bed. The old lady was not present, and turning round the girl had an impression that the toes of a pair of boots were visible below the fringe of the curtains. Thereupon her whistling became so disjointed that the listener, if such there were, must have discovered her suspicion of his presence. She searched the curtains every morning after that, but never found anybody within them. Alec d'Urberville had evidently thought better of his freak to terrify her by an ambush of that kind.

CHAPTER 9

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD17.asp

On reaching her destination, Tess is shocked to discover that Mrs. D'Urberville is blind. She also finds the elderly woman to be cold and uncaring towards her. Tess learns from her that in addition to tending the Trantridge fowl, she is to whistle for the bullfinches every morning. Alec seizes this opportunity to teach Tess how to whistle and encourages her to practice. He tries to find reasons to spend time with her. Tess tries to ignore him and settles into her new existence.

Notes The reader is introduced to the D'Urberville house, which Tess judges to be a bit unruly. She is shocked to find that Mrs. D'Urberville is blind and too naive to realize that the elderly woman knows nothing about who Tess is. She thinks that the woman's indifference to her is simply due to her wealth. Alec has obviously not explained anything to his mother, but he delights in calling Tess "cousin" when they are alone. In spite of Alec's all too frequent presence, Tess settles into her new routine and is happy looking after the birds

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/35.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_34_part_0.txt

Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 35

chapter 35

{"name": "Chapter 35", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-35", "summary": "Very early the next morning, Gabriel and Coggan were in the fields. They heard an upper casement window being opened. Troy leaned out. \"She has married him!\" said Coggan. As Gabriel failed to reply, Coggan, glancing at the averted face, said, \"Good heavens above us, Oak, how white your face is; you look like a corpse!\" The two men stood near the stile, \"Gabriel listlessly staring at the ground. His mind sped into the future, and saw there enacted in years of leisure the scenes of repentance that would ensue from this work of haste.\" He mused over the reasons for all the mystery. Had Bathsheba somehow been entrapped? As the men turned toward the house, Troy hailed them. Coggan replied and, after some urging, so did Oak. Troy commented on the gloom of the house, suggesting modernization. Gabriel defended it for its traditions. Troy preferred comfort. After this discussion, Troy suddenly asked Coggan whether there was any insanity in Boldwood's family. Coggan seemed vaguely to remember an old, disturbed uncle. Troy dismissed this information and announced his intention of being out in the fields after a few days. Then he threw them a half-crown so that they might drink to his health. Gabriel was angry, but Coggan caught the coin and urged Gabriel to restrain himself, for he was certain that Troy would buy his discharge from the army and become master of the farm. \"Therefore 'tis well to say 'Friend' outwardly, though you say 'Troublehouse' within.\" Boldwood appeared, reminding Coggan of Troy's inquiry. \"Gabriel, for a minute, rose above his own grief in noticing Boldwood's. . . . The clash of discord between mood and matter here was forced painfully home to the heart; and, as in laughter there are more dreadful phases than in tears, so was there in the steadiness of this agonized man an expression deeper than a cry.\"", "analysis": "Observe how quickly Troy takes over the reins. The reactions of Coggan and Oak are typical: Gabriel needs time for self-control, but Coggan seeks to serve his own interests by serving his new master. The stern pose of Boldwood after his earlier outbursts seems to indicate that he is trying to suppress his true feelings. Hardy's keen observation of many types of people manifests itself in the small but telling gestures, poses, and expressions of all the characters."}

AT AN UPPER WINDOW It was very early the next morning--a time of sun and dew. The confused beginnings of many birds' songs spread into the healthy air, and the wan blue of the heaven was here and there coated with thin webs of incorporeal cloud which were of no effect in obscuring day. All the lights in the scene were yellow as to colour, and all the shadows were attenuated as to form. The creeping plants about the old manor-house were bowed with rows of heavy water drops, which had upon objects behind them the effect of minute lenses of high magnifying power. Just before the clock struck five Gabriel Oak and Coggan passed the village cross, and went on together to the fields. They were yet barely in view of their mistress's house, when Oak fancied he saw the opening of a casement in one of the upper windows. The two men were at this moment partially screened by an elder bush, now beginning to be enriched with black bunches of fruit, and they paused before emerging from its shade. A handsome man leaned idly from the lattice. He looked east and then west, in the manner of one who makes a first morning survey. The man was Sergeant Troy. His red jacket was loosely thrown on, but not buttoned, and he had altogether the relaxed bearing of a soldier taking his ease. Coggan spoke first, looking quietly at the window. "She has married him!" he said. Gabriel had previously beheld the sight, and he now stood with his back turned, making no reply. "I fancied we should know something to-day," continued Coggan. "I heard wheels pass my door just after dark--you were out somewhere." He glanced round upon Gabriel. "Good heavens above us, Oak, how white your face is; you look like a corpse!" "Do I?" said Oak, with a faint smile. "Lean on the gate: I'll wait a bit." "All right, all right." They stood by the gate awhile, Gabriel listlessly staring at the ground. His mind sped into the future, and saw there enacted in years of leisure the scenes of repentance that would ensue from this work of haste. That they were married he had instantly decided. Why had it been so mysteriously managed? It had become known that she had had a fearful journey to Bath, owing to her miscalculating the distance: that the horse had broken down, and that she had been more than two days getting there. It was not Bathsheba's way to do things furtively. With all her faults, she was candour itself. Could she have been entrapped? The union was not only an unutterable grief to him: it amazed him, notwithstanding that he had passed the preceding week in a suspicion that such might be the issue of Troy's meeting her away from home. Her quiet return with Liddy had to some extent dispersed the dread. Just as that imperceptible motion which appears like stillness is infinitely divided in its properties from stillness itself, so had his hope undistinguishable from despair differed from despair indeed. In a few minutes they moved on again towards the house. The sergeant still looked from the window. "Morning, comrades!" he shouted, in a cheery voice, when they came up. Coggan replied to the greeting. "Bain't ye going to answer the man?" he then said to Gabriel. "I'd say good morning--you needn't spend a hapenny of meaning upon it, and yet keep the man civil." Gabriel soon decided too that, since the deed was done, to put the best face upon the matter would be the greatest kindness to her he loved. "Good morning, Sergeant Troy," he returned, in a ghastly voice. "A rambling, gloomy house this," said Troy, smiling. "Why--they MAY not be married!" suggested Coggan. "Perhaps she's not there." Gabriel shook his head. The soldier turned a little towards the east, and the sun kindled his scarlet coat to an orange glow. "But it is a nice old house," responded Gabriel. "Yes--I suppose so; but I feel like new wine in an old bottle here. My notion is that sash-windows should be put throughout, and these old wainscoted walls brightened up a bit; or the oak cleared quite away, and the walls papered." "It would be a pity, I think." "Well, no. A philosopher once said in my hearing that the old builders, who worked when art was a living thing, had no respect for the work of builders who went before them, but pulled down and altered as they thought fit; and why shouldn't we? 'Creation and preservation don't do well together,' says he, 'and a million of antiquarians can't invent a style.' My mind exactly. I am for making this place more modern, that we may be cheerful whilst we can." The military man turned and surveyed the interior of the room, to assist his ideas of improvement in this direction. Gabriel and Coggan began to move on. "Oh, Coggan," said Troy, as if inspired by a recollection "do you know if insanity has ever appeared in Mr. Boldwood's family?" Jan reflected for a moment. "I once heard that an uncle of his was queer in his head, but I don't know the rights o't," he said. "It is of no importance," said Troy, lightly. "Well, I shall be down in the fields with you some time this week; but I have a few matters to attend to first. So good-day to you. We shall, of course, keep on just as friendly terms as usual. I'm not a proud man: nobody is ever able to say that of Sergeant Troy. However, what is must be, and here's half-a-crown to drink my health, men." Troy threw the coin dexterously across the front plot and over the fence towards Gabriel, who shunned it in its fall, his face turning to an angry red. Coggan twirled his eye, edged forward, and caught the money in its ricochet upon the road. "Very well--you keep it, Coggan," said Gabriel with disdain and almost fiercely. "As for me, I'll do without gifts from him!" "Don't show it too much," said Coggan, musingly. "For if he's married to her, mark my words, he'll buy his discharge and be our master here. Therefore 'tis well to say 'Friend' outwardly, though you say 'Troublehouse' within." "Well--perhaps it is best to be silent; but I can't go further than that. I can't flatter, and if my place here is only to be kept by smoothing him down, my place must be lost." A horseman, whom they had for some time seen in the distance, now appeared close beside them. "There's Mr. Boldwood," said Oak. "I wonder what Troy meant by his question." Coggan and Oak nodded respectfully to the farmer, just checked their paces to discover if they were wanted, and finding they were not stood back to let him pass on. The only signs of the terrible sorrow Boldwood had been combating through the night, and was combating now, were the want of colour in his well-defined face, the enlarged appearance of the veins in his forehead and temples, and the sharper lines about his mouth. The horse bore him away, and the very step of the animal seemed significant of dogged despair. Gabriel, for a minute, rose above his own grief in noticing Boldwood's. He saw the square figure sitting erect upon the horse, the head turned to neither side, the elbows steady by the hips, the brim of the hat level and undisturbed in its onward glide, until the keen edges of Boldwood's shape sank by degrees over the hill. To one who knew the man and his story there was something more striking in this immobility than in a collapse. The clash of discord between mood and matter here was forced painfully home to the heart; and, as in laughter there are more dreadful phases than in tears, so was there in the steadiness of this agonized man an expression deeper than a cry.

Chapter 35

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-35

Very early the next morning, Gabriel and Coggan were in the fields. They heard an upper casement window being opened. Troy leaned out. "She has married him!" said Coggan. As Gabriel failed to reply, Coggan, glancing at the averted face, said, "Good heavens above us, Oak, how white your face is; you look like a corpse!" The two men stood near the stile, "Gabriel listlessly staring at the ground. His mind sped into the future, and saw there enacted in years of leisure the scenes of repentance that would ensue from this work of haste." He mused over the reasons for all the mystery. Had Bathsheba somehow been entrapped? As the men turned toward the house, Troy hailed them. Coggan replied and, after some urging, so did Oak. Troy commented on the gloom of the house, suggesting modernization. Gabriel defended it for its traditions. Troy preferred comfort. After this discussion, Troy suddenly asked Coggan whether there was any insanity in Boldwood's family. Coggan seemed vaguely to remember an old, disturbed uncle. Troy dismissed this information and announced his intention of being out in the fields after a few days. Then he threw them a half-crown so that they might drink to his health. Gabriel was angry, but Coggan caught the coin and urged Gabriel to restrain himself, for he was certain that Troy would buy his discharge from the army and become master of the farm. "Therefore 'tis well to say 'Friend' outwardly, though you say 'Troublehouse' within." Boldwood appeared, reminding Coggan of Troy's inquiry. "Gabriel, for a minute, rose above his own grief in noticing Boldwood's. . . . The clash of discord between mood and matter here was forced painfully home to the heart; and, as in laughter there are more dreadful phases than in tears, so was there in the steadiness of this agonized man an expression deeper than a cry."

Observe how quickly Troy takes over the reins. The reactions of Coggan and Oak are typical: Gabriel needs time for self-control, but Coggan seeks to serve his own interests by serving his new master. The stern pose of Boldwood after his earlier outbursts seems to indicate that he is trying to suppress his true feelings. Hardy's keen observation of many types of people manifests itself in the small but telling gestures, poses, and expressions of all the characters.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_3_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 1.chapter 4

part 1, chapter 4

{"name": "Part 1, Chapter 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-1-chapter-4", "summary": "Monsieur de Renal approaches Mr. Sorel about getting his son to work in the Renal house as a tutor. Sorel is happy about the news, but he doesn't show it because he's a stone cold bargainer and he wants to take Renal for as much money as he can. When he gets back to the sawmill, Monsieur Sorel see his son Julien reading a book instead of doing his job and looking after the machinery. He whaps his son on the head and calls him lazy. We can tell that Mr. Sorel is about to tell his son about the arrangements with the mayor, but Julien trembles as if his dad is going to kill him for some reason.", "analysis": ""}

CHAPTER IV A FATHER AND A SON E sara mia colpa Se cosi e? --_Machiavelli_. "My wife really has a head on her shoulders," said the mayor of Verrieres at six o'clock the following morning, as he went down to the saw-mill of Father Sorel. "It had never occurred to me that if I do not take little Abbe Sorel, who, they say, knows Latin like an angel, that restless spirit, the director of the workhouse, might have the same idea and snatch him away from me, though of course I told her that it had, in order to preserve my proper superiority. And how smugly, to be sure, would he talk about his children's tutor!... The question is, once the tutor's mine, shall he wear the cassock?" M. de Renal was absorbed in this problem when he saw a peasant in the distance, a man nearly six feet tall, who since dawn had apparently been occupied in measuring some pieces of wood which had been put down alongside the Doubs on the towing-path. The peasant did not look particularly pleased when he saw M. the Mayor approach, as these pieces of wood obstructed the road, and had been placed there in breach of the rules. Father Sorel (for it was he) was very surprised, and even more pleased at the singular offer which M. de Renal made him for his son Julien. None the less, he listened to it with that air of sulky discontent and apathy which the subtle inhabitants of these mountains know so well how to assume. Slaves as they have been since the time of the Spanish Conquest, they still preserve this feature, which is also found in the character of the Egyptian fellah. Sorel's answer was at first simply a long-winded recitation of all the formulas of respect which he knew by heart. While he was repeating these empty words with an uneasy smile, which accentuated all the natural disingenuousness, if not, indeed, knavishness of his physiognomy, the active mind of the old peasant tried to discover what reason could induce so important a man to take into his house his good-for-nothing of a son. He was very dissatisfied with Julien, and it was for Julien that M. de Renal offered the undreamt-of salary of 300 fcs. a year, with board and even clothing. This latter claim, which Father Sorel had had the genius to spring upon the mayor, had been granted with equal suddenness by M. de Renal. This demand made an impression on the mayor. It is clear, he said to himself, that since Sorel is not beside himself with delight over my proposal, as in the ordinary way he ought to be, he must have had offers made to him elsewhere, and whom could they have come from, if not from Valenod. It was in vain that M. de Renal pressed Sorel to clinch the matter then and there. The old peasant, astute man that he was, stubbornly refused to do so. He wanted, he said, to consult his son, as if in the provinces, forsooth, a rich father consulted a penniless son for any other reason than as a mere matter of form. A water saw-mill consists of a shed by the side of a stream. The roof is supported by a framework resting on four large timber pillars. A saw can be seen going up and down at a height of eight to ten feet in the middle of the shed, while a piece of wood is propelled against this saw by a very simple mechanism. It is a wheel whose motive-power is supplied by the stream, which sets in motion this double piece of mechanism, the mechanism of the saw which goes up and down, and the mechanism which gently pushes the piece of wood towards the saw, which cuts it up into planks. Approaching his workshop, Father Sorel called Julien in his stentorian voice; nobody answered. He only saw his giant elder sons, who, armed with heavy axes, were cutting up the pine planks which they had to carry to the saw. They were engrossed in following exactly the black mark traced on each piece of wood, from which every blow of their axes threw off enormous shavings. They did not hear their father's voice. The latter made his way towards the shed. He entered it and looked in vain for Julien in the place where he ought to have been by the side of the saw. He saw him five or six feet higher up, sitting astride one of the rafters of the roof. Instead of watching attentively the action of the machinery, Julien was reading. Nothing was more anti-pathetic to old Sorel. He might possibly have forgiven Julien his puny physique, ill adapted as it was to manual labour, and different as it was from that of his elder brothers; but he hated this reading mania. He could not read himself. It was in vain that he called Julien two or three times. It was the young man's concentration on his book, rather than the din made by the saw, which prevented him from hearing his father's terrible voice. At last the latter, in spite of his age, jumped nimbly on to the tree that was undergoing the action of the saw, and from there on to the cross-bar that supported the roof. A violent blow made the book which Julien held, go flying into the stream; a second blow on the head, equally violent, which took the form of a box on the ears, made him lose his balance. He was on the point of falling twelve or fifteen feet lower down into the middle of the levers of the running machinery which would have cut him to pieces, but his father caught him as he fell, in his left hand. "So that's it, is it, lazy bones! always going to read your damned books are you, when you're keeping watch on the saw? You read them in the evening if you want to, when you go to play the fool at the cure's, that's the proper time." Although stunned by the force of the blow and bleeding profusely, Julien went back to his official post by the side of the saw. He had tears in his eyes, less by reason of the physical pain than on account of the loss of his beloved book. "Get down, you beast, when I am talking to you," the noise of the machinery prevented Julien from hearing this order. His father, who had gone down did not wish to give himself the trouble of climbing up on to the machinery again, and went to fetch a long fork used for bringing down nuts, with which he struck him on the shoulder. Julien had scarcely reached the ground, when old Sorel chased him roughly in front of him and pushed him roughly towards the house. "God knows what he is going to do with me," said the young man to himself. As he passed, he looked sorrowfully into the stream into which his book had fallen, it was the one that he held dearest of all, the _Memorial of St. Helena_. He had purple cheeks and downcast eyes. He was a young man of eighteen to nineteen years old, and of puny appearance, with irregular but delicate features, and an aquiline nose. The big black eyes which betokened in their tranquil moments a temperament at once fiery and reflective were at the present moment animated by an expression of the most ferocious hate. Dark chestnut hair, which came low down over his brow, made his forehead appear small and gave him a sinister look during his angry moods. It is doubtful if any face out of all the innumerable varieties of the human physiognomy was ever distinguished by a more arresting individuality. A supple well-knit figure, indicated agility rather than strength. His air of extreme pensiveness and his great pallor had given his father the idea that he would not live, or that if he did, it would only be to be a burden to his family. The butt of the whole house, he hated his brothers and his father. He was regularly beaten in the Sunday sports in the public square. A little less than a year ago his pretty face had begun to win him some sympathy among the young girls. Universally despised as a weakling, Julien had adored that old Surgeon-Major, who had one day dared to talk to the mayor on the subject of the plane trees. This Surgeon had sometimes paid Father Sorel for taking his son for a day, and had taught him Latin and History, that is to say the 1796 Campaign in Italy which was all the history he knew. When he died, he had bequeathed his Cross of the Legion of Honour, his arrears of half pay, and thirty or forty volumes, of which the most precious had just fallen into the public stream, which had been diverted owing to the influence of M. the Mayor. Scarcely had he entered the house, when Julien felt his shoulder gripped by his father's powerful hand; he trembled, expecting some blows. "Answer me without lying," cried the harsh voice of the old peasant in his ears, while his hand turned him round and round, like a child's hand turns round a lead soldier. The big black eyes of Julien filled with tears, and were confronted by the small grey eyes of the old carpenter, who looked as if he meant to read to the very bottom of his soul.

Part 1, Chapter 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-1-chapter-4

Monsieur de Renal approaches Mr. Sorel about getting his son to work in the Renal house as a tutor. Sorel is happy about the news, but he doesn't show it because he's a stone cold bargainer and he wants to take Renal for as much money as he can. When he gets back to the sawmill, Monsieur Sorel see his son Julien reading a book instead of doing his job and looking after the machinery. He whaps his son on the head and calls him lazy. We can tell that Mr. Sorel is about to tell his son about the arrangements with the mayor, but Julien trembles as if his dad is going to kill him for some reason.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/02.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Sense and Sensibility/section_1_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 2

chapter 2

{"name": "Chapter 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-2", "summary": "After moving in to Norland, Mrs. John Dashwood and her henpecked husband try to decide how much financial support to give to his sisters. Though John initially has a rather generous plan to give each of the girls a thousand pounds , his wife has other ideas - she complains that to remove a total of three thousand pounds from their young son's inheritance would be too cruel. John protests that it was his father's last wish that he should take care of his half-sisters. Again, Fanny brushes him off, saying that the dying man probably didn't even known what he was talking about. John then lowers the amount to five hundred pounds each - surely that's enough? Fanny agrees that's plenty of money. In fact, to her, fifteen hundred pounds altogether is still too much money to part with. OK, back to the drawing board. John has the idea that perhaps he should give money to Mrs. Dashwood, instead, to benefit the whole family - say, one hundred pounds a year. Once again, Fanny shoots him down; after all, she says cruelly, what if Mrs. Dashwood lives more than fifteen years? Then they would be out more than fifteen hundred pounds in total. John agrees - after all, paying an annuity is such a hassle. In the end, the couple settles on a simple solution: they won't give the Dashwood any money, except for the occasional small gift here and there. After all, they reason, what can a household of four women need any money for? Fanny, of course, has to have the final word - she bemoans the fact that Mrs. Dashwood got all the nice china and furniture from Norland .", "analysis": ""}

Mrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of Norland; and her mother and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors. As such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and by her husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody beyond himself, his wife, and their child. He really pressed them, with some earnestness, to consider Norland as their home; and, as no plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining there till she could accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his invitation was accepted. A continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former delight, was exactly what suited her mind. In seasons of cheerfulness, no temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater degree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness itself. But in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy, and as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy. Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended to do for his sisters. To take three thousand pounds from the fortune of their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most dreadful degree. She begged him to think again on the subject. How could he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too, of so large a sum? And what possible claim could the Miss Dashwoods, who were related to him only by half blood, which she considered as no relationship at all, have on his generosity to so large an amount. It was very well known that no affection was ever supposed to exist between the children of any man by different marriages; and why was he to ruin himself, and their poor little Harry, by giving away all his money to his half sisters? "It was my father's last request to me," replied her husband, "that I should assist his widow and daughters." "He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten to one but he was light-headed at the time. Had he been in his right senses, he could not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half your fortune from your own child." "He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he only requested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their situation more comfortable than it was in his power to do. Perhaps it would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself. He could hardly suppose I should neglect them. But as he required the promise, I could not do less than give it; at least I thought so at the time. The promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed. Something must be done for them whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new home." "Well, then, LET something be done for them; but THAT something need not be three thousand pounds. Consider," she added, "that when the money is once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters will marry, and it will be gone for ever. If, indeed, it could be restored to our poor little boy--" "Why, to be sure," said her husband, very gravely, "that would make great difference. The time may come when Harry will regret that so large a sum was parted with. If he should have a numerous family, for instance, it would be a very convenient addition." "To be sure it would." "Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were diminished one half.--Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious increase to their fortunes!" "Oh! beyond anything great! What brother on earth would do half so much for his sisters, even if REALLY his sisters! And as it is--only half blood!--But you have such a generous spirit!" "I would not wish to do any thing mean," he replied. "One had rather, on such occasions, do too much than too little. No one, at least, can think I have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can hardly expect more." "There is no knowing what THEY may expect," said the lady, "but we are not to think of their expectations: the question is, what you can afford to do." "Certainly--and I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds a-piece. As it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have about three thousand pounds on their mother's death--a very comfortable fortune for any young woman." "To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no addition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst them. If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do not, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of ten thousand pounds." "That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the whole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother while she lives, rather than for them--something of the annuity kind I mean.--My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself. A hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable." His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this plan. "To be sure," said she, "it is better than parting with fifteen hundred pounds at once. But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteen years we shall be completely taken in." "Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that purchase." "Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when there is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and healthy, and hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business; it comes over and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it. You are not aware of what you are doing. I have known a great deal of the trouble of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment of three to old superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is amazing how disagreeable she found it. Twice every year these annuities were to be paid; and then there was the trouble of getting it to them; and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be no such thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her income was not her own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it was the more unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been entirely at my mother's disposal, without any restriction whatever. It has given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would not pin myself down to the payment of one for all the world." "It is certainly an unpleasant thing," replied Mr. Dashwood, "to have those kind of yearly drains on one's income. One's fortune, as your mother justly says, is NOT one's own. To be tied down to the regular payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it takes away one's independence." "Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it. They think themselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises no gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did should be done at my own discretion entirely. I would not bind myself to allow them any thing yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses." "I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should be no annuity in the case; whatever I may give them occasionally will be of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they would only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger income, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the year. It will certainly be much the best way. A present of fifty pounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for money, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my father." "To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at all. The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a comfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things, and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they are in season. I'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed, it would be very strange and unreasonable if he did. Do but consider, my dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law and her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds, besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, they will pay their mother for their board out of it. Altogether, they will have five hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want for more than that?--They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will be nothing at all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any servants; they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of any kind! Only conceive how comfortable they will be! Five hundred a year! I am sure I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to your giving them more, it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be much more able to give YOU something." "Upon my word," said Mr. Dashwood, "I believe you are perfectly right. My father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than what you say. I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you have described. When my mother removes into another house my services shall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can. Some little present of furniture too may be acceptable then." "Certainly," returned Mrs. John Dashwood. "But, however, ONE thing must be considered. When your father and mother moved to Norland, though the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and linen was saved, and is now left to your mother. Her house will therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it." "That is a material consideration undoubtedly. A valuable legacy indeed! And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant addition to our own stock here." "Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what belongs to this house. A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for any place THEY can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is. Your father thought only of THEM. And I must say this: that you owe no particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we very well know that if he could, he would have left almost everything in the world to THEM." This argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of decision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the widow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as his own wife pointed out.

Chapter 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-2

After moving in to Norland, Mrs. John Dashwood and her henpecked husband try to decide how much financial support to give to his sisters. Though John initially has a rather generous plan to give each of the girls a thousand pounds , his wife has other ideas - she complains that to remove a total of three thousand pounds from their young son's inheritance would be too cruel. John protests that it was his father's last wish that he should take care of his half-sisters. Again, Fanny brushes him off, saying that the dying man probably didn't even known what he was talking about. John then lowers the amount to five hundred pounds each - surely that's enough? Fanny agrees that's plenty of money. In fact, to her, fifteen hundred pounds altogether is still too much money to part with. OK, back to the drawing board. John has the idea that perhaps he should give money to Mrs. Dashwood, instead, to benefit the whole family - say, one hundred pounds a year. Once again, Fanny shoots him down; after all, she says cruelly, what if Mrs. Dashwood lives more than fifteen years? Then they would be out more than fifteen hundred pounds in total. John agrees - after all, paying an annuity is such a hassle. In the end, the couple settles on a simple solution: they won't give the Dashwood any money, except for the occasional small gift here and there. After all, they reason, what can a household of four women need any money for? Fanny, of course, has to have the final word - she bemoans the fact that Mrs. Dashwood got all the nice china and furniture from Norland .

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/48.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_47_part_0.txt

Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 48

chapter 48

{"name": "Chapter 48", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-48", "summary": "Bathsheba accepted Troy's absence with a mixture of surprise and relief. Sooner or later he would return, and she feared only the loss of the farm and the poverty which that would bring. To all else she was indifferent: \"Perceiving clearly that her mistake had been a fatal one, she accepted her position, and waited coldly for the end.\" The next Saturday, when she went to market, a man sought her out to say that Troy had drowned. Bathsheba fainted. Boldwood saw her and caught her as she fell. He questioned the man and learned that a coastguardsman had found Troy's clothes on the shore. Boldwood's eyes flashed excitedly as he carried Bathsheba to the King's Arms Inn, where he arranged for a woman to look after her. He then went out to get further particulars, but none were forthcoming. When he offered to drive Bathsheba home, she declined, preferring to drive herself. Word had already reached the farm, and Liddy met Bathsheba. A newspaper paragraph told how a physician had driven by the cliff and had seen a swimmer being carried off by the current. He doubted that even a strong swimmer could escape. This and the finding of Troy's clothing seemed to corroborate that Troy was dead. But when Liddy mentioned the need for mourning clothes, Bathsheba declined to wear them. She was convinced that Troy was still alive. Late at night \"Bathsheba took Troy's watch into her hand. . . . She opened the case as he had opened it before her a week ago. There was the little coil of pale hair that had been as the fuse to this great explosion. \"'He was hers and she was his; they should be gone together,' she said. 'I am nothing to either of them, and why should I keep her hair?'\" She held it to the fire but then pulled it back. \"'No -- I'll not burn it -- I'll keep it in memory of her, poor thing!' she added.\"", "analysis": "Circumstantial evidence satisfies most people that Troy is dead, but something will not permit Bathsheba to accept their conclusions. She appears able to withstand all that has happened and continues to go about her duties, albeit somewhat mechanically. The fact that her sympathy for Fanny outweighs her resentment testifies that she has retained at least some emotional equilibrium."}

DOUBTS ARISE--DOUBTS LINGER Bathsheba underwent the enlargement of her husband's absence from hours to days with a slight feeling of surprise, and a slight feeling of relief; yet neither sensation rose at any time far above the level commonly designated as indifference. She belonged to him: the certainties of that position were so well defined, and the reasonable probabilities of its issue so bounded that she could not speculate on contingencies. Taking no further interest in herself as a splendid woman, she acquired the indifferent feelings of an outsider in contemplating her probable fate as a singular wretch; for Bathsheba drew herself and her future in colours that no reality could exceed for darkness. Her original vigorous pride of youth had sickened, and with it had declined all her anxieties about coming years, since anxiety recognizes a better and a worse alternative, and Bathsheba had made up her mind that alternatives on any noteworthy scale had ceased for her. Soon, or later--and that not very late--her husband would be home again. And then the days of their tenancy of the Upper Farm would be numbered. There had originally been shown by the agent to the estate some distrust of Bathsheba's tenure as James Everdene's successor, on the score of her sex, and her youth, and her beauty; but the peculiar nature of her uncle's will, his own frequent testimony before his death to her cleverness in such a pursuit, and her vigorous marshalling of the numerous flocks and herds which came suddenly into her hands before negotiations were concluded, had won confidence in her powers, and no further objections had been raised. She had latterly been in great doubt as to what the legal effects of her marriage would be upon her position; but no notice had been taken as yet of her change of name, and only one point was clear--that in the event of her own or her husband's inability to meet the agent at the forthcoming January rent-day, very little consideration would be shown, and, for that matter, very little would be deserved. Once out of the farm, the approach of poverty would be sure. Hence Bathsheba lived in a perception that her purposes were broken off. She was not a woman who could hope on without good materials for the process, differing thus from the less far-sighted and energetic, though more petted ones of the sex, with whom hope goes on as a sort of clockwork which the merest food and shelter are sufficient to wind up; and perceiving clearly that her mistake had been a fatal one, she accepted her position, and waited coldly for the end. The first Saturday after Troy's departure she went to Casterbridge alone, a journey she had not before taken since her marriage. On this Saturday Bathsheba was passing slowly on foot through the crowd of rural business-men gathered as usual in front of the market-house, who were as usual gazed upon by the burghers with feelings that those healthy lives were dearly paid for by exclusion from possible aldermanship, when a man, who had apparently been following her, said some words to another on her left hand. Bathsheba's ears were keen as those of any wild animal, and she distinctly heard what the speaker said, though her back was towards him. "I am looking for Mrs. Troy. Is that she there?" "Yes; that's the young lady, I believe," said the the person addressed. "I have some awkward news to break to her. Her husband is drowned." As if endowed with the spirit of prophecy, Bathsheba gasped out, "No, it is not true; it cannot be true!" Then she said and heard no more. The ice of self-command which had latterly gathered over her was broken, and the currents burst forth again, and overwhelmed her. A darkness came into her eyes, and she fell. But not to the ground. A gloomy man, who had been observing her from under the portico of the old corn-exchange when she passed through the group without, stepped quickly to her side at the moment of her exclamation, and caught her in his arms as she sank down. "What is it?" said Boldwood, looking up at the bringer of the big news, as he supported her. "Her husband was drowned this week while bathing in Lulwind Cove. A coastguardsman found his clothes, and brought them into Budmouth yesterday." Thereupon a strange fire lighted up Boldwood's eye, and his face flushed with the suppressed excitement of an unutterable thought. Everybody's glance was now centred upon him and the unconscious Bathsheba. He lifted her bodily off the ground, and smoothed down the folds of her dress as a child might have taken a storm-beaten bird and arranged its ruffled plumes, and bore her along the pavement to the King's Arms Inn. Here he passed with her under the archway into a private room; and by the time he had deposited--so lothly--the precious burden upon a sofa, Bathsheba had opened her eyes. Remembering all that had occurred, she murmured, "I want to go home!" Boldwood left the room. He stood for a moment in the passage to recover his senses. The experience had been too much for his consciousness to keep up with, and now that he had grasped it it had gone again. For those few heavenly, golden moments she had been in his arms. What did it matter about her not knowing it? She had been close to his breast; he had been close to hers. He started onward again, and sending a woman to her, went out to ascertain all the facts of the case. These appeared to be limited to what he had already heard. He then ordered her horse to be put into the gig, and when all was ready returned to inform her. He found that, though still pale and unwell, she had in the meantime sent for the Budmouth man who brought the tidings, and learnt from him all there was to know. Being hardly in a condition to drive home as she had driven to town, Boldwood, with every delicacy of manner and feeling, offered to get her a driver, or to give her a seat in his phaeton, which was more comfortable than her own conveyance. These proposals Bathsheba gently declined, and the farmer at once departed. About half-an-hour later she invigorated herself by an effort, and took her seat and the reins as usual--in external appearance much as if nothing had happened. She went out of the town by a tortuous back street, and drove slowly along, unconscious of the road and the scene. The first shades of evening were showing themselves when Bathsheba reached home, where, silently alighting and leaving the horse in the hands of the boy, she proceeded at once upstairs. Liddy met her on the landing. The news had preceded Bathsheba to Weatherbury by half-an-hour, and Liddy looked inquiringly into her mistress's face. Bathsheba had nothing to say. She entered her bedroom and sat by the window, and thought and thought till night enveloped her, and the extreme lines only of her shape were visible. Somebody came to the door, knocked, and opened it. "Well, what is it, Liddy?" she said. "I was thinking there must be something got for you to wear," said Liddy, with hesitation. "What do you mean?" "Mourning." "No, no, no," said Bathsheba, hurriedly. "But I suppose there must be something done for poor--" "Not at present, I think. It is not necessary." "Why not, ma'am?" "Because he's still alive." "How do you know that?" said Liddy, amazed. "I don't know it. But wouldn't it have been different, or shouldn't I have heard more, or wouldn't they have found him, Liddy?--or--I don't know how it is, but death would have been different from how this is. I am perfectly convinced that he is still alive!" Bathsheba remained firm in this opinion till Monday, when two circumstances conjoined to shake it. The first was a short paragraph in the local newspaper, which, beyond making by a methodizing pen formidable presumptive evidence of Troy's death by drowning, contained the important testimony of a young Mr. Barker, M.D., of Budmouth, who spoke to being an eyewitness of the accident, in a letter to the editor. In this he stated that he was passing over the cliff on the remoter side of the cove just as the sun was setting. At that time he saw a bather carried along in the current outside the mouth of the cove, and guessed in an instant that there was but a poor chance for him unless he should be possessed of unusual muscular powers. He drifted behind a projection of the coast, and Mr. Barker followed along the shore in the same direction. But by the time that he could reach an elevation sufficiently great to command a view of the sea beyond, dusk had set in, and nothing further was to be seen. The other circumstance was the arrival of his clothes, when it became necessary for her to examine and identify them--though this had virtually been done long before by those who inspected the letters in his pockets. It was so evident to her in the midst of her agitation that Troy had undressed in the full conviction of dressing again almost immediately, that the notion that anything but death could have prevented him was a perverse one to entertain. Then Bathsheba said to herself that others were assured in their opinion; strange that she should not be. A strange reflection occurred to her, causing her face to flush. Suppose that Troy had followed Fanny into another world. Had he done this intentionally, yet contrived to make his death appear like an accident? Nevertheless, this thought of how the apparent might differ from the real--made vivid by her bygone jealousy of Fanny, and the remorse he had shown that night--did not blind her to the perception of a likelier difference, less tragic, but to herself far more disastrous. When alone late that evening beside a small fire, and much calmed down, Bathsheba took Troy's watch into her hand, which had been restored to her with the rest of the articles belonging to him. She opened the case as he had opened it before her a week ago. There was the little coil of pale hair which had been as the fuze to this great explosion. "He was hers and she was his; they should be gone together," she said. "I am nothing to either of them, and why should I keep her hair?" She took it in her hand, and held it over the fire. "No--I'll not burn it--I'll keep it in memory of her, poor thing!" she added, snatching back her hand.

Chapter 48

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-48

Bathsheba accepted Troy's absence with a mixture of surprise and relief. Sooner or later he would return, and she feared only the loss of the farm and the poverty which that would bring. To all else she was indifferent: "Perceiving clearly that her mistake had been a fatal one, she accepted her position, and waited coldly for the end." The next Saturday, when she went to market, a man sought her out to say that Troy had drowned. Bathsheba fainted. Boldwood saw her and caught her as she fell. He questioned the man and learned that a coastguardsman had found Troy's clothes on the shore. Boldwood's eyes flashed excitedly as he carried Bathsheba to the King's Arms Inn, where he arranged for a woman to look after her. He then went out to get further particulars, but none were forthcoming. When he offered to drive Bathsheba home, she declined, preferring to drive herself. Word had already reached the farm, and Liddy met Bathsheba. A newspaper paragraph told how a physician had driven by the cliff and had seen a swimmer being carried off by the current. He doubted that even a strong swimmer could escape. This and the finding of Troy's clothing seemed to corroborate that Troy was dead. But when Liddy mentioned the need for mourning clothes, Bathsheba declined to wear them. She was convinced that Troy was still alive. Late at night "Bathsheba took Troy's watch into her hand. . . . She opened the case as he had opened it before her a week ago. There was the little coil of pale hair that had been as the fuse to this great explosion. "'He was hers and she was his; they should be gone together,' she said. 'I am nothing to either of them, and why should I keep her hair?'" She held it to the fire but then pulled it back. "'No -- I'll not burn it -- I'll keep it in memory of her, poor thing!' she added."

Circumstantial evidence satisfies most people that Troy is dead, but something will not permit Bathsheba to accept their conclusions. She appears able to withstand all that has happened and continues to go about her duties, albeit somewhat mechanically. The fact that her sympathy for Fanny outweighs her resentment testifies that she has retained at least some emotional equilibrium.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/03.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_2_part_0.txt

Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 3

chapter 3

{"name": "Chapter 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-3", "summary": "Next morning, Gabriel heard the girl's pony coming up the hill. Guessing that she had come to look for her hat, he hurriedly searched for it and found it in a ditch. Returning to his hut, he watched the girl approach. To avoid low branches, she lay flat on the pony, her face to the sky. No proper Victorian lady would ride thus, but \"the tall lank pony seemed used to such doings, and ambled along unconcerned. Thus she passed under the level boughs.\" On the girl's return to the cattle shed, a farm boy exchanged a milking pail for the bags of cereal she brought. When she emerged from the hut with the pail full of milk, Gabriel approached to return the hat. They exchanged a few civilities, which ceased when the girl realized from Gabriel's clumsy speech that he had witnessed her unconventional riding performance. This blunder \"was succeeded in the girl by a nettled palpitation, and that by a hot face.\" Considerately, Gabriel turned away from her blushes. When a slight sound made him turn back, she had gone. Crestfallen, he returned to his work. Five days later, on a freezing day, the fatigued Gabriel came from his rounds into the hut. Putting extra fuel in his stove, he promised himself that he would adjust the ventilator, but he fell asleep before he did so. When he came to, his wet head was lying in the girl's lap. She explained that his dog, barking frantically, had fetched her from the milking shed and brought her to the hut. Finding no water, she had revived him with the milk. She reprimanded him for his carelessness but smiled when Gabriel tried to express his thanks and told her his name. The girl became a bit coquettish as he tried to shake her hand, but his ineptness and lack of sophistication in not trying to kiss it irked her once again. She left, her name still unknown to him.", "analysis": "By having Oak continue to observe from a distance the object of his infatuation, Hardy is able to elaborate upon his description of the girl and her character. Her riding antics furnish a bit of comedy and also warn us that she is not a conventional young Victorian lady. There is a matter-of-factness in the girl's rescue of Oak and in her tart ridicule of his lack of judgment. Her coquettish behavior in the latter part of the chapter contrasts with her earlier hoydenism."}

A GIRL ON HORSEBACK--CONVERSATION The sluggish day began to break. Even its position terrestrially is one of the elements of a new interest, and for no particular reason save that the incident of the night had occurred there Oak went again into the plantation. Lingering and musing here, he heard the steps of a horse at the foot of the hill, and soon there appeared in view an auburn pony with a girl on its back, ascending by the path leading past the cattle-shed. She was the young woman of the night before. Gabriel instantly thought of the hat she had mentioned as having lost in the wind; possibly she had come to look for it. He hastily scanned the ditch and after walking about ten yards along it found the hat among the leaves. Gabriel took it in his hand and returned to his hut. Here he ensconced himself, and peeped through the loophole in the direction of the rider's approach. She came up and looked around--then on the other side of the hedge. Gabriel was about to advance and restore the missing article when an unexpected performance induced him to suspend the action for the present. The path, after passing the cowshed, bisected the plantation. It was not a bridle-path--merely a pedestrian's track, and the boughs spread horizontally at a height not greater than seven feet above the ground, which made it impossible to ride erect beneath them. The girl, who wore no riding-habit, looked around for a moment, as if to assure herself that all humanity was out of view, then dexterously dropped backwards flat upon the pony's back, her head over its tail, her feet against its shoulders, and her eyes to the sky. The rapidity of her glide into this position was that of a kingfisher--its noiselessness that of a hawk. Gabriel's eyes had scarcely been able to follow her. The tall lank pony seemed used to such doings, and ambled along unconcerned. Thus she passed under the level boughs. The performer seemed quite at home anywhere between a horse's head and its tail, and the necessity for this abnormal attitude having ceased with the passage of the plantation, she began to adopt another, even more obviously convenient than the first. She had no side-saddle, and it was very apparent that a firm seat upon the smooth leather beneath her was unattainable sideways. Springing to her accustomed perpendicular like a bowed sapling, and satisfying herself that nobody was in sight, she seated herself in the manner demanded by the saddle, though hardly expected of the woman, and trotted off in the direction of Tewnell Mill. Oak was amused, perhaps a little astonished, and hanging up the hat in his hut, went again among his ewes. An hour passed, the girl returned, properly seated now, with a bag of bran in front of her. On nearing the cattle-shed she was met by a boy bringing a milking-pail, who held the reins of the pony whilst she slid off. The boy led away the horse, leaving the pail with the young woman. Soon soft spirts alternating with loud spirts came in regular succession from within the shed, the obvious sounds of a person milking a cow. Gabriel took the lost hat in his hand, and waited beside the path she would follow in leaving the hill. She came, the pail in one hand, hanging against her knee. The left arm was extended as a balance, enough of it being shown bare to make Oak wish that the event had happened in the summer, when the whole would have been revealed. There was a bright air and manner about her now, by which she seemed to imply that the desirability of her existence could not be questioned; and this rather saucy assumption failed in being offensive because a beholder felt it to be, upon the whole, true. Like exceptional emphasis in the tone of a genius, that which would have made mediocrity ridiculous was an addition to recognised power. It was with some surprise that she saw Gabriel's face rising like the moon behind the hedge. The adjustment of the farmer's hazy conceptions of her charms to the portrait of herself she now presented him with was less a diminution than a difference. The starting-point selected by the judgment was her height. She seemed tall, but the pail was a small one, and the hedge diminutive; hence, making allowance for error by comparison with these, she could have been not above the height to be chosen by women as best. All features of consequence were severe and regular. It may have been observed by persons who go about the shires with eyes for beauty, that in Englishwoman a classically-formed face is seldom found to be united with a figure of the same pattern, the highly-finished features being generally too large for the remainder of the frame; that a graceful and proportionate figure of eight heads usually goes off into random facial curves. Without throwing a Nymphean tissue over a milkmaid, let it be said that here criticism checked itself as out of place, and looked at her proportions with a long consciousness of pleasure. From the contours of her figure in its upper part, she must have had a beautiful neck and shoulders; but since her infancy nobody had ever seen them. Had she been put into a low dress she would have run and thrust her head into a bush. Yet she was not a shy girl by any means; it was merely her instinct to draw the line dividing the seen from the unseen higher than they do it in towns. That the girl's thoughts hovered about her face and form as soon as she caught Oak's eyes conning the same page was natural, and almost certain. The self-consciousness shown would have been vanity if a little more pronounced, dignity if a little less. Rays of male vision seem to have a tickling effect upon virgin faces in rural districts; she brushed hers with her hand, as if Gabriel had been irritating its pink surface by actual touch, and the free air of her previous movements was reduced at the same time to a chastened phase of itself. Yet it was the man who blushed, the maid not at all. "I found a hat," said Oak. "It is mine," said she, and, from a sense of proportion, kept down to a small smile an inclination to laugh distinctly: "it flew away last night." "One o'clock this morning?" "Well--it was." She was surprised. "How did you know?" she said. "I was here." "You are Farmer Oak, are you not?" "That or thereabouts. I'm lately come to this place." "A large farm?" she inquired, casting her eyes round, and swinging back her hair, which was black in the shaded hollows of its mass; but it being now an hour past sunrise the rays touched its prominent curves with a colour of their own. "No; not large. About a hundred." (In speaking of farms the word "acres" is omitted by the natives, by analogy to such old expressions as "a stag of ten.") "I wanted my hat this morning," she went on. "I had to ride to Tewnell Mill." "Yes you had." "How do you know?" "I saw you." "Where?" she inquired, a misgiving bringing every muscle of her lineaments and frame to a standstill. "Here--going through the plantation, and all down the hill," said Farmer Oak, with an aspect excessively knowing with regard to some matter in his mind, as he gazed at a remote point in the direction named, and then turned back to meet his colloquist's eyes. A perception caused him to withdraw his own eyes from hers as suddenly as if he had been caught in a theft. Recollection of the strange antics she had indulged in when passing through the trees was succeeded in the girl by a nettled palpitation, and that by a hot face. It was a time to see a woman redden who was not given to reddening as a rule; not a point in the milkmaid but was of the deepest rose-colour. From the Maiden's Blush, through all varieties of the Provence down to the Crimson Tuscany, the countenance of Oak's acquaintance quickly graduated; whereupon he, in considerateness, turned away his head. The sympathetic man still looked the other way, and wondered when she would recover coolness sufficient to justify him in facing her again. He heard what seemed to be the flitting of a dead leaf upon the breeze, and looked. She had gone away. With an air between that of Tragedy and Comedy Gabriel returned to his work. Five mornings and evenings passed. The young woman came regularly to milk the healthy cow or to attend to the sick one, but never allowed her vision to stray in the direction of Oak's person. His want of tact had deeply offended her--not by seeing what he could not help, but by letting her know that he had seen it. For, as without law there is no sin, without eyes there is no indecorum; and she appeared to feel that Gabriel's espial had made her an indecorous woman without her own connivance. It was food for great regret with him; it was also a _contretemps_ which touched into life a latent heat he had experienced in that direction. The acquaintanceship might, however, have ended in a slow forgetting, but for an incident which occurred at the end of the same week. One afternoon it began to freeze, and the frost increased with evening, which drew on like a stealthy tightening of bonds. It was a time when in cottages the breath of the sleepers freezes to the sheets; when round the drawing-room fire of a thick-walled mansion the sitters' backs are cold, even whilst their faces are all aglow. Many a small bird went to bed supperless that night among the bare boughs. As the milking-hour drew near, Oak kept his usual watch upon the cowshed. At last he felt cold, and shaking an extra quantity of bedding round the yearling ewes he entered the hut and heaped more fuel upon the stove. The wind came in at the bottom of the door, and to prevent it Oak laid a sack there and wheeled the cot round a little more to the south. Then the wind spouted in at a ventilating hole--of which there was one on each side of the hut. Gabriel had always known that when the fire was lighted and the door closed one of these must be kept open--that chosen being always on the side away from the wind. Closing the slide to windward, he turned to open the other; on second thoughts the farmer considered that he would first sit down leaving both closed for a minute or two, till the temperature of the hut was a little raised. He sat down. His head began to ache in an unwonted manner, and, fancying himself weary by reason of the broken rests of the preceding nights, Oak decided to get up, open the slide, and then allow himself to fall asleep. He fell asleep, however, without having performed the necessary preliminary. How long he remained unconscious Gabriel never knew. During the first stages of his return to perception peculiar deeds seemed to be in course of enactment. His dog was howling, his head was aching fearfully--somebody was pulling him about, hands were loosening his neckerchief. On opening his eyes he found that evening had sunk to dusk in a strange manner of unexpectedness. The young girl with the remarkably pleasant lips and white teeth was beside him. More than this--astonishingly more--his head was upon her lap, his face and neck were disagreeably wet, and her fingers were unbuttoning his collar. "Whatever is the matter?" said Oak, vacantly. She seemed to experience mirth, but of too insignificant a kind to start enjoyment. "Nothing now," she answered, "since you are not dead. It is a wonder you were not suffocated in this hut of yours." "Ah, the hut!" murmured Gabriel. "I gave ten pounds for that hut. But I'll sell it, and sit under thatched hurdles as they did in old times, and curl up to sleep in a lock of straw! It played me nearly the same trick the other day!" Gabriel, by way of emphasis, brought down his fist upon the floor. "It was not exactly the fault of the hut," she observed in a tone which showed her to be that novelty among women--one who finished a thought before beginning the sentence which was to convey it. "You should, I think, have considered, and not have been so foolish as to leave the slides closed." "Yes I suppose I should," said Oak, absently. He was endeavouring to catch and appreciate the sensation of being thus with her, his head upon her dress, before the event passed on into the heap of bygone things. He wished she knew his impressions; but he would as soon have thought of carrying an odour in a net as of attempting to convey the intangibilities of his feeling in the coarse meshes of language. So he remained silent. She made him sit up, and then Oak began wiping his face and shaking himself like a Samson. "How can I thank 'ee?" he said at last, gratefully, some of the natural rusty red having returned to his face. "Oh, never mind that," said the girl, smiling, and allowing her smile to hold good for Gabriel's next remark, whatever that might prove to be. "How did you find me?" "I heard your dog howling and scratching at the door of the hut when I came to the milking (it was so lucky, Daisy's milking is almost over for the season, and I shall not come here after this week or the next). The dog saw me, and jumped over to me, and laid hold of my skirt. I came across and looked round the hut the very first thing to see if the slides were closed. My uncle has a hut like this one, and I have heard him tell his shepherd not to go to sleep without leaving a slide open. I opened the door, and there you were like dead. I threw the milk over you, as there was no water, forgetting it was warm, and no use." "I wonder if I should have died?" Gabriel said, in a low voice, which was rather meant to travel back to himself than to her. "Oh no!" the girl replied. She seemed to prefer a less tragic probability; to have saved a man from death involved talk that should harmonise with the dignity of such a deed--and she shunned it. "I believe you saved my life, Miss--I don't know your name. I know your aunt's, but not yours." "I would just as soon not tell it--rather not. There is no reason either why I should, as you probably will never have much to do with me." "Still, I should like to know." "You can inquire at my aunt's--she will tell you." "My name is Gabriel Oak." "And mine isn't. You seem fond of yours in speaking it so decisively, Gabriel Oak." "You see, it is the only one I shall ever have, and I must make the most of it." "I always think mine sounds odd and disagreeable." "I should think you might soon get a new one." "Mercy!--how many opinions you keep about you concerning other people, Gabriel Oak." "Well, Miss--excuse the words--I thought you would like them. But I can't match you, I know, in mapping out my mind upon my tongue. I never was very clever in my inside. But I thank you. Come, give me your hand." She hesitated, somewhat disconcerted at Oak's old-fashioned earnest conclusion to a dialogue lightly carried on. "Very well," she said, and gave him her hand, compressing her lips to a demure impassivity. He held it but an instant, and in his fear of being too demonstrative, swerved to the opposite extreme, touching her fingers with the lightness of a small-hearted person. "I am sorry," he said the instant after. "What for?" "Letting your hand go so quick." "You may have it again if you like; there it is." She gave him her hand again. Oak held it longer this time--indeed, curiously long. "How soft it is--being winter time, too--not chapped or rough or anything!" he said. "There--that's long enough," said she, though without pulling it away. "But I suppose you are thinking you would like to kiss it? You may if you want to." "I wasn't thinking of any such thing," said Gabriel, simply; "but I will--" "That you won't!" She snatched back her hand. Gabriel felt himself guilty of another want of tact. "Now find out my name," she said, teasingly; and withdrew.

Chapter 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-3

Next morning, Gabriel heard the girl's pony coming up the hill. Guessing that she had come to look for her hat, he hurriedly searched for it and found it in a ditch. Returning to his hut, he watched the girl approach. To avoid low branches, she lay flat on the pony, her face to the sky. No proper Victorian lady would ride thus, but "the tall lank pony seemed used to such doings, and ambled along unconcerned. Thus she passed under the level boughs." On the girl's return to the cattle shed, a farm boy exchanged a milking pail for the bags of cereal she brought. When she emerged from the hut with the pail full of milk, Gabriel approached to return the hat. They exchanged a few civilities, which ceased when the girl realized from Gabriel's clumsy speech that he had witnessed her unconventional riding performance. This blunder "was succeeded in the girl by a nettled palpitation, and that by a hot face." Considerately, Gabriel turned away from her blushes. When a slight sound made him turn back, she had gone. Crestfallen, he returned to his work. Five days later, on a freezing day, the fatigued Gabriel came from his rounds into the hut. Putting extra fuel in his stove, he promised himself that he would adjust the ventilator, but he fell asleep before he did so. When he came to, his wet head was lying in the girl's lap. She explained that his dog, barking frantically, had fetched her from the milking shed and brought her to the hut. Finding no water, she had revived him with the milk. She reprimanded him for his carelessness but smiled when Gabriel tried to express his thanks and told her his name. The girl became a bit coquettish as he tried to shake her hand, but his ineptness and lack of sophistication in not trying to kiss it irked her once again. She left, her name still unknown to him.

By having Oak continue to observe from a distance the object of his infatuation, Hardy is able to elaborate upon his description of the girl and her character. Her riding antics furnish a bit of comedy and also warn us that she is not a conventional young Victorian lady. There is a matter-of-factness in the girl's rescue of Oak and in her tart ridicule of his lack of judgment. Her coquettish behavior in the latter part of the chapter contrasts with her earlier hoydenism.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/08.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Far From the Madding Crowd/section_7_part_0.txt

Far From the Madding Crowd.chapter 8

chapter 8

{"name": "Chapter 8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-8", "summary": "When he walks into the town malthouse, Oak is greeted really warmly. He's already won the respect of the men in the town. The man who runs the joint is old enough to have known Oak's grandfather. After some small talk, they invite Gabriel to drink with them. For the rest of the chat, he meets some of the local characters, most of who actually work for Bathsheba. It turns out that she has inherited her uncle's large estate. One local guy, Joseph Poorgrass, admits that he can hardly look his boss in the face because she's so pretty. The group tells some funny stories about Poorgrass's skittishness. The men then tell some stories about Bathsheba's dead father and how he used to cheat on his wife. It was only when he learned to pretend that his wife wasn't his wife that he was able to love her completely at all times. Apparently, the guy also became really religious after this and quit every bad habit he had. The discussion turns to the age of the man who owns the malthouse. He must be pretty old, considering that his son is sixty years old. The men notice that Oak is carrying a flute and ask him to play. So he does and this puts everyone in an even better mood. Eventually, the crowd breaks up and Oak leaves with a guy named Jan Coggan, who has agreed to let Oak crash at his house for the night. After they're gone, the workers talk about how Bathsheba recently fired her bailiff Pennyways because she caught him stealing from her. The men want to know who Bathsheba is going to get to run her farm now. The word on the street is that she plans on doing it herself, which sounds ridiculous to the men. Poorgrass runs back into the room and tells them there's more news. A young woman in Bathsheba's house named Fanny Robin has run away from home. This is no doubt the girl that Oak met on the road earlier. The men all rush off to the farmhouse to see what's up, leaving the old malthouse owner to sit alone and think. From her bedroom window, Bathsheba gives her men orders to set out first thing in the morning and find Fanny Robin. People wonder if she has run off with a young man, and they ask around to see if she's been courting any young men in the area. One young woman says that Fanny had a bundle with her when she left the house . Meanwhile, Oak is standing amongst the crowd and just thinking about how happy he is to see Bathsheba's face.", "analysis": ""}

THE MALTHOUSE--THE CHAT--NEWS Warren's Malthouse was enclosed by an old wall inwrapped with ivy, and though not much of the exterior was visible at this hour, the character and purposes of the building were clearly enough shown by its outline upon the sky. From the walls an overhanging thatched roof sloped up to a point in the centre, upon which rose a small wooden lantern, fitted with louvre-boards on all the four sides, and from these openings a mist was dimly perceived to be escaping into the night air. There was no window in front; but a square hole in the door was glazed with a single pane, through which red, comfortable rays now stretched out upon the ivied wall in front. Voices were to be heard inside. Oak's hand skimmed the surface of the door with fingers extended to an Elymas-the-Sorcerer pattern, till he found a leathern strap, which he pulled. This lifted a wooden latch, and the door swung open. The room inside was lighted only by the ruddy glow from the kiln mouth, which shone over the floor with the streaming horizontality of the setting sun, and threw upwards the shadows of all facial irregularities in those assembled around. The stone-flag floor was worn into a path from the doorway to the kiln, and into undulations everywhere. A curved settle of unplaned oak stretched along one side, and in a remote corner was a small bed and bedstead, the owner and frequent occupier of which was the maltster. This aged man was now sitting opposite the fire, his frosty white hair and beard overgrowing his gnarled figure like the grey moss and lichen upon a leafless apple-tree. He wore breeches and the laced-up shoes called ankle-jacks; he kept his eyes fixed upon the fire. Gabriel's nose was greeted by an atmosphere laden with the sweet smell of new malt. The conversation (which seemed to have been concerning the origin of the fire) immediately ceased, and every one ocularly criticised him to the degree expressed by contracting the flesh of their foreheads and looking at him with narrowed eyelids, as if he had been a light too strong for their sight. Several exclaimed meditatively, after this operation had been completed:-- "Oh, 'tis the new shepherd, 'a b'lieve." "We thought we heard a hand pawing about the door for the bobbin, but weren't sure 'twere not a dead leaf blowed across," said another. "Come in, shepherd; sure ye be welcome, though we don't know yer name." "Gabriel Oak, that's my name, neighbours." The ancient maltster sitting in the midst turned at this--his turning being as the turning of a rusty crane. "That's never Gable Oak's grandson over at Norcombe--never!" he said, as a formula expressive of surprise, which nobody was supposed for a moment to take literally. "My father and my grandfather were old men of the name of Gabriel," said the shepherd, placidly. "Thought I knowed the man's face as I seed him on the rick!--thought I did! And where be ye trading o't to now, shepherd?" "I'm thinking of biding here," said Mr. Oak. "Knowed yer grandfather for years and years!" continued the maltster, the words coming forth of their own accord as if the momentum previously imparted had been sufficient. "Ah--and did you!" "Knowed yer grandmother." "And her too!" "Likewise knowed yer father when he was a child. Why, my boy Jacob there and your father were sworn brothers--that they were sure--weren't ye, Jacob?" "Ay, sure," said his son, a young man about sixty-five, with a semi-bald head and one tooth in the left centre of his upper jaw, which made much of itself by standing prominent, like a milestone in a bank. "But 'twas Joe had most to do with him. However, my son William must have knowed the very man afore us--didn't ye, Billy, afore ye left Norcombe?" "No, 'twas Andrew," said Jacob's son Billy, a child of forty, or thereabouts, who manifested the peculiarity of possessing a cheerful soul in a gloomy body, and whose whiskers were assuming a chinchilla shade here and there. "I can mind Andrew," said Oak, "as being a man in the place when I was quite a child." "Ay--the other day I and my youngest daughter, Liddy, were over at my grandson's christening," continued Billy. "We were talking about this very family, and 'twas only last Purification Day in this very world, when the use-money is gied away to the second-best poor folk, you know, shepherd, and I can mind the day because they all had to traypse up to the vestry--yes, this very man's family." "Come, shepherd, and drink. 'Tis gape and swaller with us--a drap of sommit, but not of much account," said the maltster, removing from the fire his eyes, which were vermilion-red and bleared by gazing into it for so many years. "Take up the God-forgive-me, Jacob. See if 'tis warm, Jacob." Jacob stooped to the God-forgive-me, which was a two-handled tall mug standing in the ashes, cracked and charred with heat: it was rather furred with extraneous matter about the outside, especially in the crevices of the handles, the innermost curves of which may not have seen daylight for several years by reason of this encrustation thereon--formed of ashes accidentally wetted with cider and baked hard; but to the mind of any sensible drinker the cup was no worse for that, being incontestably clean on the inside and about the rim. It may be observed that such a class of mug is called a God-forgive-me in Weatherbury and its vicinity for uncertain reasons; probably because its size makes any given toper feel ashamed of himself when he sees its bottom in drinking it empty. Jacob, on receiving the order to see if the liquor was warm enough, placidly dipped his forefinger into it by way of thermometer, and having pronounced it nearly of the proper degree, raised the cup and very civilly attempted to dust some of the ashes from the bottom with the skirt of his smock-frock, because Shepherd Oak was a stranger. "A clane cup for the shepherd," said the maltster commandingly. "No--not at all," said Gabriel, in a reproving tone of considerateness. "I never fuss about dirt in its pure state, and when I know what sort it is." Taking the mug he drank an inch or more from the depth of its contents, and duly passed it to the next man. "I wouldn't think of giving such trouble to neighbours in washing up when there's so much work to be done in the world already." continued Oak in a moister tone, after recovering from the stoppage of breath which is occasioned by pulls at large mugs. "A right sensible man," said Jacob. "True, true; it can't be gainsaid!" observed a brisk young man--Mark Clark by name, a genial and pleasant gentleman, whom to meet anywhere in your travels was to know, to know was to drink with, and to drink with was, unfortunately, to pay for. "And here's a mouthful of bread and bacon that mis'ess have sent, shepherd. The cider will go down better with a bit of victuals. Don't ye chaw quite close, shepherd, for I let the bacon fall in the road outside as I was bringing it along, and may be 'tis rather gritty. There, 'tis clane dirt; and we all know what that is, as you say, and you bain't a particular man we see, shepherd." "True, true--not at all," said the friendly Oak. "Don't let your teeth quite meet, and you won't feel the sandiness at all. Ah! 'tis wonderful what can be done by contrivance!" "My own mind exactly, neighbour." "Ah, he's his grandfer's own grandson!--his grandfer were just such a nice unparticular man!" said the maltster. "Drink, Henry Fray--drink," magnanimously said Jan Coggan, a person who held Saint-Simonian notions of share and share alike where liquor was concerned, as the vessel showed signs of approaching him in its gradual revolution among them. Having at this moment reached the end of a wistful gaze into mid-air, Henry did not refuse. He was a man of more than middle age, with eyebrows high up in his forehead, who laid it down that the law of the world was bad, with a long-suffering look through his listeners at the world alluded to, as it presented itself to his imagination. He always signed his name "Henery"--strenuously insisting upon that spelling, and if any passing schoolmaster ventured to remark that the second "e" was superfluous and old-fashioned, he received the reply that "H-e-n-e-r-y" was the name he was christened and the name he would stick to--in the tone of one to whom orthographical differences were matters which had a great deal to do with personal character. Mr. Jan Coggan, who had passed the cup to Henery, was a crimson man with a spacious countenance and private glimmer in his eye, whose name had appeared on the marriage register of Weatherbury and neighbouring parishes as best man and chief witness in countless unions of the previous twenty years; he also very frequently filled the post of head godfather in baptisms of the subtly-jovial kind. "Come, Mark Clark--come. Ther's plenty more in the barrel," said Jan. "Ay--that I will, 'tis my only doctor," replied Mr. Clark, who, twenty years younger than Jan Coggan, revolved in the same orbit. He secreted mirth on all occasions for special discharge at popular parties. "Why, Joseph Poorgrass, ye han't had a drop!" said Mr. Coggan to a self-conscious man in the background, thrusting the cup towards him. "Such a modest man as he is!" said Jacob Smallbury. "Why, ye've hardly had strength of eye enough to look in our young mis'ess's face, so I hear, Joseph?" All looked at Joseph Poorgrass with pitying reproach. "No--I've hardly looked at her at all," simpered Joseph, reducing his body smaller whilst talking, apparently from a meek sense of undue prominence. "And when I seed her, 'twas nothing but blushes with me!" "Poor feller," said Mr. Clark. "'Tis a curious nature for a man," said Jan Coggan. "Yes," continued Joseph Poorgrass--his shyness, which was so painful as a defect, filling him with a mild complacency now that it was regarded as an interesting study. "'Twere blush, blush, blush with me every minute of the time, when she was speaking to me." "I believe ye, Joseph Poorgrass, for we all know ye to be a very bashful man." "'Tis a' awkward gift for a man, poor soul," said the maltster. "And how long have ye have suffered from it, Joseph?" [a] [Transcriber's note a: Alternate text, appears in all three editions on hand: "'Tis a' awkward gift for a man, poor soul," said the maltster. "And ye have suffered from it a long time, we know." "Ay, ever since..."] "Oh, ever since I was a boy. Yes--mother was concerned to her heart about it--yes. But 'twas all nought." "Did ye ever go into the world to try and stop it, Joseph Poorgrass?" "Oh ay, tried all sorts o' company. They took me to Greenhill Fair, and into a great gay jerry-go-nimble show, where there were women-folk riding round--standing upon horses, with hardly anything on but their smocks; but it didn't cure me a morsel. And then I was put errand-man at the Women's Skittle Alley at the back of the Tailor's Arms in Casterbridge. 'Twas a horrible sinful situation, and a very curious place for a good man. I had to stand and look ba'dy people in the face from morning till night; but 'twas no use--I was just as bad as ever after all. Blushes hev been in the family for generations. There, 'tis a happy providence that I be no worse." "True," said Jacob Smallbury, deepening his thoughts to a profounder view of the subject. "'Tis a thought to look at, that ye might have been worse; but even as you be, 'tis a very bad affliction for 'ee, Joseph. For ye see, shepherd, though 'tis very well for a woman, dang it all, 'tis awkward for a man like him, poor feller?" "'Tis--'tis," said Gabriel, recovering from a meditation. "Yes, very awkward for the man." "Ay, and he's very timid, too," observed Jan Coggan. "Once he had been working late at Yalbury Bottom, and had had a drap of drink, and lost his way as he was coming home-along through Yalbury Wood, didn't ye, Master Poorgrass?" "No, no, no; not that story!" expostulated the modest man, forcing a laugh to bury his concern. "--And so 'a lost himself quite," continued Mr. Coggan, with an impassive face, implying that a true narrative, like time and tide, must run its course and would respect no man. "And as he was coming along in the middle of the night, much afeared, and not able to find his way out of the trees nohow, 'a cried out, 'Man-a-lost! man-a-lost!' A owl in a tree happened to be crying 'Whoo-whoo-whoo!' as owls do, you know, shepherd" (Gabriel nodded), "and Joseph, all in a tremble, said, 'Joseph Poorgrass, of Weatherbury, sir!'" "No, no, now--that's too much!" said the timid man, becoming a man of brazen courage all of a sudden. "I didn't say SIR. I'll take my oath I didn't say 'Joseph Poorgrass o' Weatherbury, sir.' No, no; what's right is right, and I never said sir to the bird, knowing very well that no man of a gentleman's rank would be hollering there at that time o' night. 'Joseph Poorgrass of Weatherbury,'--that's every word I said, and I shouldn't ha' said that if 't hadn't been for Keeper Day's metheglin.... There, 'twas a merciful thing it ended where it did." The question of which was right being tacitly waived by the company, Jan went on meditatively:-- "And he's the fearfullest man, bain't ye, Joseph? Ay, another time ye were lost by Lambing-Down Gate, weren't ye, Joseph?" "I was," replied Poorgrass, as if there were some conditions too serious even for modesty to remember itself under, this being one. "Yes; that were the middle of the night, too. The gate would not open, try how he would, and knowing there was the Devil's hand in it, he kneeled down." "Ay," said Joseph, acquiring confidence from the warmth of the fire, the cider, and a perception of the narrative capabilities of the experience alluded to. "My heart died within me, that time; but I kneeled down and said the Lord's Prayer, and then the Belief right through, and then the Ten Commandments, in earnest prayer. But no, the gate wouldn't open; and then I went on with Dearly Beloved Brethren, and, thinks I, this makes four, and 'tis all I know out of book, and if this don't do it nothing will, and I'm a lost man. Well, when I got to Saying After Me, I rose from my knees and found the gate would open--yes, neighbours, the gate opened the same as ever." A meditation on the obvious inference was indulged in by all, and during its continuance each directed his vision into the ashpit, which glowed like a desert in the tropics under a vertical sun, shaping their eyes long and liny, partly because of the light, partly from the depth of the subject discussed. Gabriel broke the silence. "What sort of a place is this to live at, and what sort of a mis'ess is she to work under?" Gabriel's bosom thrilled gently as he thus slipped under the notice of the assembly the inner-most subject of his heart. "We d' know little of her--nothing. She only showed herself a few days ago. Her uncle was took bad, and the doctor was called with his world-wide skill; but he couldn't save the man. As I take it, she's going to keep on the farm. "That's about the shape o't, 'a b'lieve," said Jan Coggan. "Ay, 'tis a very good family. I'd as soon be under 'em as under one here and there. Her uncle was a very fair sort of man. Did ye know en, shepherd--a bachelor-man?" "Not at all." "I used to go to his house a-courting my first wife, Charlotte, who was his dairymaid. Well, a very good-hearted man were Farmer Everdene, and I being a respectable young fellow was allowed to call and see her and drink as much ale as I liked, but not to carry away any--outside my skin I mane of course." "Ay, ay, Jan Coggan; we know yer maning." "And so you see 'twas beautiful ale, and I wished to value his kindness as much as I could, and not to be so ill-mannered as to drink only a thimbleful, which would have been insulting the man's generosity--" "True, Master Coggan, 'twould so," corroborated Mark Clark. "--And so I used to eat a lot of salt fish afore going, and then by the time I got there I were as dry as a lime-basket--so thorough dry that that ale would slip down--ah, 'twould slip down sweet! Happy times! Heavenly times! Such lovely drunks as I used to have at that house! You can mind, Jacob? You used to go wi' me sometimes." "I can--I can," said Jacob. "That one, too, that we had at Buck's Head on a White Monday was a pretty tipple." "'Twas. But for a wet of the better class, that brought you no nearer to the horned man than you were afore you begun, there was none like those in Farmer Everdene's kitchen. Not a single damn allowed; no, not a bare poor one, even at the most cheerful moment when all were blindest, though the good old word of sin thrown in here and there at such times is a great relief to a merry soul." "True," said the maltster. "Nater requires her swearing at the regular times, or she's not herself; and unholy exclamations is a necessity of life." "But Charlotte," continued Coggan--"not a word of the sort would Charlotte allow, nor the smallest item of taking in vain.... Ay, poor Charlotte, I wonder if she had the good fortune to get into Heaven when 'a died! But 'a was never much in luck's way, and perhaps 'a went downwards after all, poor soul." "And did any of you know Miss Everdene's father and mother?" inquired the shepherd, who found some difficulty in keeping the conversation in the desired channel. "I knew them a little," said Jacob Smallbury; "but they were townsfolk, and didn't live here. They've been dead for years. Father, what sort of people were mis'ess' father and mother?" "Well," said the maltster, "he wasn't much to look at; but she was a lovely woman. He was fond enough of her as his sweetheart." "Used to kiss her scores and long-hundreds o' times, so 'twas said," observed Coggan. "He was very proud of her, too, when they were married, as I've been told," said the maltster. "Ay," said Coggan. "He admired her so much that he used to light the candle three times a night to look at her." "Boundless love; I shouldn't have supposed it in the universe!" murmured Joseph Poorgrass, who habitually spoke on a large scale in his moral reflections. "Well, to be sure," said Gabriel. "Oh, 'tis true enough. I knowed the man and woman both well. Levi Everdene--that was the man's name, sure. 'Man,' saith I in my hurry, but he were of a higher circle of life than that--'a was a gentleman-tailor really, worth scores of pounds. And he became a very celebrated bankrupt two or three times." "Oh, I thought he was quite a common man!" said Joseph. "Oh no, no! That man failed for heaps of money; hundreds in gold and silver." The maltster being rather short of breath, Mr. Coggan, after absently scrutinising a coal which had fallen among the ashes, took up the narrative, with a private twirl of his eye:-- "Well, now, you'd hardly believe it, but that man--our Miss Everdene's father--was one of the ficklest husbands alive, after a while. Understand? 'a didn't want to be fickle, but he couldn't help it. The pore feller were faithful and true enough to her in his wish, but his heart would rove, do what he would. He spoke to me in real tribulation about it once. 'Coggan,' he said, 'I could never wish for a handsomer woman than I've got, but feeling she's ticketed as my lawful wife, I can't help my wicked heart wandering, do what I will.' But at last I believe he cured it by making her take off her wedding-ring and calling her by her maiden name as they sat together after the shop was shut, and so 'a would get to fancy she was only his sweetheart, and not married to him at all. And as soon as he could thoroughly fancy he was doing wrong and committing the seventh, 'a got to like her as well as ever, and they lived on a perfect picture of mutel love." "Well, 'twas a most ungodly remedy," murmured Joseph Poorgrass; "but we ought to feel deep cheerfulness that a happy Providence kept it from being any worse. You see, he might have gone the bad road and given his eyes to unlawfulness entirely--yes, gross unlawfulness, so to say it." "You see," said Billy Smallbury, "The man's will was to do right, sure enough, but his heart didn't chime in." "He got so much better, that he was quite godly in his later years, wasn't he, Jan?" said Joseph Poorgrass. "He got himself confirmed over again in a more serious way, and took to saying 'Amen' almost as loud as the clerk, and he liked to copy comforting verses from the tombstones. He used, too, to hold the money-plate at Let Your Light so Shine, and stand godfather to poor little come-by-chance children; and he kept a missionary box upon his table to nab folks unawares when they called; yes, and he would box the charity-boys' ears, if they laughed in church, till they could hardly stand upright, and do other deeds of piety natural to the saintly inclined." "Ay, at that time he thought of nothing but high things," added Billy Smallbury. "One day Parson Thirdly met him and said, 'Good-Morning, Mister Everdene; 'tis a fine day!' 'Amen' said Everdene, quite absent-like, thinking only of religion when he seed a parson. Yes, he was a very Christian man." "Their daughter was not at all a pretty chiel at that time," said Henery Fray. "Never should have thought she'd have growed up such a handsome body as she is." "'Tis to be hoped her temper is as good as her face." "Well, yes; but the baily will have most to do with the business and ourselves. Ah!" Henery gazed into the ashpit, and smiled volumes of ironical knowledge. "A queer Christian, like the Devil's head in a cowl, [1] as the saying is," volunteered Mark Clark. [Footnote 1: This phrase is a conjectural emendation of the unintelligible expression, "as the Devil said to the Owl," used by the natives.] "He is," said Henery, implying that irony must cease at a certain point. "Between we two, man and man, I believe that man would as soon tell a lie Sundays as working-days--that I do so." "Good faith, you do talk!" said Gabriel. "True enough," said the man of bitter moods, looking round upon the company with the antithetic laughter that comes from a keener appreciation of the miseries of life than ordinary men are capable of. "Ah, there's people of one sort, and people of another, but that man--bless your souls!" Gabriel thought fit to change the subject. "You must be a very aged man, malter, to have sons growed mild and ancient," he remarked. "Father's so old that 'a can't mind his age, can ye, father?" interposed Jacob. "And he's growed terrible crooked too, lately," Jacob continued, surveying his father's figure, which was rather more bowed than his own. "Really one may say that father there is three-double." "Crooked folk will last a long while," said the maltster, grimly, and not in the best humour. "Shepherd would like to hear the pedigree of yer life, father-- wouldn't ye, shepherd?" "Ay that I should," said Gabriel with the heartiness of a man who had longed to hear it for several months. "What may your age be, malter?" The maltster cleared his throat in an exaggerated form for emphasis, and elongating his gaze to the remotest point of the ashpit, said, in the slow speech justifiable when the importance of a subject is so generally felt that any mannerism must be tolerated in getting at it, "Well, I don't mind the year I were born in, but perhaps I can reckon up the places I've lived at, and so get it that way. I bode at Upper Longpuddle across there" (nodding to the north) "till I were eleven. I bode seven at Kingsbere" (nodding to the east) "where I took to malting. I went therefrom to Norcombe, and malted there two-and-twenty years, and-two-and-twenty years I was there turnip-hoeing and harvesting. Ah, I knowed that old place, Norcombe, years afore you were thought of, Master Oak" (Oak smiled sincere belief in the fact). "Then I malted at Durnover four year, and four year turnip-hoeing; and I was fourteen times eleven months at Millpond St. Jude's" (nodding north-west-by-north). "Old Twills wouldn't hire me for more than eleven months at a time, to keep me from being chargeable to the parish if so be I was disabled. Then I was three year at Mellstock, and I've been here one-and-thirty year come Candlemas. How much is that?" "Hundred and seventeen," chuckled another old gentleman, given to mental arithmetic and little conversation, who had hitherto sat unobserved in a corner. "Well, then, that's my age," said the maltster, emphatically. "O no, father!" said Jacob. "Your turnip-hoeing were in the summer and your malting in the winter of the same years, and ye don't ought to count-both halves, father." "Chok' it all! I lived through the summers, didn't I? That's my question. I suppose ye'll say next I be no age at all to speak of?" "Sure we shan't," said Gabriel, soothingly. "Ye be a very old aged person, malter," attested Jan Coggan, also soothingly. "We all know that, and ye must have a wonderful talented constitution to be able to live so long, mustn't he, neighbours?" "True, true; ye must, malter, wonderful," said the meeting unanimously. The maltster, being now pacified, was even generous enough to voluntarily disparage in a slight degree the virtue of having lived a great many years, by mentioning that the cup they were drinking out of was three years older than he. While the cup was being examined, the end of Gabriel Oak's flute became visible over his smock-frock pocket, and Henery Fray exclaimed, "Surely, shepherd, I seed you blowing into a great flute by now at Casterbridge?" "You did," said Gabriel, blushing faintly. "I've been in great trouble, neighbours, and was driven to it. I used not to be so poor as I be now." "Never mind, heart!" said Mark Clark. "You should take it careless-like, shepherd, and your time will come. But we could thank ye for a tune, if ye bain't too tired?" "Neither drum nor trumpet have I heard since Christmas," said Jan Coggan. "Come, raise a tune, Master Oak!" "Ay, that I will," said Gabriel, pulling out his flute and putting it together. "A poor tool, neighbours; but such as I can do ye shall have and welcome." Oak then struck up "Jockey to the Fair," and played that sparkling melody three times through, accenting the notes in the third round in a most artistic and lively manner by bending his body in small jerks and tapping with his foot to beat time. "He can blow the flute very well--that 'a can," said a young married man, who having no individuality worth mentioning was known as "Susan Tall's husband." He continued, "I'd as lief as not be able to blow into a flute as well as that." "He's a clever man, and 'tis a true comfort for us to have such a shepherd," murmured Joseph Poorgrass, in a soft cadence. "We ought to feel full o' thanksgiving that he's not a player of ba'dy songs instead of these merry tunes; for 'twould have been just as easy for God to have made the shepherd a loose low man--a man of iniquity, so to speak it--as what he is. Yes, for our wives' and daughters' sakes we should feel real thanksgiving." "True, true,--real thanksgiving!" dashed in Mark Clark conclusively, not feeling it to be of any consequence to his opinion that he had only heard about a word and three-quarters of what Joseph had said. "Yes," added Joseph, beginning to feel like a man in the Bible; "for evil do thrive so in these times that ye may be as much deceived in the cleanest shaved and whitest shirted man as in the raggedest tramp upon the turnpike, if I may term it so." "Ay, I can mind yer face now, shepherd," said Henery Fray, criticising Gabriel with misty eyes as he entered upon his second tune. "Yes--now I see 'ee blowing into the flute I know 'ee to be the same man I see play at Casterbridge, for yer mouth were scrimped up and yer eyes a-staring out like a strangled man's--just as they be now." "'Tis a pity that playing the flute should make a man look such a scarecrow," observed Mr. Mark Clark, with additional criticism of Gabriel's countenance, the latter person jerking out, with the ghastly grimace required by the instrument, the chorus of "Dame Durden:"-- 'Twas Moll' and Bet', and Doll' and Kate', And Dor'-othy Drag'-gle Tail'. "I hope you don't mind that young man's bad manners in naming your features?" whispered Joseph to Gabriel. "Not at all," said Mr. Oak. "For by nature ye be a very handsome man, shepherd," continued Joseph Poorgrass, with winning sauvity. "Ay, that ye be, shepard," said the company. "Thank you very much," said Oak, in the modest tone good manners demanded, thinking, however, that he would never let Bathsheba see him playing the flute; in this resolve showing a discretion equal to that related to its sagacious inventress, the divine Minerva herself. "Ah, when I and my wife were married at Norcombe Church," said the old maltster, not pleased at finding himself left out of the subject, "we were called the handsomest couple in the neighbourhood--everybody said so." "Danged if ye bain't altered now, malter," said a voice with the vigour natural to the enunciation of a remarkably evident truism. It came from the old man in the background, whose offensiveness and spiteful ways were barely atoned for by the occasional chuckle he contributed to general laughs. "O no, no," said Gabriel. "Don't ye play no more shepherd" said Susan Tall's husband, the young married man who had spoken once before. "I must be moving and when there's tunes going on I seem as if hung in wires. If I thought after I'd left that music was still playing, and I not there, I should be quite melancholy-like." "What's yer hurry then, Laban?" inquired Coggan. "You used to bide as late as the latest." "Well, ye see, neighbours, I was lately married to a woman, and she's my vocation now, and so ye see--" The young man halted lamely. "New Lords new laws, as the saying is, I suppose," remarked Coggan. "Ay, 'a b'lieve--ha, ha!" said Susan Tall's husband, in a tone intended to imply his habitual reception of jokes without minding them at all. The young man then wished them good-night and withdrew. Henery Fray was the first to follow. Then Gabriel arose and went off with Jan Coggan, who had offered him a lodging. A few minutes later, when the remaining ones were on their legs and about to depart, Fray came back again in a hurry. Flourishing his finger ominously he threw a gaze teeming with tidings just where his eye alighted by accident, which happened to be in Joseph Poorgrass's face. "O--what's the matter, what's the matter, Henery?" said Joseph, starting back. "What's a-brewing, Henrey?" asked Jacob and Mark Clark. "Baily Pennyways--Baily Pennyways--I said so; yes, I said so!" "What, found out stealing anything?" "Stealing it is. The news is, that after Miss Everdene got home she went out again to see all was safe, as she usually do, and coming in found Baily Pennyways creeping down the granary steps with half a a bushel of barley. She fleed at him like a cat--never such a tomboy as she is--of course I speak with closed doors?" "You do--you do, Henery." "She fleed at him, and, to cut a long story short, he owned to having carried off five sack altogether, upon her promising not to persecute him. Well, he's turned out neck and crop, and my question is, who's going to be baily now?" The question was such a profound one that Henery was obliged to drink there and then from the large cup till the bottom was distinctly visible inside. Before he had replaced it on the table, in came the young man, Susan Tall's husband, in a still greater hurry. "Have ye heard the news that's all over parish?" "About Baily Pennyways?" "But besides that?" "No--not a morsel of it!" they replied, looking into the very midst of Laban Tall as if to meet his words half-way down his throat. "What a night of horrors!" murmured Joseph Poorgrass, waving his hands spasmodically. "I've had the news-bell ringing in my left ear quite bad enough for a murder, and I've seen a magpie all alone!" "Fanny Robin--Miss Everdene's youngest servant--can't be found. They've been wanting to lock up the door these two hours, but she isn't come in. And they don't know what to do about going to bed for fear of locking her out. They wouldn't be so concerned if she hadn't been noticed in such low spirits these last few days, and Maryann d' think the beginning of a crowner's inquest has happened to the poor girl." "Oh--'tis burned--'tis burned!" came from Joseph Poorgrass's dry lips. "No--'tis drowned!" said Tall. "Or 'tis her father's razor!" suggested Billy Smallbury, with a vivid sense of detail. "Well--Miss Everdene wants to speak to one or two of us before we go to bed. What with this trouble about the baily, and now about the girl, mis'ess is almost wild." They all hastened up the lane to the farmhouse, excepting the old maltster, whom neither news, fire, rain, nor thunder could draw from his hole. There, as the others' footsteps died away he sat down again and continued gazing as usual into the furnace with his red, bleared eyes. From the bedroom window above their heads Bathsheba's head and shoulders, robed in mystic white, were dimly seen extended into the air. "Are any of my men among you?" she said anxiously. "Yes, ma'am, several," said Susan Tall's husband. "To-morrow morning I wish two or three of you to make inquiries in the villages round if they have seen such a person as Fanny Robin. Do it quietly; there is no reason for alarm as yet. She must have left whilst we were all at the fire." "I beg yer pardon, but had she any young man courting her in the parish, ma'am?" asked Jacob Smallbury. "I don't know," said Bathsheba. "I've never heard of any such thing, ma'am," said two or three. "It is hardly likely, either," continued Bathsheba. "For any lover of hers might have come to the house if he had been a respectable lad. The most mysterious matter connected with her absence--indeed, the only thing which gives me serious alarm--is that she was seen to go out of the house by Maryann with only her indoor working gown on--not even a bonnet." "And you mean, ma'am, excusing my words, that a young woman would hardly go to see her young man without dressing up," said Jacob, turning his mental vision upon past experiences. "That's true--she would not, ma'am." "She had, I think, a bundle, though I couldn't see very well," said a female voice from another window, which seemed that of Maryann. "But she had no young man about here. Hers lives in Casterbridge, and I believe he's a soldier." "Do you know his name?" Bathsheba said. "No, mistress; she was very close about it." "Perhaps I might be able to find out if I went to Casterbridge barracks," said William Smallbury. "Very well; if she doesn't return to-morrow, mind you go there and try to discover which man it is, and see him. I feel more responsible than I should if she had had any friends or relations alive. I do hope she has come to no harm through a man of that kind.... And then there's this disgraceful affair of the bailiff--but I can't speak of him now." Bathsheba had so many reasons for uneasiness that it seemed she did not think it worth while to dwell upon any particular one. "Do as I told you, then," she said in conclusion, closing the casement. "Ay, ay, mistress; we will," they replied, and moved away. That night at Coggan's, Gabriel Oak, beneath the screen of closed eyelids, was busy with fancies, and full of movement, like a river flowing rapidly under its ice. Night had always been the time at which he saw Bathsheba most vividly, and through the slow hours of shadow he tenderly regarded her image now. It is rarely that the pleasures of the imagination will compensate for the pain of sleeplessness, but they possibly did with Oak to-night, for the delight of merely seeing her effaced for the time his perception of the great difference between seeing and possessing. He also thought of plans for fetching his few utensils and books from Norcombe. _The Young Man's Best Companion_, _The Farrier's Sure Guide_, _The Veterinary Surgeon_, _Paradise Lost_, _The Pilgrim's Progress_, _Robinson Crusoe_, Ash's _Dictionary_, and Walkingame's _Arithmetic_, constituted his library; and though a limited series, it was one from which he had acquired more sound information by diligent perusal than many a man of opportunities has done from a furlong of laden shelves.

Chapter 8

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-8

When he walks into the town malthouse, Oak is greeted really warmly. He's already won the respect of the men in the town. The man who runs the joint is old enough to have known Oak's grandfather. After some small talk, they invite Gabriel to drink with them. For the rest of the chat, he meets some of the local characters, most of who actually work for Bathsheba. It turns out that she has inherited her uncle's large estate. One local guy, Joseph Poorgrass, admits that he can hardly look his boss in the face because she's so pretty. The group tells some funny stories about Poorgrass's skittishness. The men then tell some stories about Bathsheba's dead father and how he used to cheat on his wife. It was only when he learned to pretend that his wife wasn't his wife that he was able to love her completely at all times. Apparently, the guy also became really religious after this and quit every bad habit he had. The discussion turns to the age of the man who owns the malthouse. He must be pretty old, considering that his son is sixty years old. The men notice that Oak is carrying a flute and ask him to play. So he does and this puts everyone in an even better mood. Eventually, the crowd breaks up and Oak leaves with a guy named Jan Coggan, who has agreed to let Oak crash at his house for the night. After they're gone, the workers talk about how Bathsheba recently fired her bailiff Pennyways because she caught him stealing from her. The men want to know who Bathsheba is going to get to run her farm now. The word on the street is that she plans on doing it herself, which sounds ridiculous to the men. Poorgrass runs back into the room and tells them there's more news. A young woman in Bathsheba's house named Fanny Robin has run away from home. This is no doubt the girl that Oak met on the road earlier. The men all rush off to the farmhouse to see what's up, leaving the old malthouse owner to sit alone and think. From her bedroom window, Bathsheba gives her men orders to set out first thing in the morning and find Fanny Robin. People wonder if she has run off with a young man, and they ask around to see if she's been courting any young men in the area. One young woman says that Fanny had a bundle with her when she left the house . Meanwhile, Oak is standing amongst the crowd and just thinking about how happy he is to see Bathsheba's face.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_39_to_42.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Lord Jim/section_10_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapters 39-42

chapters 39 - 42

{"name": "Chapters 39 - 42", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210126121516/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/lordjim/section11/", "summary": "Dain Waris leads the initial attack against Gentleman Brown and his men. Unfortunately, he is not able to rally his people effectively enough to rout the pirate, and Jim, who could provide the inspiration and leadership needed, is away in the countryside. A council of war is held, at which everyone's personal motives get in the way of agreement; Doramin wishes to protect his son, and Rajah Allang, who is pretending to cooperate, is secretly working to form an alliance with Brown to bring Jim down. The Rajah's representative contacts Cornelius and arranges for him to serve as a go-between with Brown. Cornelius is a little too persuasive as to the friendliness of the Rajah, the charms of Patusan, and the ease with which he claims Jim can be defeated. Brown decides to stay and fight, not just for supplies and a chance to escape, but to try to seize the territory for himself. Meanwhile, Dain Waris has sent canoes downstream to seal Brown's avenue of escape and reinforcement. Brown dallies with Cornelius and the Rajah, buying time and always intending to double-cross them. One of Brown's men shoots a villager from a great distance. The pirate hopes that this will evoke fear among the people of Patusan, and that they will overestimate his strength. As night falls, one of Brown's men sneaks down to their beached boat to get some tobacco that has been left there. He is not cautious enough, however, and he is shot by a relative of the villager who was killed earlier in the day. Brown and his men have to listen to the dying moans of their comrade for several hours; it is not until the tide comes in, drowning him and carrying him off, that his screams cease. Cornelius and Brown talk again. Drums begin to beat in the village, and fires are lit. Cornelius tells Brown that this is a sign that Jim has returned, and that Jim will surely come to talk to him face to face. He recommends that Brown have one of his men shoot Jim from a position of cover. This action, he says, will give Brown the psychological edge and enable him to defeat the Bugis. The next morning, Jim indeed approaches Brown's stronghold. He and Brown speak warily. Jim asks him what has brought him to Patusan; Brown replies simply, \"Hunger,\" and redirects the question toward Jim. Jim is startled. Brown asks him to remember that they are both white men, and then requests that his men either be ambushed directly or allowed to leave, rather than left to starve and suffer like \"rat in a trap.\" He admits to Jim that his greatest fear is of prison, and that this fear is what has motivated him his entire life, even at this very moment. Marlow, listening to the story at Brown's deathbed, wonders how much of Brown's account is the truth. Jim, bothered by something, says little to Brown, but promises him \"a clear road or else a clear fight\" and leaves. Cornelius rages at Brown for not shooting Jim when he had the chance. Jim goes directly to Doramin to recommend that Brown be allowed to escape unharmed. Doramin is reluctant. Jim appeals to the people, reminding them that he has never led them wrong. Doramin still hesitates, and Jim declares that, if they are to fight, he will not lead. Dain Waris will have to command.", "analysis": "Commentary Gentleman Brown does the one thing nearly every other character in this novel is afraid to do: he asks Jim what it was that he hoped to gain by coming to Patusan. Brown is honest about his own motives and fears, and Jim realizes that he has been living a lie. Brown speaks the truth about Jim; to have him killed would seem like just another attempt at deceit. In recommending that Brown be let go, Jim does what is honorable for his personal reputation, not what is best for Patusan. In part, Brown defeats Jim by speaking the \"truth\" about him; in part, Jim defeats himself by adhering to a false ideal. In offering to defer to Dain Waris, Jim is exercising the only option available to him that compromises neither himself nor Patusan. No heroic action is possible. Marlow questions the veracity of Brown's account of his conversation with Jim. This is an implicit reminder to the reader to question Marlow's account, to remember that we are receiving the story just as Marlow does--in fragments. More obviously, however, Marlow is upset because Brown has appealed to Jim on the basis of being \"one of us\"; through their conversation runs \"a vein of subtle reference to their common blood, an assumption of common experience; a sickening suggestion of common guilt. . . \" This, of course, is exactly the foundation on which Marlow has premised his own identification with Jim. Now it seems to link Marlow, through Jim, to Brown. Issues of racial dynamics also arise in this section. Dain Waris is unable to defeat Brown initially because he does not possess the mystique of the white man, according to the narrative. The people of Patusan seem to have a faith in Jim that is naive in the extreme, based solely on his status as a white man. When Jim returns from the countryside, things immediately return to normal despite the continued presence of Brown and his men on the hilltop. On the other hand, it is Cornelius who behaves the most despicably in this section of the novel, and Doramin who will turn out to be right. Also, it is Brown who tells this part of the story, and therefore it is his opinions that we are receiving. Nevertheless, Jim is being asked to choose between the people of Patusan and a fellow white man, and the situation is certainly racially charged."}

'All the events of that night have a great importance, since they brought about a situation which remained unchanged till Jim's return. Jim had been away in the interior for more than a week, and it was Dain Waris who had directed the first repulse. That brave and intelligent youth ("who knew how to fight after the manner of white men") wished to settle the business off-hand, but his people were too much for him. He had not Jim's racial prestige and the reputation of invincible, supernatural power. He was not the visible, tangible incarnation of unfailing truth and of unfailing victory. Beloved, trusted, and admired as he was, he was still one of _them_, while Jim was one of us. Moreover, the white man, a tower of strength in himself, was invulnerable, while Dain Waris could be killed. Those unexpressed thoughts guided the opinions of the chief men of the town, who elected to assemble in Jim's fort for deliberation upon the emergency, as if expecting to find wisdom and courage in the dwelling of the absent white man. The shooting of Brown's ruffians was so far good, or lucky, that there had been half-a-dozen casualties amongst the defenders. The wounded were lying on the verandah tended by their women-folk. The women and children from the lower part of the town had been sent into the fort at the first alarm. There Jewel was in command, very efficient and high-spirited, obeyed by Jim's "own people," who, quitting in a body their little settlement under the stockade, had gone in to form the garrison. The refugees crowded round her; and through the whole affair, to the very disastrous last, she showed an extraordinary martial ardour. It was to her that Dain Waris had gone at once at the first intelligence of danger, for you must know that Jim was the only one in Patusan who possessed a store of gunpowder. Stein, with whom he had kept up intimate relations by letters, had obtained from the Dutch Government a special authorisation to export five hundred kegs of it to Patusan. The powder-magazine was a small hut of rough logs covered entirely with earth, and in Jim's absence the girl had the key. In the council, held at eleven o'clock in the evening in Jim's dining-room, she backed up Waris's advice for immediate and vigorous action. I am told that she stood up by the side of Jim's empty chair at the head of the long table and made a warlike impassioned speech, which for the moment extorted murmurs of approbation from the assembled headmen. Old Doramin, who had not showed himself outside his own gate for more than a year, had been brought across with great difficulty. He was, of course, the chief man there. The temper of the council was very unforgiving, and the old man's word would have been decisive; but it is my opinion that, well aware of his son's fiery courage, he dared not pronounce the word. More dilatory counsels prevailed. A certain Haji Saman pointed out at great length that "these tyrannical and ferocious men had delivered themselves to a certain death in any case. They would stand fast on their hill and starve, or they would try to regain their boat and be shot from ambushes across the creek, or they would break and fly into the forest and perish singly there." He argued that by the use of proper stratagems these evil-minded strangers could be destroyed without the risk of a battle, and his words had a great weight, especially with the Patusan men proper. What unsettled the minds of the townsfolk was the failure of the Rajah's boats to act at the decisive moment. It was the diplomatic Kassim who represented the Rajah at the council. He spoke very little, listened smilingly, very friendly and impenetrable. During the sitting messengers kept arriving every few minutes almost, with reports of the invaders' proceedings. Wild and exaggerated rumours were flying: there was a large ship at the mouth of the river with big guns and many more men--some white, others with black skins and of bloodthirsty appearance. They were coming with many more boats to exterminate every living thing. A sense of near, incomprehensible danger affected the common people. At one moment there was a panic in the courtyard amongst the women; shrieking; a rush; children crying--Haji Sunan went out to quiet them. Then a fort sentry fired at something moving on the river, and nearly killed a villager bringing in his women-folk in a canoe together with the best of his domestic utensils and a dozen fowls. This caused more confusion. Meantime the palaver inside Jim's house went on in the presence of the girl. Doramin sat fierce-faced, heavy, looking at the speakers in turn, and breathing slow like a bull. He didn't speak till the last, after Kassim had declared that the Rajah's boats would be called in because the men were required to defend his master's stockade. Dain Waris in his father's presence would offer no opinion, though the girl entreated him in Jim's name to speak out. She offered him Jim's own men in her anxiety to have these intruders driven out at once. He only shook his head, after a glance or two at Doramin. Finally, when the council broke up it had been decided that the houses nearest the creek should be strongly occupied to obtain the command of the enemy's boat. The boat itself was not to be interfered with openly, so that the robbers on the hill should be tempted to embark, when a well-directed fire would kill most of them, no doubt. To cut off the escape of those who might survive, and to prevent more of them coming up, Dain Waris was ordered by Doramin to take an armed party of Bugis down the river to a certain spot ten miles below Patusan, and there form a camp on the shore and blockade the stream with the canoes. I don't believe for a moment that Doramin feared the arrival of fresh forces. My opinion is that his conduct was guided solely by his wish to keep his son out of harm's way. To prevent a rush being made into the town the construction of a stockade was to be commenced at daylight at the end of the street on the left bank. The old nakhoda declared his intention to command there himself. A distribution of powder, bullets, and percussion-caps was made immediately under the girl's supervision. Several messengers were to be dispatched in different directions after Jim, whose exact whereabouts were unknown. These men started at dawn, but before that time Kassim had managed to open communications with the besieged Brown. 'That accomplished diplomatist and confidant of the Rajah, on leaving the fort to go back to his master, took into his boat Cornelius, whom he found slinking mutely amongst the people in the courtyard. Kassim had a little plan of his own and wanted him for an interpreter. Thus it came about that towards morning Brown, reflecting upon the desperate nature of his position, heard from the marshy overgrown hollow an amicable, quavering, strained voice crying--in English--for permission to come up, under a promise of personal safety and on a very important errand. He was overjoyed. If he was spoken to he was no longer a hunted wild beast. These friendly sounds took off at once the awful stress of vigilant watchfulness as of so many blind men not knowing whence the deathblow might come. He pretended a great reluctance. The voice declared itself "a white man--a poor, ruined, old man who had been living here for years." A mist, wet and chilly, lay on the slopes of the hill, and after some more shouting from one to the other, Brown called out, "Come on, then, but alone, mind!" As a matter of fact--he told me, writhing with rage at the recollection of his helplessness--it made no difference. They couldn't see more than a few yards before them, and no treachery could make their position worse. By-and-by Cornelius, in his week-day attire of a ragged dirty shirt and pants, barefooted, with a broken-rimmed pith hat on his head, was made out vaguely, sidling up to the defences, hesitating, stopping to listen in a peering posture. "Come along! You are safe," yelled Brown, while his men stared. All their hopes of life became suddenly centered in that dilapidated, mean newcomer, who in profound silence clambered clumsily over a felled tree-trunk, and shivering, with his sour, mistrustful face, looked about at the knot of bearded, anxious, sleepless desperadoes. 'Half an hour's confidential talk with Cornelius opened Brown's eyes as to the home affairs of Patusan. He was on the alert at once. There were possibilities, immense possibilities; but before he would talk over Cornelius's proposals he demanded that some food should be sent up as a guarantee of good faith. Cornelius went off, creeping sluggishly down the hill on the side of the Rajah's palace, and after some delay a few of Tunku Allang's men came up, bringing a scanty supply of rice, chillies, and dried fish. This was immeasurably better than nothing. Later on Cornelius returned accompanying Kassim, who stepped out with an air of perfect good-humoured trustfulness, in sandals, and muffled up from neck to ankles in dark-blue sheeting. He shook hands with Brown discreetly, and the three drew aside for a conference. Brown's men, recovering their confidence, were slapping each other on the back, and cast knowing glances at their captain while they busied themselves with preparations for cooking. 'Kassim disliked Doramin and his Bugis very much, but he hated the new order of things still more. It had occurred to him that these whites, together with the Rajah's followers, could attack and defeat the Bugis before Jim's return. Then, he reasoned, general defection of the townsfolk was sure to follow, and the reign of the white man who protected poor people would be over. Afterwards the new allies could be dealt with. They would have no friends. The fellow was perfectly able to perceive the difference of character, and had seen enough of white men to know that these newcomers were outcasts, men without country. Brown preserved a stern and inscrutable demeanour. When he first heard Cornelius's voice demanding admittance, it brought merely the hope of a loophole for escape. In less than an hour other thoughts were seething in his head. Urged by an extreme necessity, he had come there to steal food, a few tons of rubber or gum may be, perhaps a handful of dollars, and had found himself enmeshed by deadly dangers. Now in consequence of these overtures from Kassim he began to think of stealing the whole country. Some confounded fellow had apparently accomplished something of the kind--single-handed at that. Couldn't have done it very well though. Perhaps they could work together--squeeze everything dry and then go out quietly. In the course of his negotiations with Kassim he became aware that he was supposed to have a big ship with plenty of men outside. Kassim begged him earnestly to have this big ship with his many guns and men brought up the river without delay for the Rajah's service. Brown professed himself willing, and on this basis the negotiation was carried on with mutual distrust. Three times in the course of the morning the courteous and active Kassim went down to consult the Rajah and came up busily with his long stride. Brown, while bargaining, had a sort of grim enjoyment in thinking of his wretched schooner, with nothing but a heap of dirt in her hold, that stood for an armed ship, and a Chinaman and a lame ex-beachcomber of Levuka on board, who represented all his many men. In the afternoon he obtained further doles of food, a promise of some money, and a supply of mats for his men to make shelters for themselves. They lay down and snored, protected from the burning sunshine; but Brown, sitting fully exposed on one of the felled trees, feasted his eyes upon the view of the town and the river. There was much loot there. Cornelius, who had made himself at home in the camp, talked at his elbow, pointing out the localities, imparting advice, giving his own version of Jim's character, and commenting in his own fashion upon the events of the last three years. Brown, who, apparently indifferent and gazing away, listened with attention to every word, could not make out clearly what sort of man this Jim could be. "What's his name? Jim! Jim! That's not enough for a man's name." "They call him," said Cornelius scornfully, "Tuan Jim here. As you may say Lord Jim." "What is he? Where does he come from?" inquired Brown. "What sort of man is he? Is he an Englishman?" "Yes, yes, he's an Englishman. I am an Englishman too. From Malacca. He is a fool. All you have to do is to kill him and then you are king here. Everything belongs to him," explained Cornelius. "It strikes me he may be made to share with somebody before very long," commented Brown half aloud. "No, no. The proper way is to kill him the first chance you get, and then you can do what you like," Cornelius would insist earnestly. "I have lived for many years here, and I am giving you a friend's advice." 'In such converse and in gloating over the view of Patusan, which he had determined in his mind should become his prey, Brown whiled away most of the afternoon, his men, meantime, resting. On that day Dain Waris's fleet of canoes stole one by one under the shore farthest from the creek, and went down to close the river against his retreat. Of this Brown was not aware, and Kassim, who came up the knoll an hour before sunset, took good care not to enlighten him. He wanted the white man's ship to come up the river, and this news, he feared, would be discouraging. He was very pressing with Brown to send the "order," offering at the same time a trusty messenger, who for greater secrecy (as he explained) would make his way by land to the mouth of the river and deliver the "order" on board. After some reflection Brown judged it expedient to tear a page out of his pocket-book, on which he simply wrote, "We are getting on. Big job. Detain the man." The stolid youth selected by Kassim for that service performed it faithfully, and was rewarded by being suddenly tipped, head first, into the schooner's empty hold by the ex-beachcomber and the Chinaman, who thereupon hastened to put on the hatches. What became of him afterwards Brown did not say.' 'Brown's object was to gain time by fooling with Kassim's diplomacy. For doing a real stroke of business he could not help thinking the white man was the person to work with. He could not imagine such a chap (who must be confoundedly clever after all to get hold of the natives like that) refusing a help that would do away with the necessity for slow, cautious, risky cheating, that imposed itself as the only possible line of conduct for a single-handed man. He, Brown, would offer him the power. No man could hesitate. Everything was in coming to a clear understanding. Of course they would share. The idea of there being a fort--all ready to his hand--a real fort, with artillery (he knew this from Cornelius), excited him. Let him only once get in and . . . He would impose modest conditions. Not too low, though. The man was no fool, it seemed. They would work like brothers till . . . till the time came for a quarrel and a shot that would settle all accounts. With grim impatience of plunder he wished himself to be talking with the man now. The land already seemed to be his to tear to pieces, squeeze, and throw away. Meantime Kassim had to be fooled for the sake of food first--and for a second string. But the principal thing was to get something to eat from day to day. Besides, he was not averse to begin fighting on that Rajah's account, and teach a lesson to those people who had received him with shots. The lust of battle was upon him. 'I am sorry that I can't give you this part of the story, which of course I have mainly from Brown, in Brown's own words. There was in the broken, violent speech of that man, unveiling before me his thoughts with the very hand of Death upon his throat, an undisguised ruthlessness of purpose, a strange vengeful attitude towards his own past, and a blind belief in the righteousness of his will against all mankind, something of that feeling which could induce the leader of a horde of wandering cut-throats to call himself proudly the Scourge of God. No doubt the natural senseless ferocity which is the basis of such a character was exasperated by failure, ill-luck, and the recent privations, as well as by the desperate position in which he found himself; but what was most remarkable of all was this, that while he planned treacherous alliances, had already settled in his own mind the fate of the white man, and intrigued in an overbearing, offhand manner with Kassim, one could perceive that what he had really desired, almost in spite of himself, was to play havoc with that jungle town which had defied him, to see it strewn over with corpses and enveloped in flames. Listening to his pitiless, panting voice, I could imagine how he must have looked at it from the hillock, peopling it with images of murder and rapine. The part nearest to the creek wore an abandoned aspect, though as a matter of fact every house concealed a few armed men on the alert. Suddenly beyond the stretch of waste ground, interspersed with small patches of low dense bush, excavations, heaps of rubbish, with trodden paths between, a man, solitary and looking very small, strolled out into the deserted opening of the street between the shut-up, dark, lifeless buildings at the end. Perhaps one of the inhabitants, who had fled to the other bank of the river, coming back for some object of domestic use. Evidently he supposed himself quite safe at that distance from the hill on the other side of the creek. A light stockade, set up hastily, was just round the turn of the street, full of his friends. He moved leisurely. Brown saw him, and instantly called to his side the Yankee deserter, who acted as a sort of second in command. This lanky, loose-jointed fellow came forward, wooden-faced, trailing his rifle lazily. When he understood what was wanted from him a homicidal and conceited smile uncovered his teeth, making two deep folds down his sallow, leathery cheeks. He prided himself on being a dead shot. He dropped on one knee, and taking aim from a steady rest through the unlopped branches of a felled tree, fired, and at once stood up to look. The man, far away, turned his head to the report, made another step forward, seemed to hesitate, and abruptly got down on his hands and knees. In the silence that fell upon the sharp crack of the rifle, the dead shot, keeping his eyes fixed upon the quarry, guessed that "this there coon's health would never be a source of anxiety to his friends any more." The man's limbs were seen to move rapidly under his body in an endeavour to run on all-fours. In that empty space arose a multitudinous shout of dismay and surprise. The man sank flat, face down, and moved no more. "That showed them what we could do," said Brown to me. "Struck the fear of sudden death into them. That was what we wanted. They were two hundred to one, and this gave them something to think over for the night. Not one of them had an idea of such a long shot before. That beggar belonging to the Rajah scooted down-hill with his eyes hanging out of his head." 'As he was telling me this he tried with a shaking hand to wipe the thin foam on his blue lips. "Two hundred to one. Two hundred to one . . . strike terror, . . . terror, terror, I tell you. . . ." His own eyes were starting out of their sockets. He fell back, clawing the air with skinny fingers, sat up again, bowed and hairy, glared at me sideways like some man-beast of folk-lore, with open mouth in his miserable and awful agony before he got his speech back after that fit. There are sights one never forgets. 'Furthermore, to draw the enemy's fire and locate such parties as might have been hiding in the bushes along the creek, Brown ordered the Solomon Islander to go down to the boat and bring an oar, as you send a spaniel after a stick into the water. This failed, and the fellow came back without a single shot having been fired at him from anywhere. "There's nobody," opined some of the men. It is "onnatural," remarked the Yankee. Kassim had gone, by that time, very much impressed, pleased too, and also uneasy. Pursuing his tortuous policy, he had dispatched a message to Dain Waris warning him to look out for the white men's ship, which, he had had information, was about to come up the river. He minimised its strength and exhorted him to oppose its passage. This double-dealing answered his purpose, which was to keep the Bugis forces divided and to weaken them by fighting. On the other hand, he had in the course of that day sent word to the assembled Bugis chiefs in town, assuring them that he was trying to induce the invaders to retire; his messages to the fort asked earnestly for powder for the Rajah's men. It was a long time since Tunku Allang had had ammunition for the score or so of old muskets rusting in their arm-racks in the audience-hall. The open intercourse between the hill and the palace unsettled all the minds. It was already time for men to take sides, it began to be said. There would soon be much bloodshed, and thereafter great trouble for many people. The social fabric of orderly, peaceful life, when every man was sure of to-morrow, the edifice raised by Jim's hands, seemed on that evening ready to collapse into a ruin reeking with blood. The poorer folk were already taking to the bush or flying up the river. A good many of the upper class judged it necessary to go and pay their court to the Rajah. The Rajah's youths jostled them rudely. Old Tunku Allang, almost out of his mind with fear and indecision, either kept a sullen silence or abused them violently for daring to come with empty hands: they departed very much frightened; only old Doramin kept his countrymen together and pursued his tactics inflexibly. Enthroned in a big chair behind the improvised stockade, he issued his orders in a deep veiled rumble, unmoved, like a deaf man, in the flying rumours. 'Dusk fell, hiding first the body of the dead man, which had been left lying with arms outstretched as if nailed to the ground, and then the revolving sphere of the night rolled smoothly over Patusan and came to a rest, showering the glitter of countless worlds upon the earth. Again, in the exposed part of the town big fires blazed along the only street, revealing from distance to distance upon their glares the falling straight lines of roofs, the fragments of wattled walls jumbled in confusion, here and there a whole hut elevated in the glow upon the vertical black stripes of a group of high piles and all this line of dwellings, revealed in patches by the swaying flames, seemed to flicker tortuously away up-river into the gloom at the heart of the land. A great silence, in which the looms of successive fires played without noise, extended into the darkness at the foot of the hill; but the other bank of the river, all dark save for a solitary bonfire at the river-front before the fort, sent out into the air an increasing tremor that might have been the stamping of a multitude of feet, the hum of many voices, or the fall of an immensely distant waterfall. It was then, Brown confessed to me, while, turning his back on his men, he sat looking at it all, that notwithstanding his disdain, his ruthless faith in himself, a feeling came over him that at last he had run his head against a stone wall. Had his boat been afloat at the time, he believed he would have tried to steal away, taking his chances of a long chase down the river and of starvation at sea. It is very doubtful whether he would have succeeded in getting away. However, he didn't try this. For another moment he had a passing thought of trying to rush the town, but he perceived very well that in the end he would find himself in the lighted street, where they would be shot down like dogs from the houses. They were two hundred to one--he thought, while his men, huddling round two heaps of smouldering embers, munched the last of the bananas and roasted the few yams they owed to Kassim's diplomacy. Cornelius sat amongst them dozing sulkily. 'Then one of the whites remembered that some tobacco had been left in the boat, and, encouraged by the impunity of the Solomon Islander, said he would go to fetch it. At this all the others shook off their despondency. Brown applied to, said, "Go, and be d--d to you," scornfully. He didn't think there was any danger in going to the creek in the dark. The man threw a leg over the tree-trunk and disappeared. A moment later he was heard clambering into the boat and then clambering out. "I've got it," he cried. A flash and a report at the very foot of the hill followed. "I am hit," yelled the man. "Look out, look out--I am hit," and instantly all the rifles went off. The hill squirted fire and noise into the night like a little volcano, and when Brown and the Yankee with curses and cuffs stopped the panic-stricken firing, a profound, weary groan floated up from the creek, succeeded by a plaint whose heartrending sadness was like some poison turning the blood cold in the veins. Then a strong voice pronounced several distinct incomprehensible words somewhere beyond the creek. "Let no one fire," shouted Brown. "What does it mean?" . . . "Do you hear on the hill? Do you hear? Do you hear?" repeated the voice three times. Cornelius translated, and then prompted the answer. "Speak," cried Brown, "we hear." Then the voice, declaiming in the sonorous inflated tone of a herald, and shifting continually on the edge of the vague waste-land, proclaimed that between the men of the Bugis nation living in Patusan and the white men on the hill and those with them, there would be no faith, no compassion, no speech, no peace. A bush rustled; a haphazard volley rang out. "Dam' foolishness," muttered the Yankee, vexedly grounding the butt. Cornelius translated. The wounded man below the hill, after crying out twice, "Take me up! take me up!" went on complaining in moans. While he had kept on the blackened earth of the slope, and afterwards crouching in the boat, he had been safe enough. It seems that in his joy at finding the tobacco he forgot himself and jumped out on her off-side, as it were. The white boat, lying high and dry, showed him up; the creek was no more than seven yards wide in that place, and there happened to be a man crouching in the bush on the other bank. 'He was a Bugis of Tondano only lately come to Patusan, and a relation of the man shot in the afternoon. That famous long shot had indeed appalled the beholders. The man in utter security had been struck down, in full view of his friends, dropping with a joke on his lips, and they seemed to see in the act an atrocity which had stirred a bitter rage. That relation of his, Si-Lapa by name, was then with Doramin in the stockade only a few feet away. You who know these chaps must admit that the fellow showed an unusual pluck by volunteering to carry the message, alone, in the dark. Creeping across the open ground, he had deviated to the left and found himself opposite the boat. He was startled when Brown's man shouted. He came to a sitting position with his gun to his shoulder, and when the other jumped out, exposing himself, he pulled the trigger and lodged three jagged slugs point-blank into the poor wretch's stomach. Then, lying flat on his face, he gave himself up for dead, while a thin hail of lead chopped and swished the bushes close on his right hand; afterwards he delivered his speech shouting, bent double, dodging all the time in cover. With the last word he leaped sideways, lay close for a while, and afterwards got back to the houses unharmed, having achieved on that night such a renown as his children will not willingly allow to die. 'And on the hill the forlorn band let the two little heaps of embers go out under their bowed heads. They sat dejected on the ground with compressed lips and downcast eyes, listening to their comrade below. He was a strong man and died hard, with moans now loud, now sinking to a strange confidential note of pain. Sometimes he shrieked, and again, after a period of silence, he could be heard muttering deliriously a long and unintelligible complaint. Never for a moment did he cease. '"What's the good?" Brown had said unmoved once, seeing the Yankee, who had been swearing under his breath, prepare to go down. "That's so," assented the deserter, reluctantly desisting. "There's no encouragement for wounded men here. Only his noise is calculated to make all the others think too much of the hereafter, cap'n." "Water!" cried the wounded man in an extraordinarily clear vigorous voice, and then went off moaning feebly. "Ay, water. Water will do it," muttered the other to himself, resignedly. "Plenty by-and-by. The tide is flowing." 'At last the tide flowed, silencing the plaint and the cries of pain, and the dawn was near when Brown, sitting with his chin in the palm of his hand before Patusan, as one might stare at the unscalable side of a mountain, heard the brief ringing bark of a brass 6-pounder far away in town somewhere. "What's this?" he asked of Cornelius, who hung about him. Cornelius listened. A muffled roaring shout rolled down-river over the town; a big drum began to throb, and others responded, pulsating and droning. Tiny scattered lights began to twinkle in the dark half of the town, while the part lighted by the loom of fires hummed with a deep and prolonged murmur. "He has come," said Cornelius. "What? Already? Are you sure?" Brown asked. "Yes! yes! Sure. Listen to the noise." "What are they making that row about?" pursued Brown. "For joy," snorted Cornelius; "he is a very great man, but all the same, he knows no more than a child, and so they make a great noise to please him, because they know no better." "Look here," said Brown, "how is one to get at him?" "He shall come to talk to you," Cornelius declared. "What do you mean? Come down here strolling as it were?" Cornelius nodded vigorously in the dark. "Yes. He will come straight here and talk to you. He is just like a fool. You shall see what a fool he is." Brown was incredulous. "You shall see; you shall see," repeated Cornelius. "He is not afraid--not afraid of anything. He will come and order you to leave his people alone. Everybody must leave his people alone. He is like a little child. He will come to you straight." Alas! he knew Jim well--that "mean little skunk," as Brown called him to me. "Yes, certainly," he pursued with ardour, "and then, captain, you tell that tall man with a gun to shoot him. Just you kill him, and you will frighten everybody so much that you can do anything you like with them afterwards--get what you like--go away when you like. Ha! ha! ha! Fine . . ." He almost danced with impatience and eagerness; and Brown, looking over his shoulder at him, could see, shown up by the pitiless dawn, his men drenched with dew, sitting amongst the cold ashes and the litter of the camp, haggard, cowed, and in rags.' 'To the very last moment, till the full day came upon them with a spring, the fires on the west bank blazed bright and clear; and then Brown saw in a knot of coloured figures motionless between the advanced houses a man in European clothes, in a helmet, all white. "That's him; look! look!" Cornelius said excitedly. All Brown's men had sprung up and crowded at his back with lustreless eyes. The group of vivid colours and dark faces with the white figure in their midst were observing the knoll. Brown could see naked arms being raised to shade the eyes and other brown arms pointing. What should he do? He looked around, and the forests that faced him on all sides walled the cock-pit of an unequal contest. He looked once more at his men. A contempt, a weariness, the desire of life, the wish to try for one more chance--for some other grave--struggled in his breast. From the outline the figure presented it seemed to him that the white man there, backed up by all the power of the land, was examining his position through binoculars. Brown jumped up on the log, throwing his arms up, the palms outwards. The coloured group closed round the white man, and fell back twice before he got clear of them, walking slowly alone. Brown remained standing on the log till Jim, appearing and disappearing between the patches of thorny scrub, had nearly reached the creek; then Brown jumped off and went down to meet him on his side. 'They met, I should think, not very far from the place, perhaps on the very spot, where Jim took the second desperate leap of his life--the leap that landed him into the life of Patusan, into the trust, the love, the confidence of the people. They faced each other across the creek, and with steady eyes tried to understand each other before they opened their lips. Their antagonism must have been expressed in their glances; I know that Brown hated Jim at first sight. Whatever hopes he might have had vanished at once. This was not the man he had expected to see. He hated him for this--and in a checked flannel shirt with sleeves cut off at the elbows, grey bearded, with a sunken, sun-blackened face--he cursed in his heart the other's youth and assurance, his clear eyes and his untroubled bearing. That fellow had got in a long way before him! He did not look like a man who would be willing to give anything for assistance. He had all the advantages on his side--possession, security, power; he was on the side of an overwhelming force! He was not hungry and desperate, and he did not seem in the least afraid. And there was something in the very neatness of Jim's clothes, from the white helmet to the canvas leggings and the pipeclayed shoes, which in Brown's sombre irritated eyes seemed to belong to things he had in the very shaping of his life condemned and flouted. '"Who are you?" asked Jim at last, speaking in his usual voice. "My name's Brown," answered the other loudly; "Captain Brown. What's yours?" and Jim after a little pause went on quietly, as If he had not heard: "What made you come here?" "You want to know," said Brown bitterly. "It's easy to tell. Hunger. And what made you?" '"The fellow started at this," said Brown, relating to me the opening of this strange conversation between those two men, separated only by the muddy bed of a creek, but standing on the opposite poles of that conception of life which includes all mankind--"The fellow started at this and got very red in the face. Too big to be questioned, I suppose. I told him that if he looked upon me as a dead man with whom you may take liberties, he himself was not a whit better off really. I had a fellow up there who had a bead drawn on him all the time, and only waited for a sign from me. There was nothing to be shocked at in this. He had come down of his own free will. 'Let us agree,' said I, 'that we are both dead men, and let us talk on that basis, as equals. We are all equal before death,' I said. I admitted I was there like a rat in a trap, but we had been driven to it, and even a trapped rat can give a bite. He caught me up in a moment. 'Not if you don't go near the trap till the rat is dead.' I told him that sort of game was good enough for these native friends of his, but I would have thought him too white to serve even a rat so. Yes, I had wanted to talk with him. Not to beg for my life, though. My fellows were--well--what they were--men like himself, anyhow. All we wanted from him was to come on in the devil's name and have it out. 'God d--n it,' said I, while he stood there as still as a wooden post, 'you don't want to come out here every day with your glasses to count how many of us are left on our feet. Come. Either bring your infernal crowd along or let us go out and starve in the open sea, by God! You have been white once, for all your tall talk of this being your own people and you being one with them. Are you? And what the devil do you get for it; what is it you've found here that is so d--d precious? Hey? You don't want us to come down here perhaps--do you? You are two hundred to one. You don't want us to come down into the open. Ah! I promise you we shall give you some sport before you've done. You talk about me making a cowardly set upon unoffending people. What's that to me that they are unoffending, when I am starving for next to no offence? But I am not a coward. Don't you be one. Bring them along or, by all the fiends, we shall yet manage to send half your unoffending town to heaven with us in smoke!'" 'He was terrible--relating this to me--this tortured skeleton of a man drawn up together with his face over his knees, upon a miserable bed in that wretched hovel, and lifting his head to look at me with malignant triumph. '"That's what I told him--I knew what to say," he began again, feebly at first, but working himself up with incredible speed into a fiery utterance of his scorn. "We aren't going into the forest to wander like a string of living skeletons dropping one after another for ants to go to work upon us before we are fairly dead. Oh no! . . . 'You don't deserve a better fate,' he said. 'And what do you deserve,' I shouted at him, 'you that I find skulking here with your mouth full of your responsibility, of innocent lives, of your infernal duty? What do you know more of me than I know of you? I came here for food. D'ye hear?--food to fill our bellies. And what did _you_ come for? What did you ask for when you came here? We don't ask you for anything but to give us a fight or a clear road to go back whence we came. . . .' 'I would fight with you now,' says he, pulling at his little moustache. 'And I would let you shoot me, and welcome,' I said. 'This is as good a jumping-off place for me as another. I am sick of my infernal luck. But it would be too easy. There are my men in the same boat--and, by God, I am not the sort to jump out of trouble and leave them in a d--d lurch,' I said. He stood thinking for a while and then wanted to know what I had done ('out there' he says, tossing his head down-stream) to be hazed about so. 'Have we met to tell each other the story of our lives?' I asked him. 'Suppose you begin. No? Well, I am sure I don't want to hear. Keep it to yourself. I know it is no better than mine. I've lived--and so did you, though you talk as if you were one of those people that should have wings so as to go about without touching the dirty earth. Well--it is dirty. I haven't got any wings. I am here because I was afraid once in my life. Want to know what of? Of a prison. That scares me, and you may know it--if it's any good to you. I won't ask you what scared you into this infernal hole, where you seem to have found pretty pickings. That's your luck and this is mine--the privilege to beg for the favour of being shot quickly, or else kicked out to go free and starve in my own way.' . . ." 'His debilitated body shook with an exultation so vehement, so assured, and so malicious that it seemed to have driven off the death waiting for him in that hut. The corpse of his mad self-love uprose from rags and destitution as from the dark horrors of a tomb. It is impossible to say how much he lied to Jim then, how much he lied to me now--and to himself always. Vanity plays lurid tricks with our memory, and the truth of every passion wants some pretence to make it live. Standing at the gate of the other world in the guise of a beggar, he had slapped this world's face, he had spat on it, he had thrown upon it an immensity of scorn and revolt at the bottom of his misdeeds. He had overcome them all--men, women, savages, traders, ruffians, missionaries--and Jim--"that beefy-faced beggar." I did not begrudge him this triumph in articulo mortis, this almost posthumous illusion of having trampled all the earth under his feet. While he was boasting to me, in his sordid and repulsive agony, I couldn't help thinking of the chuckling talk relating to the time of his greatest splendour when, during a year or more, Gentleman Brown's ship was to be seen, for many days on end, hovering off an islet befringed with green upon azure, with the dark dot of the mission-house on a white beach; while Gentleman Brown, ashore, was casting his spells over a romantic girl for whom Melanesia had been too much, and giving hopes of a remarkable conversion to her husband. The poor man, some time or other, had been heard to express the intention of winning "Captain Brown to a better way of life." . . . "Bag Gentleman Brown for Glory"--as a leery-eyed loafer expressed it once--"just to let them see up above what a Western Pacific trading skipper looks like." And this was the man, too, who had run off with a dying woman, and had shed tears over her body. "Carried on like a big baby," his then mate was never tired of telling, "and where the fun came in may I be kicked to death by diseased Kanakas if _I_ know. Why, gents! she was too far gone when he brought her aboard to know him; she just lay there on her back in his bunk staring at the beam with awful shining eyes--and then she died. Dam' bad sort of fever, I guess. . . ." I remembered all these stories while, wiping his matted lump of a beard with a livid hand, he was telling me from his noisome couch how he got round, got in, got home, on that confounded, immaculate, don't-you-touch-me sort of fellow. He admitted that he couldn't be scared, but there was a way, "as broad as a turnpike, to get in and shake his twopenny soul around and inside out and upside down--by God!"''I don't think he could do more than perhaps look upon that straight path. He seemed to have been puzzled by what he saw, for he interrupted himself in his narrative more than once to exclaim, "He nearly slipped from me there. I could not make him out. Who was he?" And after glaring at me wildly he would go on, jubilating and sneering. To me the conversation of these two across the creek appears now as the deadliest kind of duel on which Fate looked on with her cold-eyed knowledge of the end. No, he didn't turn Jim's soul inside out, but I am much mistaken if the spirit so utterly out of his reach had not been made to taste to the full the bitterness of that contest. These were the emissaries with whom the world he had renounced was pursuing him in his retreat--white men from "out there" where he did not think himself good enough to live. This was all that came to him--a menace, a shock, a danger to his work. I suppose it is this sad, half-resentful, half-resigned feeling, piercing through the few words Jim said now and then, that puzzled Brown so much in the reading of his character. Some great men owe most of their greatness to the ability of detecting in those they destine for their tools the exact quality of strength that matters for their work; and Brown, as though he had been really great, had a satanic gift of finding out the best and the weakest spot in his victims. He admitted to me that Jim wasn't of the sort that can be got over by truckling, and accordingly he took care to show himself as a man confronting without dismay ill-luck, censure, and disaster. The smuggling of a few guns was no great crime, he pointed out. As to coming to Patusan, who had the right to say he hadn't come to beg? The infernal people here let loose at him from both banks without staying to ask questions. He made the point brazenly, for, in truth, Dain Waris's energetic action had prevented the greatest calamities; because Brown told me distinctly that, perceiving the size of the place, he had resolved instantly in his mind that as soon as he had gained a footing he would set fire right and left, and begin by shooting down everything living in sight, in order to cow and terrify the population. The disproportion of forces was so great that this was the only way giving him the slightest chance of attaining his ends--he argued in a fit of coughing. But he didn't tell Jim this. As to the hardships and starvation they had gone through, these had been very real; it was enough to look at his band. He made, at the sound of a shrill whistle, all his men appear standing in a row on the logs in full view, so that Jim could see them. For the killing of the man, it had been done--well, it had--but was not this war, bloody war--in a corner? and the fellow had been killed cleanly, shot through the chest, not like that poor devil of his lying now in the creek. They had to listen to him dying for six hours, with his entrails torn with slugs. At any rate this was a life for a life. . . . And all this was said with the weariness, with the recklessness of a man spurred on and on by ill-luck till he cares not where he runs. When he asked Jim, with a sort of brusque despairing frankness, whether he himself--straight now--didn't understand that when "it came to saving one's life in the dark, one didn't care who else went--three, thirty, three hundred people"--it was as if a demon had been whispering advice in his ear. "I made him wince," boasted Brown to me. "He very soon left off coming the righteous over me. He just stood there with nothing to say, and looking as black as thunder--not at me--on the ground." He asked Jim whether he had nothing fishy in his life to remember that he was so damnedly hard upon a man trying to get out of a deadly hole by the first means that came to hand--and so on, and so on. And there ran through the rough talk a vein of subtle reference to their common blood, an assumption of common experience; a sickening suggestion of common guilt, of secret knowledge that was like a bond of their minds and of their hearts. 'At last Brown threw himself down full length and watched Jim out of the corners of his eyes. Jim on his side of the creek stood thinking and switching his leg. The houses in view were silent, as if a pestilence had swept them clean of every breath of life; but many invisible eyes were turned, from within, upon the two men with the creek between them, a stranded white boat, and the body of the third man half sunk in the mud. On the river canoes were moving again, for Patusan was recovering its belief in the stability of earthly institutions since the return of the white lord. The right bank, the platforms of the houses, the rafts moored along the shores, even the roofs of bathing-huts, were covered with people that, far away out of earshot and almost out of sight, were straining their eyes towards the knoll beyond the Rajah's stockade. Within the wide irregular ring of forests, broken in two places by the sheen of the river, there was a silence. "Will you promise to leave the coast?" Jim asked. Brown lifted and let fall his hand, giving everything up as it were--accepting the inevitable. "And surrender your arms?" Jim went on. Brown sat up and glared across. "Surrender our arms! Not till you come to take them out of our stiff hands. You think I am gone crazy with funk? Oh no! That and the rags I stand in is all I have got in the world, besides a few more breechloaders on board; and I expect to sell the lot in Madagascar, if I ever get so far--begging my way from ship to ship." 'Jim said nothing to this. At last, throwing away the switch he held in his hand, he said, as if speaking to himself, "I don't know whether I have the power." . . . "You don't know! And you wanted me just now to give up my arms! That's good, too," cried Brown; "Suppose they say one thing to you, and do the other thing to me." He calmed down markedly. "I dare say you have the power, or what's the meaning of all this talk?" he continued. "What did you come down here for? To pass the time of day?" '"Very well," said Jim, lifting his head suddenly after a long silence. "You shall have a clear road or else a clear fight." He turned on his heel and walked away. 'Brown got up at once, but he did not go up the hill till he had seen Jim disappear between the first houses. He never set his eyes on him again. On his way back he met Cornelius slouching down with his head between his shoulders. He stopped before Brown. "Why didn't you kill him?" he demanded in a sour, discontented voice. "Because I could do better than that," Brown said with an amused smile. "Never! never!" protested Cornelius with energy. "Couldn't. I have lived here for many years." Brown looked up at him curiously. There were many sides to the life of that place in arms against him; things he would never find out. Cornelius slunk past dejectedly in the direction of the river. He was now leaving his new friends; he accepted the disappointing course of events with a sulky obstinacy which seemed to draw more together his little yellow old face; and as he went down he glanced askant here and there, never giving up his fixed idea. 'Henceforth events move fast without a check, flowing from the very hearts of men like a stream from a dark source, and we see Jim amongst them, mostly through Tamb' Itam's eyes. The girl's eyes had watched him too, but her life is too much entwined with his: there is her passion, her wonder, her anger, and, above all, her fear and her unforgiving love. Of the faithful servant, uncomprehending as the rest of them, it is the fidelity alone that comes into play; a fidelity and a belief in his lord so strong that even amazement is subdued to a sort of saddened acceptance of a mysterious failure. He has eyes only for one figure, and through all the mazes of bewilderment he preserves his air of guardianship, of obedience, of care. 'His master came back from his talk with the white men, walking slowly towards the stockade in the street. Everybody was rejoiced to see him return, for while he was away every man had been afraid not only of him being killed, but also of what would come after. Jim went into one of the houses, where old Doramin had retired, and remained alone for a long time with the head of the Bugis settlers. No doubt he discussed the course to follow with him then, but no man was present at the conversation. Only Tamb' Itam, keeping as close to the door as he could, heard his master say, "Yes. I shall let all the people know that such is my wish; but I spoke to you, O Doramin, before all the others, and alone; for you know my heart as well as I know yours and its greatest desire. And you know well also that I have no thought but for the people's good." Then his master, lifting the sheeting in the doorway, went out, and he, Tamb' Itam, had a glimpse of old Doramin within, sitting in the chair with his hands on his knees, and looking between his feet. Afterwards he followed his master to the fort, where all the principal Bugis and Patusan inhabitants had been summoned for a talk. Tamb' Itam himself hoped there would be some fighting. "What was it but the taking of another hill?" he exclaimed regretfully. However, in the town many hoped that the rapacious strangers would be induced, by the sight of so many brave men making ready to fight, to go away. It would be a good thing if they went away. Since Jim's arrival had been made known before daylight by the gun fired from the fort and the beating of the big drum there, the fear that had hung over Patusan had broken and subsided like a wave on a rock, leaving the seething foam of excitement, curiosity, and endless speculation. Half of the population had been ousted out of their homes for purposes of defence, and were living in the street on the left side of the river, crowding round the fort, and in momentary expectation of seeing their abandoned dwellings on the threatened bank burst into flames. The general anxiety was to see the matter settled quickly. Food, through Jewel's care, had been served out to the refugees. Nobody knew what their white man would do. Some remarked that it was worse than in Sherif Ali's war. Then many people did not care; now everybody had something to lose. The movements of canoes passing to and fro between the two parts of the town were watched with interest. A couple of Bugis war-boats lay anchored in the middle of the stream to protect the river, and a thread of smoke stood at the bow of each; the men in them were cooking their midday rice when Jim, after his interviews with Brown and Doramin, crossed the river and entered by the water-gate of his fort. The people inside crowded round him, so that he could hardly make his way to the house. They had not seen him before, because on his arrival during the night he had only exchanged a few words with the girl, who had come down to the landing-stage for the purpose, and had then gone on at once to join the chiefs and the fighting men on the other bank. People shouted greetings after him. One old woman raised a laugh by pushing her way to the front madly and enjoining him in a scolding voice to see to it that her two sons, who were with Doramin, did not come to harm at the hands of the robbers. Several of the bystanders tried to pull her away, but she struggled and cried, "Let me go. What is this, O Muslims? This laughter is unseemly. Are they not cruel, bloodthirsty robbers bent on killing?" "Let her be," said Jim, and as a silence fell suddenly, he said slowly, "Everybody shall be safe." He entered the house before the great sigh, and the loud murmurs of satisfaction, had died out. 'There's no doubt his mind was made up that Brown should have his way clear back to the sea. His fate, revolted, was forcing his hand. He had for the first time to affirm his will in the face of outspoken opposition. "There was much talk, and at first my master was silent," Tamb' Itam said. "Darkness came, and then I lit the candles on the long table. The chiefs sat on each side, and the lady remained by my master's right hand." 'When he began to speak, the unaccustomed difficulty seemed only to fix his resolve more immovably. The white men were now waiting for his answer on the hill. Their chief had spoken to him in the language of his own people, making clear many things difficult to explain in any other speech. They were erring men whom suffering had made blind to right and wrong. It is true that lives had been lost already, but why lose more? He declared to his hearers, the assembled heads of the people, that their welfare was his welfare, their losses his losses, their mourning his mourning. He looked round at the grave listening faces and told them to remember that they had fought and worked side by side. They knew his courage . . . Here a murmur interrupted him . . . And that he had never deceived them. For many years they had dwelt together. He loved the land and the people living in it with a very great love. He was ready to answer with his life for any harm that should come to them if the white men with beards were allowed to retire. They were evil-doers, but their destiny had been evil, too. Had he ever advised them ill? Had his words ever brought suffering to the people? he asked. He believed that it would be best to let these whites and their followers go with their lives. It would be a small gift. "I whom you have tried and found always true ask you to let them go." He turned to Doramin. The old nakhoda made no movement. "Then," said Jim, "call in Dain Waris, your son, my friend, for in this business I shall not lead."'

Chapters 39 - 42

https://web.archive.org/web/20210126121516/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/lordjim/section11/

Dain Waris leads the initial attack against Gentleman Brown and his men. Unfortunately, he is not able to rally his people effectively enough to rout the pirate, and Jim, who could provide the inspiration and leadership needed, is away in the countryside. A council of war is held, at which everyone's personal motives get in the way of agreement; Doramin wishes to protect his son, and Rajah Allang, who is pretending to cooperate, is secretly working to form an alliance with Brown to bring Jim down. The Rajah's representative contacts Cornelius and arranges for him to serve as a go-between with Brown. Cornelius is a little too persuasive as to the friendliness of the Rajah, the charms of Patusan, and the ease with which he claims Jim can be defeated. Brown decides to stay and fight, not just for supplies and a chance to escape, but to try to seize the territory for himself. Meanwhile, Dain Waris has sent canoes downstream to seal Brown's avenue of escape and reinforcement. Brown dallies with Cornelius and the Rajah, buying time and always intending to double-cross them. One of Brown's men shoots a villager from a great distance. The pirate hopes that this will evoke fear among the people of Patusan, and that they will overestimate his strength. As night falls, one of Brown's men sneaks down to their beached boat to get some tobacco that has been left there. He is not cautious enough, however, and he is shot by a relative of the villager who was killed earlier in the day. Brown and his men have to listen to the dying moans of their comrade for several hours; it is not until the tide comes in, drowning him and carrying him off, that his screams cease. Cornelius and Brown talk again. Drums begin to beat in the village, and fires are lit. Cornelius tells Brown that this is a sign that Jim has returned, and that Jim will surely come to talk to him face to face. He recommends that Brown have one of his men shoot Jim from a position of cover. This action, he says, will give Brown the psychological edge and enable him to defeat the Bugis. The next morning, Jim indeed approaches Brown's stronghold. He and Brown speak warily. Jim asks him what has brought him to Patusan; Brown replies simply, "Hunger," and redirects the question toward Jim. Jim is startled. Brown asks him to remember that they are both white men, and then requests that his men either be ambushed directly or allowed to leave, rather than left to starve and suffer like "rat in a trap." He admits to Jim that his greatest fear is of prison, and that this fear is what has motivated him his entire life, even at this very moment. Marlow, listening to the story at Brown's deathbed, wonders how much of Brown's account is the truth. Jim, bothered by something, says little to Brown, but promises him "a clear road or else a clear fight" and leaves. Cornelius rages at Brown for not shooting Jim when he had the chance. Jim goes directly to Doramin to recommend that Brown be allowed to escape unharmed. Doramin is reluctant. Jim appeals to the people, reminding them that he has never led them wrong. Doramin still hesitates, and Jim declares that, if they are to fight, he will not lead. Dain Waris will have to command.

Commentary Gentleman Brown does the one thing nearly every other character in this novel is afraid to do: he asks Jim what it was that he hoped to gain by coming to Patusan. Brown is honest about his own motives and fears, and Jim realizes that he has been living a lie. Brown speaks the truth about Jim; to have him killed would seem like just another attempt at deceit. In recommending that Brown be let go, Jim does what is honorable for his personal reputation, not what is best for Patusan. In part, Brown defeats Jim by speaking the "truth" about him; in part, Jim defeats himself by adhering to a false ideal. In offering to defer to Dain Waris, Jim is exercising the only option available to him that compromises neither himself nor Patusan. No heroic action is possible. Marlow questions the veracity of Brown's account of his conversation with Jim. This is an implicit reminder to the reader to question Marlow's account, to remember that we are receiving the story just as Marlow does--in fragments. More obviously, however, Marlow is upset because Brown has appealed to Jim on the basis of being "one of us"; through their conversation runs "a vein of subtle reference to their common blood, an assumption of common experience; a sickening suggestion of common guilt. . . " This, of course, is exactly the foundation on which Marlow has premised his own identification with Jim. Now it seems to link Marlow, through Jim, to Brown. Issues of racial dynamics also arise in this section. Dain Waris is unable to defeat Brown initially because he does not possess the mystique of the white man, according to the narrative. The people of Patusan seem to have a faith in Jim that is naive in the extreme, based solely on his status as a white man. When Jim returns from the countryside, things immediately return to normal despite the continued presence of Brown and his men on the hilltop. On the other hand, it is Cornelius who behaves the most despicably in this section of the novel, and Doramin who will turn out to be right. Also, it is Brown who tells this part of the story, and therefore it is his opinions that we are receiving. Nevertheless, Jim is being asked to choose between the people of Patusan and a fellow white man, and the situation is certainly racially charged.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/epilogue.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_16_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.epilogue.chapter 1-chapter 3

epilogue

{"name": "Epilogue", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219142226/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/b/the-brothers-karamazov/summary-and-analysis/part-4-epilogue", "summary": "After Dmitri's trial, Alyosha goes to Katerina's, where Ivan is ill, unconscious, and burning with high fever; in spite of gossip, Katerina has ordered that he be brought to her house. When Alyosha arrives, she confesses her deep regret over what she revealed during the trial but says that Dmitri's escape is already being planned. She explains further that more help is needed; Alyosha must aid his brother and bribe the appropriate officials. Alyosha agrees but forces Katerina to promise that she will visit Dmitri in prison. Alyosha then goes to his brother and tells him that Katerina also will come, but Dmitri has weightier problems troubling him. He explains his desire to repent and, through suffering, to become a new human being. He fears only one thing: that he will be unable to carry out his intentions if the authorities do not let Grushenka accompany him. Alyosha explains the plans that have been made for the escape, and Dmitri reluctantly agrees to them. He makes one stipulation, however; he escapes only for the present. Someday he must return to Mother Russia. Katerina then enters, and she and Dmitri ask each other for forgiveness. Peace is not so easy, though, even now, for Grushenka unexpectedly arrives. Although Katerina begs her for forgiveness, Grushenka still feels too bitter toward her former rival to acknowledge any pleas. In the meantime, little Ilusha has died, and Alyosha leaves Dmitri to go to the young boy's funeral. After the burial, Alyosha talks with Ilusha's many school friends and asks them to remember forever their friendship at the present moment. He, in turn, promises that he will never forget any one of them. The boys are deeply affected by Alyosha's sincerity and all cheer, \"Hurrah for Karamazov.\"", "analysis": "In a sense, the epilogue conforms to the nineteenth-century custom of tidying up the end of a novel. Here the final fates of all the characters are revealed, and the reader is relieved from speculating. Dmitri accepts Ivan's plan for escape, but only after he has Alyosha's sanction. As for Alyosha, he conforms to the directives of the late Father Zossima. He does not condemn his brother, nor does he object to the escape. In short, he refuses to judge Dmitri. Even in his escape, it is important to note that Dmitri feels that he will suffer immensely. He has been depicted as being closely attached to Russia and to be exiled to America -- to be separated from the soil from which he takes his strength -- is an extreme form of punishment for him. His plans are to return to his country as soon as possible and then to live anonymously in some remote region. This lasting love for Russian soil, of course, reflects Dostoevsky's passion for his native land. In the novel's final pages, all concern is with Alyosha and Ilusha's young school friends. The ex-monk has had little success with adults in Russian society, but with children he is unexcelled. The boys eagerly gather around Alyosha and are openly responsive to his speech about love and devotion -- a message quite clear: Dostoevsky believes that youth, nurtured on the wisdom of Father Zossima, will be the salvation of Russia."}

EPILOGUE Chapter I. Plans For Mitya's Escape Very early, at nine o'clock in the morning, five days after the trial, Alyosha went to Katerina Ivanovna's to talk over a matter of great importance to both of them, and to give her a message. She sat and talked to him in the very room in which she had once received Grushenka. In the next room Ivan Fyodorovitch lay unconscious in a high fever. Katerina Ivanovna had immediately after the scene at the trial ordered the sick and unconscious man to be carried to her house, disregarding the inevitable gossip and general disapproval of the public. One of the two relations who lived with her had departed to Moscow immediately after the scene in court, the other remained. But if both had gone away, Katerina Ivanovna would have adhered to her resolution, and would have gone on nursing the sick man and sitting by him day and night. Varvinsky and Herzenstube were attending him. The famous doctor had gone back to Moscow, refusing to give an opinion as to the probable end of the illness. Though the doctors encouraged Katerina Ivanovna and Alyosha, it was evident that they could not yet give them positive hopes of recovery. Alyosha came to see his sick brother twice a day. But this time he had specially urgent business, and he foresaw how difficult it would be to approach the subject, yet he was in great haste. He had another engagement that could not be put off for that same morning, and there was need of haste. They had been talking for a quarter of an hour. Katerina Ivanovna was pale and terribly fatigued, yet at the same time in a state of hysterical excitement. She had a presentiment of the reason why Alyosha had come to her. "Don't worry about his decision," she said, with confident emphasis to Alyosha. "One way or another he is bound to come to it. He must escape. That unhappy man, that hero of honor and principle--not he, not Dmitri Fyodorovitch, but the man lying the other side of that door, who has sacrificed himself for his brother," Katya added, with flashing eyes--"told me the whole plan of escape long ago. You know he has already entered into negotiations.... I've told you something already.... You see, it will probably come off at the third _etape_ from here, when the party of prisoners is being taken to Siberia. Oh, it's a long way off yet. Ivan Fyodorovitch has already visited the superintendent of the third _etape_. But we don't know yet who will be in charge of the party, and it's impossible to find that out so long beforehand. To-morrow perhaps I will show you in detail the whole plan which Ivan Fyodorovitch left me on the eve of the trial in case of need.... That was when--do you remember?--you found us quarreling. He had just gone down-stairs, but seeing you I made him come back; do you remember? Do you know what we were quarreling about then?" "No, I don't," said Alyosha. "Of course he did not tell you. It was about that plan of escape. He had told me the main idea three days before, and we began quarreling about it at once and quarreled for three days. We quarreled because, when he told me that if Dmitri Fyodorovitch were convicted he would escape abroad with that creature, I felt furious at once--I can't tell you why, I don't know myself why.... Oh, of course, I was furious then about that creature, and that she, too, should go abroad with Dmitri!" Katerina Ivanovna exclaimed suddenly, her lips quivering with anger. "As soon as Ivan Fyodorovitch saw that I was furious about that woman, he instantly imagined I was jealous of Dmitri and that I still loved Dmitri. That is how our first quarrel began. I would not give an explanation, I could not ask forgiveness. I could not bear to think that such a man could suspect me of still loving that ... and when I myself had told him long before that I did not love Dmitri, that I loved no one but him! It was only resentment against that creature that made me angry with him. Three days later, on the evening you came, he brought me a sealed envelope, which I was to open at once, if anything happened to him. Oh, he foresaw his illness! He told me that the envelope contained the details of the escape, and that if he died or was taken dangerously ill, I was to save Mitya alone. Then he left me money, nearly ten thousand--those notes to which the prosecutor referred in his speech, having learnt from some one that he had sent them to be changed. I was tremendously impressed to find that Ivan Fyodorovitch had not given up his idea of saving his brother, and was confiding this plan of escape to me, though he was still jealous of me and still convinced that I loved Mitya. Oh, that was a sacrifice! No, you cannot understand the greatness of such self-sacrifice, Alexey Fyodorovitch. I wanted to fall at his feet in reverence, but I thought at once that he would take it only for my joy at the thought of Mitya's being saved (and he certainly would have imagined that!), and I was so exasperated at the mere possibility of such an unjust thought on his part that I lost my temper again, and instead of kissing his feet, flew into a fury again! Oh, I am unhappy! It's my character, my awful, unhappy character! Oh, you will see, I shall end by driving him, too, to abandon me for another with whom he can get on better, like Dmitri. But ... no, I could not bear it, I should kill myself. And when you came in then, and when I called to you and told him to come back, I was so enraged by the look of contempt and hatred he turned on me that--do you remember?--I cried out to you that it was he, he alone who had persuaded me that his brother Dmitri was a murderer! I said that malicious thing on purpose to wound him again. He had never, never persuaded me that his brother was a murderer. On the contrary, it was I who persuaded him! Oh, my vile temper was the cause of everything! I paved the way to that hideous scene at the trial. He wanted to show me that he was an honorable man, and that, even if I loved his brother, he would not ruin him for revenge or jealousy. So he came to the court ... I am the cause of it all, I alone am to blame!" Katya never had made such confessions to Alyosha before, and he felt that she was now at that stage of unbearable suffering when even the proudest heart painfully crushes its pride and falls vanquished by grief. Oh, Alyosha knew another terrible reason of her present misery, though she had carefully concealed it from him during those days since the trial; but it would have been for some reason too painful to him if she had been brought so low as to speak to him now about that. She was suffering for her "treachery" at the trial, and Alyosha felt that her conscience was impelling her to confess it to him, to him, Alyosha, with tears and cries and hysterical writhings on the floor. But he dreaded that moment and longed to spare her. It made the commission on which he had come even more difficult. He spoke of Mitya again. "It's all right, it's all right, don't be anxious about him!" she began again, sharply and stubbornly. "All that is only momentary, I know him, I know his heart only too well. You may be sure he will consent to escape. It's not as though it would be immediately; he will have time to make up his mind to it. Ivan Fyodorovitch will be well by that time and will manage it all himself, so that I shall have nothing to do with it. Don't be anxious; he will consent to run away. He has agreed already: do you suppose he would give up that creature? And they won't let her go to him, so he is bound to escape. It's you he's most afraid of, he is afraid you won't approve of his escape on moral grounds. But you must generously _allow_ it, if your sanction is so necessary," Katya added viciously. She paused and smiled. "He talks about some hymn," she went on again, "some cross he has to bear, some duty; I remember Ivan Fyodorovitch told me a great deal about it, and if you knew how he talked!" Katya cried suddenly, with feeling she could not repress, "if you knew how he loved that wretched man at the moment he told me, and how he hated him, perhaps, at the same moment. And I heard his story and his tears with sneering disdain. Brute! Yes, I am a brute. I am responsible for his fever. But that man in prison is incapable of suffering," Katya concluded irritably. "Can such a man suffer? Men like him never suffer!" There was a note of hatred and contemptuous repulsion in her words. And yet it was she who had betrayed him. "Perhaps because she feels how she's wronged him she hates him at moments," Alyosha thought to himself. He hoped that it was only "at moments." In Katya's last words he detected a challenging note, but he did not take it up. "I sent for you this morning to make you promise to persuade him yourself. Or do you, too, consider that to escape would be dishonorable, cowardly, or something ... unchristian, perhaps?" Katya added, even more defiantly. "Oh, no. I'll tell him everything," muttered Alyosha. "He asks you to come and see him to-day," he blurted out suddenly, looking her steadily in the face. She started, and drew back a little from him on the sofa. "Me? Can that be?" she faltered, turning pale. "It can and ought to be!" Alyosha began emphatically, growing more animated. "He needs you particularly just now. I would not have opened the subject and worried you, if it were not necessary. He is ill, he is beside himself, he keeps asking for you. It is not to be reconciled with you that he wants you, but only that you would go and show yourself at his door. So much has happened to him since that day. He realizes that he has injured you beyond all reckoning. He does not ask your forgiveness--'It's impossible to forgive me,' he says himself--but only that you would show yourself in his doorway." "It's so sudden...." faltered Katya. "I've had a presentiment all these days that you would come with that message. I knew he would ask me to come. It's impossible!" "Let it be impossible, but do it. Only think, he realizes for the first time how he has wounded you, the first time in his life; he had never grasped it before so fully. He said, 'If she refuses to come I shall be unhappy all my life.' Do you hear? though he is condemned to penal servitude for twenty years, he is still planning to be happy--is not that piteous? Think--you must visit him; though he is ruined, he is innocent," broke like a challenge from Alyosha. "His hands are clean, there is no blood on them! For the sake of his infinite sufferings in the future visit him now. Go, greet him on his way into the darkness--stand at his door, that is all.... You ought to do it, you ought to!" Alyosha concluded, laying immense stress on the word "ought." "I ought to ... but I cannot...." Katya moaned. "He will look at me.... I can't." "Your eyes ought to meet. How will you live all your life, if you don't make up your mind to do it now?" "Better suffer all my life." "You ought to go, you ought to go," Alyosha repeated with merciless emphasis. "But why to-day, why at once?... I can't leave our patient--" "You can for a moment. It will only be a moment. If you don't come, he will be in delirium by to-night. I would not tell you a lie; have pity on him!" "Have pity on _me!_" Katya said, with bitter reproach, and she burst into tears. "Then you will come," said Alyosha firmly, seeing her tears. "I'll go and tell him you will come directly." "No, don't tell him so on any account," cried Katya in alarm. "I will come, but don't tell him beforehand, for perhaps I may go, but not go in.... I don't know yet--" Her voice failed her. She gasped for breath. Alyosha got up to go. "And what if I meet any one?" she said suddenly, in a low voice, turning white again. "That's just why you must go now, to avoid meeting any one. There will be no one there, I can tell you that for certain. We will expect you," he concluded emphatically, and went out of the room. Chapter II. For A Moment The Lie Becomes Truth He hurried to the hospital where Mitya was lying now. The day after his fate was determined, Mitya had fallen ill with nervous fever, and was sent to the prison division of the town hospital. But at the request of several persons (Alyosha, Madame Hohlakov, Lise, etc.), Doctor Varvinsky had put Mitya not with other prisoners, but in a separate little room, the one where Smerdyakov had been. It is true that there was a sentinel at the other end of the corridor, and there was a grating over the window, so that Varvinsky could be at ease about the indulgence he had shown, which was not quite legal, indeed; but he was a kind-hearted and compassionate young man. He knew how hard it would be for a man like Mitya to pass at once so suddenly into the society of robbers and murderers, and that he must get used to it by degrees. The visits of relations and friends were informally sanctioned by the doctor and overseer, and even by the police captain. But only Alyosha and Grushenka had visited Mitya. Rakitin had tried to force his way in twice, but Mitya persistently begged Varvinsky not to admit him. Alyosha found him sitting on his bed in a hospital dressing-gown, rather feverish, with a towel, soaked in vinegar and water, on his head. He looked at Alyosha as he came in with an undefined expression, but there was a shade of something like dread discernible in it. He had become terribly preoccupied since the trial; sometimes he would be silent for half an hour together, and seemed to be pondering something heavily and painfully, oblivious of everything about him. If he roused himself from his brooding and began to talk, he always spoke with a kind of abruptness and never of what he really wanted to say. He looked sometimes with a face of suffering at his brother. He seemed to be more at ease with Grushenka than with Alyosha. It is true, he scarcely spoke to her at all, but as soon as she came in, his whole face lighted up with joy. Alyosha sat down beside him on the bed in silence. This time Mitya was waiting for Alyosha in suspense, but he did not dare ask him a question. He felt it almost unthinkable that Katya would consent to come, and at the same time he felt that if she did not come, something inconceivable would happen. Alyosha understood his feelings. "Trifon Borissovitch," Mitya began nervously, "has pulled his whole inn to pieces, I am told. He's taken up the flooring, pulled apart the planks, split up all the gallery, I am told. He is seeking treasure all the time--the fifteen hundred roubles which the prosecutor said I'd hidden there. He began playing these tricks, they say, as soon as he got home. Serve him right, the swindler! The guard here told me yesterday; he comes from there." "Listen," began Alyosha. "She will come, but I don't know when. Perhaps to-day, perhaps in a few days, that I can't tell. But she will come, she will, that's certain." Mitya started, would have said something, but was silent. The news had a tremendous effect on him. It was evident that he would have liked terribly to know what had been said, but he was again afraid to ask. Something cruel and contemptuous from Katya would have cut him like a knife at that moment. "This was what she said among other things; that I must be sure to set your conscience at rest about escaping. If Ivan is not well by then she will see to it all herself." "You've spoken of that already," Mitya observed musingly. "And you have repeated it to Grusha," observed Alyosha. "Yes," Mitya admitted. "She won't come this morning." He looked timidly at his brother. "She won't come till the evening. When I told her yesterday that Katya was taking measures, she was silent, but she set her mouth. She only whispered, 'Let her!' She understood that it was important. I did not dare to try her further. She understands now, I think, that Katya no longer cares for me, but loves Ivan." "Does she?" broke from Alyosha. "Perhaps she does not. Only she is not coming this morning," Mitya hastened to explain again; "I asked her to do something for me. You know, Ivan is superior to all of us. He ought to live, not us. He will recover." "Would you believe it, though Katya is alarmed about him, she scarcely doubts of his recovery," said Alyosha. "That means that she is convinced he will die. It's because she is frightened she's so sure he will get well." "Ivan has a strong constitution, and I, too, believe there's every hope that he will get well," Alyosha observed anxiously. "Yes, he will get well. But she is convinced that he will die. She has a great deal of sorrow to bear..." A silence followed. A grave anxiety was fretting Mitya. "Alyosha, I love Grusha terribly," he said suddenly in a shaking voice, full of tears. "They won't let her go out there to you," Alyosha put in at once. "And there is something else I wanted to tell you," Mitya went on, with a sudden ring in his voice. "If they beat me on the way or out there, I won't submit to it. I shall kill some one, and shall be shot for it. And this will be going on for twenty years! They speak to me rudely as it is. I've been lying here all night, passing judgment on myself. I am not ready! I am not able to resign myself. I wanted to sing a 'hymn'; but if a guard speaks rudely to me, I have not the strength to bear it. For Grusha I would bear anything ... anything except blows.... But she won't be allowed to come there." Alyosha smiled gently. "Listen, brother, once for all," he said. "This is what I think about it. And you know that I would not tell you a lie. Listen: you are not ready, and such a cross is not for you. What's more, you don't need such a martyr's cross when you are not ready for it. If you had murdered our father, it would grieve me that you should reject your punishment. But you are innocent, and such a cross is too much for you. You wanted to make yourself another man by suffering. I say, only remember that other man always, all your life and wherever you go; and that will be enough for you. Your refusal of that great cross will only serve to make you feel all your life an even greater duty, and that constant feeling will do more to make you a new man, perhaps, than if you went there. For there you would not endure it and would repine, and perhaps at last would say: 'I am quits.' The lawyer was right about that. Such heavy burdens are not for all men. For some they are impossible. These are my thoughts about it, if you want them so much. If other men would have to answer for your escape, officers or soldiers, then I would not have 'allowed' you," smiled Alyosha. "But they declare--the superintendent of that _etape_ told Ivan himself--that if it's well managed there will be no great inquiry, and that they can get off easily. Of course, bribing is dishonest even in such a case, but I can't undertake to judge about it, because if Ivan and Katya commissioned me to act for you, I know I should go and give bribes. I must tell you the truth. And so I can't judge of your own action. But let me assure you that I shall never condemn you. And it would be a strange thing if I could judge you in this. Now I think I've gone into everything." "But I do condemn myself!" cried Mitya. "I shall escape, that was settled apart from you; could Mitya Karamazov do anything but run away? But I shall condemn myself, and I will pray for my sin for ever. That's how the Jesuits talk, isn't it? Just as we are doing?" "Yes." Alyosha smiled gently. "I love you for always telling the whole truth and never hiding anything," cried Mitya, with a joyful laugh. "So I've caught my Alyosha being Jesuitical. I must kiss you for that. Now listen to the rest; I'll open the other side of my heart to you. This is what I planned and decided. If I run away, even with money and a passport, and even to America, I should be cheered up by the thought that I am not running away for pleasure, not for happiness, but to another exile as bad, perhaps, as Siberia. It is as bad, Alyosha, it is! I hate that America, damn it, already. Even though Grusha will be with me. Just look at her; is she an American? She is Russian, Russian to the marrow of her bones; she will be homesick for the mother country, and I shall see every hour that she is suffering for my sake, that she has taken up that cross for me. And what harm has she done? And how shall I, too, put up with the rabble out there, though they may be better than I, every one of them? I hate that America already! And though they may be wonderful at machinery, every one of them, damn them, they are not of my soul. I love Russia, Alyosha, I love the Russian God, though I am a scoundrel myself. I shall choke there!" he exclaimed, his eyes suddenly flashing. His voice was trembling with tears. "So this is what I've decided, Alyosha, listen," he began again, mastering his emotion. "As soon as I arrive there with Grusha, we will set to work at once on the land, in solitude, somewhere very remote, with wild bears. There must be some remote parts even there. I am told there are still Redskins there, somewhere, on the edge of the horizon. So to the country of the _Last of the Mohicans_, and there we'll tackle the grammar at once, Grusha and I. Work and grammar--that's how we'll spend three years. And by that time we shall speak English like any Englishman. And as soon as we've learnt it--good-by to America! We'll run here to Russia as American citizens. Don't be uneasy--we would not come to this little town. We'd hide somewhere, a long way off, in the north or in the south. I shall be changed by that time, and she will, too, in America. The doctors shall make me some sort of wart on my face--what's the use of their being so mechanical!--or else I'll put out one eye, let my beard grow a yard, and I shall turn gray, fretting for Russia. I dare say they won't recognize us. And if they do, let them send us to Siberia. I don't care. It will show it's our fate. We'll work on the land here, too, somewhere in the wilds, and I'll make up as an American all my life. But we shall die on our own soil. That's my plan, and it shan't be altered. Do you approve?" "Yes," said Alyosha, not wanting to contradict him. Mitya paused for a minute and said suddenly: "And how they worked it up at the trial! Didn't they work it up!" "If they had not, you would have been convicted just the same," said Alyosha, with a sigh. "Yes, people are sick of me here! God bless them, but it's hard," Mitya moaned miserably. Again there was silence for a minute. "Alyosha, put me out of my misery at once!" he exclaimed suddenly. "Tell me, is she coming now, or not? Tell me? What did she say? How did she say it?" "She said she would come, but I don't know whether she will come to-day. It's hard for her, you know," Alyosha looked timidly at his brother. "I should think it is hard for her! Alyosha, it will drive me out of my mind. Grusha keeps looking at me. She understands. My God, calm my heart: what is it I want? I want Katya! Do I understand what I want? It's the headstrong, evil Karamazov spirit! No, I am not fit for suffering. I am a scoundrel, that's all one can say." "Here she is!" cried Alyosha. At that instant Katya appeared in the doorway. For a moment she stood still, gazing at Mitya with a dazed expression. He leapt impulsively to his feet, and a scared look came into his face. He turned pale, but a timid, pleading smile appeared on his lips at once, and with an irresistible impulse he held out both hands to Katya. Seeing it, she flew impetuously to him. She seized him by the hands, and almost by force made him sit down on the bed. She sat down beside him, and still keeping his hands pressed them violently. Several times they both strove to speak, but stopped short and again gazed speechless with a strange smile, their eyes fastened on one another. So passed two minutes. "Have you forgiven me?" Mitya faltered at last, and at the same moment turning to Alyosha, his face working with joy, he cried, "Do you hear what I am asking, do you hear?" "That's what I loved you for, that you are generous at heart!" broke from Katya. "My forgiveness is no good to you, nor yours to me; whether you forgive me or not, you will always be a sore place in my heart, and I in yours--so it must be...." She stopped to take breath. "What have I come for?" she began again with nervous haste: "to embrace your feet, to press your hands like this, till it hurts--you remember how in Moscow I used to squeeze them--to tell you again that you are my god, my joy, to tell you that I love you madly," she moaned in anguish, and suddenly pressed his hand greedily to her lips. Tears streamed from her eyes. Alyosha stood speechless and confounded; he had never expected what he was seeing. "Love is over, Mitya!" Katya began again, "but the past is painfully dear to me. Know that you will always be so. But now let what might have been come true for one minute," she faltered, with a drawn smile, looking into his face joyfully again. "You love another woman, and I love another man, and yet I shall love you for ever, and you will love me; do you know that? Do you hear? Love me, love me all your life!" she cried, with a quiver almost of menace in her voice. "I shall love you, and ... do you know, Katya," Mitya began, drawing a deep breath at each word, "do you know, five days ago, that same evening, I loved you.... When you fell down and were carried out ... All my life! So it will be, so it will always be--" So they murmured to one another frantic words, almost meaningless, perhaps not even true, but at that moment it was all true, and they both believed what they said implicitly. "Katya," cried Mitya suddenly, "do you believe I murdered him? I know you don't believe it now, but then ... when you gave evidence.... Surely, surely you did not believe it!" "I did not believe it even then. I've never believed it. I hated you, and for a moment I persuaded myself. While I was giving evidence I persuaded myself and believed it, but when I'd finished speaking I left off believing it at once. Don't doubt that! I have forgotten that I came here to punish myself," she said, with a new expression in her voice, quite unlike the loving tones of a moment before. "Woman, yours is a heavy burden," broke, as it were, involuntarily from Mitya. "Let me go," she whispered. "I'll come again. It's more than I can bear now." She was getting up from her place, but suddenly uttered a loud scream and staggered back. Grushenka walked suddenly and noiselessly into the room. No one had expected her. Katya moved swiftly to the door, but when she reached Grushenka, she stopped suddenly, turned as white as chalk and moaned softly, almost in a whisper: "Forgive me!" Grushenka stared at her and, pausing for an instant, in a vindictive, venomous voice, answered: "We are full of hatred, my girl, you and I! We are both full of hatred! As though we could forgive one another! Save him, and I'll worship you all my life." "You won't forgive her!" cried Mitya, with frantic reproach. "Don't be anxious, I'll save him for you!" Katya whispered rapidly, and she ran out of the room. "And you could refuse to forgive her when she begged your forgiveness herself?" Mitya exclaimed bitterly again. "Mitya, don't dare to blame her; you have no right to!" Alyosha cried hotly. "Her proud lips spoke, not her heart," Grushenka brought out in a tone of disgust. "If she saves you I'll forgive her everything--" She stopped speaking, as though suppressing something. She could not yet recover herself. She had come in, as appeared afterwards, accidentally, with no suspicion of what she would meet. "Alyosha, run after her!" Mitya cried to his brother; "tell her ... I don't know ... don't let her go away like this!" "I'll come to you again at nightfall," said Alyosha, and he ran after Katya. He overtook her outside the hospital grounds. She was walking fast, but as soon as Alyosha caught her up she said quickly: "No, before that woman I can't punish myself! I asked her forgiveness because I wanted to punish myself to the bitter end. She would not forgive me.... I like her for that!" she added, in an unnatural voice, and her eyes flashed with fierce resentment. "My brother did not expect this in the least," muttered Alyosha. "He was sure she would not come--" "No doubt. Let us leave that," she snapped. "Listen: I can't go with you to the funeral now. I've sent them flowers. I think they still have money. If necessary, tell them I'll never abandon them.... Now leave me, leave me, please. You are late as it is--the bells are ringing for the service.... Leave me, please!" Chapter III. Ilusha's Funeral. The Speech At The Stone He really was late. They had waited for him and had already decided to bear the pretty flower-decked little coffin to the church without him. It was the coffin of poor little Ilusha. He had died two days after Mitya was sentenced. At the gate of the house Alyosha was met by the shouts of the boys, Ilusha's schoolfellows. They had all been impatiently expecting him and were glad that he had come at last. There were about twelve of them, they all had their school-bags or satchels on their shoulders. "Father will cry, be with father," Ilusha had told them as he lay dying, and the boys remembered it. Kolya Krassotkin was the foremost of them. "How glad I am you've come, Karamazov!" he cried, holding out his hand to Alyosha. "It's awful here. It's really horrible to see it. Snegiryov is not drunk, we know for a fact he's had nothing to drink to-day, but he seems as if he were drunk ... I am always manly, but this is awful. Karamazov, if I am not keeping you, one question before you go in?" "What is it, Kolya?" said Alyosha. "Is your brother innocent or guilty? Was it he killed your father or was it the valet? As you say, so it will be. I haven't slept for the last four nights for thinking of it." "The valet killed him, my brother is innocent," answered Alyosha. "That's what I said," cried Smurov. "So he will perish an innocent victim!" exclaimed Kolya; "though he is ruined he is happy! I could envy him!" "What do you mean? How can you? Why?" cried Alyosha surprised. "Oh, if I, too, could sacrifice myself some day for truth!" said Kolya with enthusiasm. "But not in such a cause, not with such disgrace and such horror!" said Alyosha. "Of course ... I should like to die for all humanity, and as for disgrace, I don't care about that--our names may perish. I respect your brother!" "And so do I!" the boy, who had once declared that he knew who had founded Troy, cried suddenly and unexpectedly, and he blushed up to his ears like a peony as he had done on that occasion. Alyosha went into the room. Ilusha lay with his hands folded and his eyes closed in a blue coffin with a white frill round it. His thin face was hardly changed at all, and strange to say there was no smell of decay from the corpse. The expression of his face was serious and, as it were, thoughtful. His hands, crossed over his breast, looked particularly beautiful, as though chiseled in marble. There were flowers in his hands and the coffin, inside and out, was decked with flowers, which had been sent early in the morning by Lise Hohlakov. But there were flowers too from Katerina Ivanovna, and when Alyosha opened the door, the captain had a bunch in his trembling hands and was strewing them again over his dear boy. He scarcely glanced at Alyosha when he came in, and he would not look at any one, even at his crazy weeping wife, "mamma," who kept trying to stand on her crippled legs to get a nearer look at her dead boy. Nina had been pushed in her chair by the boys close up to the coffin. She sat with her head pressed to it and she too was no doubt quietly weeping. Snegiryov's face looked eager, yet bewildered and exasperated. There was something crazy about his gestures and the words that broke from him. "Old man, dear old man!" he exclaimed every minute, gazing at Ilusha. It was his habit to call Ilusha "old man," as a term of affection when he was alive. "Father, give me a flower, too; take that white one out of his hand and give it me," the crazy mother begged, whimpering. Either because the little white rose in Ilusha's hand had caught her fancy or that she wanted one from his hand to keep in memory of him, she moved restlessly, stretching out her hands for the flower. "I won't give it to any one, I won't give you anything," Snegiryov cried callously. "They are his flowers, not yours! Everything is his, nothing is yours!" "Father, give mother a flower!" said Nina, lifting her face wet with tears. "I won't give away anything and to her less than any one! She didn't love Ilusha. She took away his little cannon and he gave it to her," the captain broke into loud sobs at the thought of how Ilusha had given up his cannon to his mother. The poor, crazy creature was bathed in noiseless tears, hiding her face in her hands. The boys, seeing that the father would not leave the coffin and that it was time to carry it out, stood round it in a close circle and began to lift it up. "I don't want him to be buried in the churchyard," Snegiryov wailed suddenly; "I'll bury him by the stone, by our stone! Ilusha told me to. I won't let him be carried out!" He had been saying for the last three days that he would bury him by the stone, but Alyosha, Krassotkin, the landlady, her sister and all the boys interfered. "What an idea, bury him by an unholy stone, as though he had hanged himself!" the old landlady said sternly. "There in the churchyard the ground has been crossed. He'll be prayed for there. One can hear the singing in church and the deacon reads so plainly and verbally that it will reach him every time just as though it were read over his grave." At last the captain made a gesture of despair as though to say, "Take him where you will." The boys raised the coffin, but as they passed the mother, they stopped for a moment and lowered it that she might say good- by to Ilusha. But on seeing that precious little face, which for the last three days she had only looked at from a distance, she trembled all over and her gray head began twitching spasmodically over the coffin. "Mother, make the sign of the cross over him, give him your blessing, kiss him," Nina cried to her. But her head still twitched like an automaton and with a face contorted with bitter grief she began, without a word, beating her breast with her fist. They carried the coffin past her. Nina pressed her lips to her brother's for the last time as they bore the coffin by her. As Alyosha went out of the house he begged the landlady to look after those who were left behind, but she interrupted him before he had finished. "To be sure, I'll stay with them, we are Christians, too." The old woman wept as she said it. They had not far to carry the coffin to the church, not more than three hundred paces. It was a still, clear day, with a slight frost. The church bells were still ringing. Snegiryov ran fussing and distracted after the coffin, in his short old summer overcoat, with his head bare and his soft, old, wide-brimmed hat in his hand. He seemed in a state of bewildered anxiety. At one minute he stretched out his hand to support the head of the coffin and only hindered the bearers, at another he ran alongside and tried to find a place for himself there. A flower fell on the snow and he rushed to pick it up as though everything in the world depended on the loss of that flower. "And the crust of bread, we've forgotten the crust!" he cried suddenly in dismay. But the boys reminded him at once that he had taken the crust of bread already and that it was in his pocket. He instantly pulled it out and was reassured. "Ilusha told me to, Ilusha," he explained at once to Alyosha. "I was sitting by him one night and he suddenly told me: 'Father, when my grave is filled up crumble a piece of bread on it so that the sparrows may fly down, I shall hear and it will cheer me up not to be lying alone.' " "That's a good thing," said Alyosha, "we must often take some." "Every day, every day!" said the captain quickly, seeming cheered at the thought. They reached the church at last and set the coffin in the middle of it. The boys surrounded it and remained reverently standing so, all through the service. It was an old and rather poor church; many of the ikons were without settings; but such churches are the best for praying in. During the mass Snegiryov became somewhat calmer, though at times he had outbursts of the same unconscious and, as it were, incoherent anxiety. At one moment he went up to the coffin to set straight the cover or the wreath, when a candle fell out of the candlestick he rushed to replace it and was a fearful time fumbling over it, then he subsided and stood quietly by the coffin with a look of blank uneasiness and perplexity. After the Epistle he suddenly whispered to Alyosha, who was standing beside him, that the Epistle had not been read properly but did not explain what he meant. During the prayer, "Like the Cherubim," he joined in the singing but did not go on to the end. Falling on his knees, he pressed his forehead to the stone floor and lay so for a long while. At last came the funeral service itself and candles were distributed. The distracted father began fussing about again, but the touching and impressive funeral prayers moved and roused his soul. He seemed suddenly to shrink together and broke into rapid, short sobs, which he tried at first to smother, but at last he sobbed aloud. When they began taking leave of the dead and closing the coffin, he flung his arms about, as though he would not allow them to cover Ilusha, and began greedily and persistently kissing his dead boy on the lips. At last they succeeded in persuading him to come away from the step, but suddenly he impulsively stretched out his hand and snatched a few flowers from the coffin. He looked at them and a new idea seemed to dawn upon him, so that he apparently forgot his grief for a minute. Gradually he seemed to sink into brooding and did not resist when the coffin was lifted up and carried to the grave. It was an expensive one in the churchyard close to the church, Katerina Ivanovna had paid for it. After the customary rites the grave- diggers lowered the coffin. Snegiryov with his flowers in his hands bent down so low over the open grave that the boys caught hold of his coat in alarm and pulled him back. He did not seem to understand fully what was happening. When they began filling up the grave, he suddenly pointed anxiously at the falling earth and began trying to say something, but no one could make out what he meant, and he stopped suddenly. Then he was reminded that he must crumble the bread and he was awfully excited, snatched up the bread and began pulling it to pieces and flinging the morsels on the grave. "Come, fly down, birds, fly down, sparrows!" he muttered anxiously. One of the boys observed that it was awkward for him to crumble the bread with the flowers in his hands and suggested he should give them to some one to hold for a time. But he would not do this and seemed indeed suddenly alarmed for his flowers, as though they wanted to take them from him altogether. And after looking at the grave, and as it were, satisfying himself that everything had been done and the bread had been crumbled, he suddenly, to the surprise of every one, turned, quite composedly even, and made his way homewards. But his steps became more and more hurried, he almost ran. The boys and Alyosha kept up with him. "The flowers are for mamma, the flowers are for mamma! I was unkind to mamma," he began exclaiming suddenly. Some one called to him to put on his hat as it was cold. But he flung the hat in the snow as though he were angry and kept repeating, "I won't have the hat, I won't have the hat." Smurov picked it up and carried it after him. All the boys were crying, and Kolya and the boy who discovered about Troy most of all. Though Smurov, with the captain's hat in his hand, was crying bitterly too, he managed, as he ran, to snatch up a piece of red brick that lay on the snow of the path, to fling it at the flock of sparrows that was flying by. He missed them, of course, and went on crying as he ran. Half-way, Snegiryov suddenly stopped, stood still for half a minute, as though struck by something, and suddenly turning back to the church, ran towards the deserted grave. But the boys instantly overtook him and caught hold of him on all sides. Then he fell helpless on the snow as though he had been knocked down, and struggling, sobbing, and wailing, he began crying out, "Ilusha, old man, dear old man!" Alyosha and Kolya tried to make him get up, soothing and persuading him. "Captain, give over, a brave man must show fortitude," muttered Kolya. "You'll spoil the flowers," said Alyosha, "and mamma is expecting them, she is sitting crying because you would not give her any before. Ilusha's little bed is still there--" "Yes, yes, mamma!" Snegiryov suddenly recollected, "they'll take away the bed, they'll take it away," he added as though alarmed that they really would. He jumped up and ran homewards again. But it was not far off and they all arrived together. Snegiryov opened the door hurriedly and called to his wife with whom he had so cruelly quarreled just before: "Mamma, poor crippled darling, Ilusha has sent you these flowers," he cried, holding out to her a little bunch of flowers that had been frozen and broken while he was struggling in the snow. But at that instant he saw in the corner, by the little bed, Ilusha's little boots, which the landlady had put tidily side by side. Seeing the old, patched, rusty- looking, stiff boots he flung up his hands and rushed to them, fell on his knees, snatched up one boot and, pressing his lips to it, began kissing it greedily, crying, "Ilusha, old man, dear old man, where are your little feet?" "Where have you taken him away? Where have you taken him?" the lunatic cried in a heartrending voice. Nina, too, broke into sobs. Kolya ran out of the room, the boys followed him. At last Alyosha too went out. "Let them weep," he said to Kolya, "it's no use trying to comfort them just now. Let us wait a minute and then go back." "No, it's no use, it's awful," Kolya assented. "Do you know, Karamazov," he dropped his voice so that no one could hear them, "I feel dreadfully sad, and if it were only possible to bring him back, I'd give anything in the world to do it." "Ah, so would I," said Alyosha. "What do you think, Karamazov? Had we better come back here to-night? He'll be drunk, you know." "Perhaps he will. Let us come together, you and I, that will be enough, to spend an hour with them, with the mother and Nina. If we all come together we shall remind them of everything again," Alyosha suggested. "The landlady is laying the table for them now--there'll be a funeral dinner or something, the priest is coming; shall we go back to it, Karamazov?" "Of course," said Alyosha. "It's all so strange, Karamazov, such sorrow and then pancakes after it, it all seems so unnatural in our religion." "They are going to have salmon, too," the boy who had discovered about Troy observed in a loud voice. "I beg you most earnestly, Kartashov, not to interrupt again with your idiotic remarks, especially when one is not talking to you and doesn't care to know whether you exist or not!" Kolya snapped out irritably. The boy flushed crimson but did not dare to reply. Meantime they were strolling slowly along the path and suddenly Smurov exclaimed: "There's Ilusha's stone, under which they wanted to bury him." They all stood still by the big stone. Alyosha looked and the whole picture of what Snegiryov had described to him that day, how Ilusha, weeping and hugging his father, had cried, "Father, father, how he insulted you," rose at once before his imagination. A sudden impulse seemed to come into his soul. With a serious and earnest expression he looked from one to another of the bright, pleasant faces of Ilusha's schoolfellows, and suddenly said to them: "Boys, I should like to say one word to you, here at this place." The boys stood round him and at once bent attentive and expectant eyes upon him. "Boys, we shall soon part. I shall be for some time with my two brothers, of whom one is going to Siberia and the other is lying at death's door. But soon I shall leave this town, perhaps for a long time, so we shall part. Let us make a compact here, at Ilusha's stone, that we will never forget Ilusha and one another. And whatever happens to us later in life, if we don't meet for twenty years afterwards, let us always remember how we buried the poor boy at whom we once threw stones, do you remember, by the bridge? and afterwards we all grew so fond of him. He was a fine boy, a kind-hearted, brave boy, he felt for his father's honor and resented the cruel insult to him and stood up for him. And so in the first place, we will remember him, boys, all our lives. And even if we are occupied with most important things, if we attain to honor or fall into great misfortune--still let us remember how good it was once here, when we were all together, united by a good and kind feeling which made us, for the time we were loving that poor boy, better perhaps than we are. My little doves--let me call you so, for you are very like them, those pretty blue birds, at this minute as I look at your good dear faces. My dear children, perhaps you won't understand what I am saying to you, because I often speak very unintelligibly, but you'll remember it all the same and will agree with my words some time. You must know that there is nothing higher and stronger and more wholesome and good for life in the future than some good memory, especially a memory of childhood, of home. People talk to you a great deal about your education, but some good, sacred memory, preserved from childhood, is perhaps the best education. If a man carries many such memories with him into life, he is safe to the end of his days, and if one has only one good memory left in one's heart, even that may sometime be the means of saving us. Perhaps we may even grow wicked later on, may be unable to refrain from a bad action, may laugh at men's tears and at those people who say as Kolya did just now, 'I want to suffer for all men,' and may even jeer spitefully at such people. But however bad we may become--which God forbid--yet, when we recall how we buried Ilusha, how we loved him in his last days, and how we have been talking like friends all together, at this stone, the cruelest and most mocking of us--if we do become so--will not dare to laugh inwardly at having been kind and good at this moment! What's more, perhaps, that one memory may keep him from great evil and he will reflect and say, 'Yes, I was good and brave and honest then!' Let him laugh to himself, that's no matter, a man often laughs at what's good and kind. That's only from thoughtlessness. But I assure you, boys, that as he laughs he will say at once in his heart, 'No, I do wrong to laugh, for that's not a thing to laugh at.' " "That will be so, I understand you, Karamazov!" cried Kolya, with flashing eyes. The boys were excited and they, too, wanted to say something, but they restrained themselves, looking with intentness and emotion at the speaker. "I say this in case we become bad," Alyosha went on, "but there's no reason why we should become bad, is there, boys? Let us be, first and above all, kind, then honest and then let us never forget each other! I say that again. I give you my word for my part that I'll never forget one of you. Every face looking at me now I shall remember even for thirty years. Just now Kolya said to Kartashov that we did not care to know whether he exists or not. But I cannot forget that Kartashov exists and that he is not blushing now as he did when he discovered the founders of Troy, but is looking at me with his jolly, kind, dear little eyes. Boys, my dear boys, let us all be generous and brave like Ilusha, clever, brave and generous like Kolya (though he will be ever so much cleverer when he is grown up), and let us all be as modest, as clever and sweet as Kartashov. But why am I talking about those two? You are all dear to me, boys, from this day forth, I have a place in my heart for you all, and I beg you to keep a place in your hearts for me! Well, and who has united us in this kind, good feeling which we shall remember and intend to remember all our lives? Who, if not Ilusha, the good boy, the dear boy, precious to us for ever! Let us never forget him. May his memory live for ever in our hearts from this time forth!" "Yes, yes, for ever, for ever!" the boys cried in their ringing voices, with softened faces. "Let us remember his face and his clothes and his poor little boots, his coffin and his unhappy, sinful father, and how boldly he stood up for him alone against the whole school." "We will remember, we will remember," cried the boys. "He was brave, he was good!" "Ah, how I loved him!" exclaimed Kolya. "Ah, children, ah, dear friends, don't be afraid of life! How good life is when one does something good and just!" "Yes, yes," the boys repeated enthusiastically. "Karamazov, we love you!" a voice, probably Kartashov's, cried impulsively. "We love you, we love you!" they all caught it up. There were tears in the eyes of many of them. "Hurrah for Karamazov!" Kolya shouted ecstatically. "And may the dead boy's memory live for ever!" Alyosha added again with feeling. "For ever!" the boys chimed in again. "Karamazov," cried Kolya, "can it be true what's taught us in religion, that we shall all rise again from the dead and shall live and see each other again, all, Ilusha too?" "Certainly we shall all rise again, certainly we shall see each other and shall tell each other with joy and gladness all that has happened!" Alyosha answered, half laughing, half enthusiastic. "Ah, how splendid it will be!" broke from Kolya. "Well, now we will finish talking and go to his funeral dinner. Don't be put out at our eating pancakes--it's a very old custom and there's something nice in that!" laughed Alyosha. "Well, let us go! And now we go hand in hand." "And always so, all our lives hand in hand! Hurrah for Karamazov!" Kolya cried once more rapturously, and once more the boys took up his exclamation: "Hurrah for Karamazov!" THE END FOOTNOTES 1 In Russian, "silen." 2 A proverbial expression in Russia. 3 Grushenka. 4 i.e. setter dog. 5 Probably the public event was the Decabrist plot against the Tsar, of December 1825, in which the most distinguished men in Russia were concerned.--TRANSLATOR'S NOTE. 6 When a monk's body is carried out from the cell to the church and from the church to the graveyard, the canticle "What earthly joy..." is sung. If the deceased was a priest as well as a monk the canticle "Our Helper and Defender" is sung instead. 7 i.e. a chime of bells. 8 Literally: "Did you get off with a long nose made at you?"--a proverbial expression in Russia for failure. 9 Gogol is meant.

Epilogue

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219142226/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/b/the-brothers-karamazov/summary-and-analysis/part-4-epilogue

After Dmitri's trial, Alyosha goes to Katerina's, where Ivan is ill, unconscious, and burning with high fever; in spite of gossip, Katerina has ordered that he be brought to her house. When Alyosha arrives, she confesses her deep regret over what she revealed during the trial but says that Dmitri's escape is already being planned. She explains further that more help is needed; Alyosha must aid his brother and bribe the appropriate officials. Alyosha agrees but forces Katerina to promise that she will visit Dmitri in prison. Alyosha then goes to his brother and tells him that Katerina also will come, but Dmitri has weightier problems troubling him. He explains his desire to repent and, through suffering, to become a new human being. He fears only one thing: that he will be unable to carry out his intentions if the authorities do not let Grushenka accompany him. Alyosha explains the plans that have been made for the escape, and Dmitri reluctantly agrees to them. He makes one stipulation, however; he escapes only for the present. Someday he must return to Mother Russia. Katerina then enters, and she and Dmitri ask each other for forgiveness. Peace is not so easy, though, even now, for Grushenka unexpectedly arrives. Although Katerina begs her for forgiveness, Grushenka still feels too bitter toward her former rival to acknowledge any pleas. In the meantime, little Ilusha has died, and Alyosha leaves Dmitri to go to the young boy's funeral. After the burial, Alyosha talks with Ilusha's many school friends and asks them to remember forever their friendship at the present moment. He, in turn, promises that he will never forget any one of them. The boys are deeply affected by Alyosha's sincerity and all cheer, "Hurrah for Karamazov."

In a sense, the epilogue conforms to the nineteenth-century custom of tidying up the end of a novel. Here the final fates of all the characters are revealed, and the reader is relieved from speculating. Dmitri accepts Ivan's plan for escape, but only after he has Alyosha's sanction. As for Alyosha, he conforms to the directives of the late Father Zossima. He does not condemn his brother, nor does he object to the escape. In short, he refuses to judge Dmitri. Even in his escape, it is important to note that Dmitri feels that he will suffer immensely. He has been depicted as being closely attached to Russia and to be exiled to America -- to be separated from the soil from which he takes his strength -- is an extreme form of punishment for him. His plans are to return to his country as soon as possible and then to live anonymously in some remote region. This lasting love for Russian soil, of course, reflects Dostoevsky's passion for his native land. In the novel's final pages, all concern is with Alyosha and Ilusha's young school friends. The ex-monk has had little success with adults in Russian society, but with children he is unexcelled. The boys eagerly gather around Alyosha and are openly responsive to his speech about love and devotion -- a message quite clear: Dostoevsky believes that youth, nurtured on the wisdom of Father Zossima, will be the salvation of Russia.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/06.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_5_part_0.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 6

chapter 6

{"name": "Phase I: \"The Maiden,\" Chapter Six", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-6", "summary": "Tess takes the same cart back to Marlott that she had taken out to Trantridge that morning. The basket of roses and the bouquets that Alec had pinned to her hat and dress attract the attention of the other passengers, so she tries to hide them as though ashamed of them. As she removes one of the roses from under her chin, it pricks her skin. It's getting late, so she spends the night at a friend's house on her way back to Marlott . When she arrives at home the next morning, her mother looks triumphant--she's received a letter from Mrs. D'Urberville. The letter invites Tess to come stay at the house and look after a little poultry-farm there, which is Mrs. D'Urberville's special hobby. Mrs. Durbeyfield assumes that Mrs. D'Urberville is just asking Tess to work as a means of getting her there, but that she really means to bring Tess up in her own family and make a lady of her. Tess is confused, since she didn't actually meet Mrs. D'Urberville. Mrs. Durbeyfield asks whom she did meet, then--and when Tess reports that Alec had called her \"Coz,\" Mrs. Durbeyfield is exultant, thinking that he's acknowledged her as a relation. Tess is still hesitant about going, and asks to see the letter. She isn't convinced that it was written by Mrs. D'Urberville, and would rather stay at home with her parents. She holds out for a week, looking for work in her own neighborhood. One day she comes home, and her younger siblings inform her that \"the gentleman has been here!\" . Mrs. Durbeyfield explains that Mrs. D'Urberville's son happened to be passing by, and stopped to ask whether Tess would come to manage the old lady's poultry-farm or not. Tess is pleased that Alec thinks that she would do a good job managing the poultry-farm, but is still reluctant to go--she doesn't know what it will be like, living there. Her parents and her younger siblings can't stop talking about Alec's moustache or his diamond ring. Tess wanders off to think it over in the garden, while her mother triumphantly asserts that Alec is in love with Tess, and will marry her and make her a lady. Jack Durbeyfield likes this idea--it flatters his vanity. Tess comes back, and says she still doesn't know--but she's the one who killed the old horse, and she feels responsible for helping to get a new one. But she can't help not liking Mr. D'Urberville. The younger children start crying because they want Tess to become a lady. Tess finally agrees to go. Her mother is relieved--it's a fine opportunity, she says. Tess says it's an opportunity for making money, and that her mother had better not tell the neighbors that it's any other kind of opportunity. Her mother understands her, but doesn't promise. Tess writes to Mrs. D'Urberville, agreeing to come whenever she is sent for. Mrs. D'Urberville writes back, saying that a cart would be sent to pick her up the day after tomorrow. The narrator notes that Mrs. D'Urberville's handwriting looks rather masculine. Tess is happy at the prospect of helping her father to buy a new horse, but would rather have been a teacher at the school. She doesn't take her mother's hopes that she would marry Alec at all seriously.", "analysis": ""}

Tess went down the hill to Trantridge Cross, and inattentively waited to take her seat in the van returning from Chaseborough to Shaston. She did not know what the other occupants said to her as she entered, though she answered them; and when they had started anew she rode along with an inward and not an outward eye. One among her fellow-travellers addressed her more pointedly than any had spoken before: "Why, you be quite a posy! And such roses in early June!" Then she became aware of the spectacle she presented to their surprised vision: roses at her breasts; roses in her hat; roses and strawberries in her basket to the brim. She blushed, and said confusedly that the flowers had been given to her. When the passengers were not looking she stealthily removed the more prominent blooms from her hat and placed them in the basket, where she covered them with her handkerchief. Then she fell to reflecting again, and in looking downwards a thorn of the rose remaining in her breast accidentally pricked her chin. Like all the cottagers in Blackmoor Vale, Tess was steeped in fancies and prefigurative superstitions; she thought this an ill omen--the first she had noticed that day. The van travelled only so far as Shaston, and there were several miles of pedestrian descent from that mountain-town into the vale to Marlott. Her mother had advised her to stay here for the night, at the house of a cottage-woman they knew, if she should feel too tired to come on; and this Tess did, not descending to her home till the following afternoon. When she entered the house she perceived in a moment from her mother's triumphant manner that something had occurred in the interim. "Oh yes; I know all about it! I told 'ee it would be all right, and now 'tis proved!" "Since I've been away? What has?" said Tess rather wearily. Her mother surveyed the girl up and down with arch approval, and went on banteringly: "So you've brought 'em round!" "How do you know, mother?" "I've had a letter." Tess then remembered that there would have been time for this. "They say--Mrs d'Urberville says--that she wants you to look after a little fowl-farm which is her hobby. But this is only her artful way of getting 'ee there without raising your hopes. She's going to own 'ee as kin--that's the meaning o't." "But I didn't see her." "You zid somebody, I suppose?" "I saw her son." "And did he own 'ee?" "Well--he called me Coz." "An' I knew it! Jacky--he called her Coz!" cried Joan to her husband. "Well, he spoke to his mother, of course, and she do want 'ee there." "But I don't know that I am apt at tending fowls," said the dubious Tess. "Then I don't know who is apt. You've be'n born in the business, and brought up in it. They that be born in a business always know more about it than any 'prentice. Besides, that's only just a show of something for you to do, that you midn't feel beholden." "I don't altogether think I ought to go," said Tess thoughtfully. "Who wrote the letter? Will you let me look at it?" "Mrs d'Urberville wrote it. Here it is." The letter was in the third person, and briefly informed Mrs Durbeyfield that her daughter's services would be useful to that lady in the management of her poultry-farm, that a comfortable room would be provided for her if she could come, and that the wages would be on a liberal scale if they liked her. "Oh--that's all!" said Tess. "You couldn't expect her to throw her arms round 'ee, an' to kiss and to coll 'ee all at once." Tess looked out of the window. "I would rather stay here with father and you," she said. "But why?" "I'd rather not tell you why, mother; indeed, I don't quite know why." A week afterwards she came in one evening from an unavailing search for some light occupation in the immediate neighbourhood. Her idea had been to get together sufficient money during the summer to purchase another horse. Hardly had she crossed the threshold before one of the children danced across the room, saying, "The gentleman's been here!" Her mother hastened to explain, smiles breaking from every inch of her person. Mrs d'Urberville's son had called on horseback, having been riding by chance in the direction of Marlott. He had wished to know, finally, in the name of his mother, if Tess could really come to manage the old lady's fowl-farm or not; the lad who had hitherto superintended the birds having proved untrustworthy. "Mr d'Urberville says you must be a good girl if you are at all as you appear; he knows you must be worth your weight in gold. He is very much interested in 'ee--truth to tell." Tess seemed for the moment really pleased to hear that she had won such high opinion from a stranger when, in her own esteem, she had sunk so low. "It is very good of him to think that," she murmured; "and if I was quite sure how it would be living there, I would go any-when." "He is a mighty handsome man!" "I don't think so," said Tess coldly. "Well, there's your chance, whether or no; and I'm sure he wears a beautiful diamond ring!" "Yes," said little Abraham, brightly, from the window-bench; "and I seed it! and it did twinkle when he put his hand up to his mistarshers. Mother, why did our grand relation keep on putting his hand up to his mistarshers?" "Hark at that child!" cried Mrs Durbeyfield, with parenthetic admiration. "Perhaps to show his diamond ring," murmured Sir John, dreamily, from his chair. "I'll think it over," said Tess, leaving the room. "Well, she's made a conquest o' the younger branch of us, straight off," continued the matron to her husband, "and she's a fool if she don't follow it up." "I don't quite like my children going away from home," said the haggler. "As the head of the family, the rest ought to come to me." "But do let her go, Jacky," coaxed his poor witless wife. "He's struck wi' her--you can see that. He called her Coz! He'll marry her, most likely, and make a lady of her; and then she'll be what her forefathers was." John Durbeyfield had more conceit than energy or health, and this supposition was pleasant to him. "Well, perhaps that's what young Mr d'Urberville means," he admitted; "and sure enough he mid have serious thoughts about improving his blood by linking on to the old line. Tess, the little rogue! And have she really paid 'em a visit to such an end as this?" Meanwhile Tess was walking thoughtfully among the gooseberry-bushes in the garden, and over Prince's grave. When she came in her mother pursued her advantage. "Well, what be you going to do?" she asked. "I wish I had seen Mrs d'Urberville," said Tess. "I think you mid as well settle it. Then you'll see her soon enough." Her father coughed in his chair. "I don't know what to say!" answered the girl restlessly. "It is for you to decide. I killed the old horse, and I suppose I ought to do something to get ye a new one. But--but--I don't quite like Mr d'Urberville being there!" The children, who had made use of this idea of Tess being taken up by their wealthy kinsfolk (which they imagined the other family to be) as a species of dolorifuge after the death of the horse, began to cry at Tess's reluctance, and teased and reproached her for hesitating. "Tess won't go-o-o and be made a la-a-dy of!--no, she says she wo-o-on't!" they wailed, with square mouths. "And we shan't have a nice new horse, and lots o' golden money to buy fairlings! And Tess won't look pretty in her best cloze no mo-o-ore!" Her mother chimed in to the same tune: a certain way she had of making her labours in the house seem heavier than they were by prolonging them indefinitely, also weighed in the argument. Her father alone preserved an attitude of neutrality. "I will go," said Tess at last. Her mother could not repress her consciousness of the nuptial vision conjured up by the girl's consent. "That's right! For such a pretty maid as 'tis, this is a fine chance!" Tess smiled crossly. "I hope it is a chance for earning money. It is no other kind of chance. You had better say nothing of that silly sort about parish." Mrs Durbeyfield did not promise. She was not quite sure that she did not feel proud enough, after the visitor's remarks, to say a good deal. Thus it was arranged; and the young girl wrote, agreeing to be ready to set out on any day on which she might be required. She was duly informed that Mrs d'Urberville was glad of her decision, and that a spring-cart should be sent to meet her and her luggage at the top of the Vale on the day after the morrow, when she must hold herself prepared to start. Mrs d'Urberville's handwriting seemed rather masculine. "A cart?" murmured Joan Durbeyfield doubtingly. "It might have been a carriage for her own kin!" Having at last taken her course Tess was less restless and abstracted, going about her business with some self-assurance in the thought of acquiring another horse for her father by an occupation which would not be onerous. She had hoped to be a teacher at the school, but the fates seemed to decide otherwise. Being mentally older than her mother she did not regard Mrs Durbeyfield's matrimonial hopes for her in a serious aspect for a moment. The light-minded woman had been discovering good matches for her daughter almost from the year of her birth.

Phase I: "The Maiden," Chapter Six

https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-6

Tess takes the same cart back to Marlott that she had taken out to Trantridge that morning. The basket of roses and the bouquets that Alec had pinned to her hat and dress attract the attention of the other passengers, so she tries to hide them as though ashamed of them. As she removes one of the roses from under her chin, it pricks her skin. It's getting late, so she spends the night at a friend's house on her way back to Marlott . When she arrives at home the next morning, her mother looks triumphant--she's received a letter from Mrs. D'Urberville. The letter invites Tess to come stay at the house and look after a little poultry-farm there, which is Mrs. D'Urberville's special hobby. Mrs. Durbeyfield assumes that Mrs. D'Urberville is just asking Tess to work as a means of getting her there, but that she really means to bring Tess up in her own family and make a lady of her. Tess is confused, since she didn't actually meet Mrs. D'Urberville. Mrs. Durbeyfield asks whom she did meet, then--and when Tess reports that Alec had called her "Coz," Mrs. Durbeyfield is exultant, thinking that he's acknowledged her as a relation. Tess is still hesitant about going, and asks to see the letter. She isn't convinced that it was written by Mrs. D'Urberville, and would rather stay at home with her parents. She holds out for a week, looking for work in her own neighborhood. One day she comes home, and her younger siblings inform her that "the gentleman has been here!" . Mrs. Durbeyfield explains that Mrs. D'Urberville's son happened to be passing by, and stopped to ask whether Tess would come to manage the old lady's poultry-farm or not. Tess is pleased that Alec thinks that she would do a good job managing the poultry-farm, but is still reluctant to go--she doesn't know what it will be like, living there. Her parents and her younger siblings can't stop talking about Alec's moustache or his diamond ring. Tess wanders off to think it over in the garden, while her mother triumphantly asserts that Alec is in love with Tess, and will marry her and make her a lady. Jack Durbeyfield likes this idea--it flatters his vanity. Tess comes back, and says she still doesn't know--but she's the one who killed the old horse, and she feels responsible for helping to get a new one. But she can't help not liking Mr. D'Urberville. The younger children start crying because they want Tess to become a lady. Tess finally agrees to go. Her mother is relieved--it's a fine opportunity, she says. Tess says it's an opportunity for making money, and that her mother had better not tell the neighbors that it's any other kind of opportunity. Her mother understands her, but doesn't promise. Tess writes to Mrs. D'Urberville, agreeing to come whenever she is sent for. Mrs. D'Urberville writes back, saying that a cart would be sent to pick her up the day after tomorrow. The narrator notes that Mrs. D'Urberville's handwriting looks rather masculine. Tess is happy at the prospect of helping her father to buy a new horse, but would rather have been a teacher at the school. She doesn't take her mother's hopes that she would marry Alec at all seriously.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_19_to_21.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Lord Jim/section_8_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapters 19-21

chapters 19-21

{"name": "Chapters 19-21", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210215030710/https://www.novelguide.com/lord-jim/summaries/chapter19-21", "summary": "Twenty and Twenty One . In Chapter Nineteen, the readers are told that these instances of Jim leaving his post are just two examples that Marlow can give. All of them are 'equally tinged by a high-minded absurdity of intention which made their futility profound and touching'. He sees Jim as unfortunate, because 'his recklessness could not carry him out from under the shadow'. Marlow cannot work out if his conduct 'amounted to shirking his ghost or to facing him out'. It is ironic to Marlow that Jim becomes known as a rolling stone and is famous, even notorious, in the 'circle of his wandering' . . . Jim stays in Bangkok for six months until a first lieutenant of the Royal Siamese Navy makes a scornful remark at his expense. Jim turns up on Marlow's ship at midnight saying everybody in the room seemed to know about him and he cannot keep his job now because he has reacted violently to the lieutenant. Marlow finds him a position with De Jongh; Jim works hard but there are few opportunities for him. Marlow then decides to consult Stein, who is a wealthy and respected merchant, for trustworthy advice. Stein is known to learned persons in Europe for his extensive insect collection and Marlow knows he is eminently suitable to receive his confidences about Jim. . . Chapter Twenty begins with Marlow's visit to Stein. The room where they talk is lined with shelves filled with his insect collection. His background is explained a little . After Stein's wife and daughter died, he started a new life and acquired a fortune. He tells Marlow of how he caught one of his butterflies just after he killed some men who attacked him. Marlow says he has come to describe a specimen and relates the story of Jim. Stein says he understands 'very well' and calls Jim 'romantic'. Stein is also romantic, but, as Marlow points out, when his dream came his way he did not let it escape. Stein counters this by saying that he has lost many other dreams though. Before the two men go to sleep, they decide to do something practical for Jim the next day. . . In Chapter Twenty One, the narrative returns to Marlow talking to his friends in the present and he asks them if they have heard of Patusan. It is a place known by the mercantile world, but no one present had been there. This is where Stein arranges for Jim to start again: ' left his earthly failings behind him and that sort of reputation he had and there was a totally new set of conditions for his imaginative faculty to work upon. Entirely new, entirely remarkable.' . . The narrative shifts to Marlow and Stein again as they make these arrangements for Jim. Marlow tells Stein about Brierly saying, 'let him creep twenty feet underground and stay there'. At this point, Stein suggests Patusan. Marlow is open to this idea for Jim's sake and because of his own conscience. Marlow explains that Jim went on to stay at Patusan and 'came on straight as a die'. .", "analysis": "Twenty and Twenty One . Chapter Nineteen highlights how Jim's behavior since jumping from the ship has brought him notoriety rather than the sought for anonymity. As he attempts to remain unknown, he becomes infamous as a rolling stone and unwittingly draws attention to himself. . . The beginning of his new life starts with the help of Marlow and Stein as they discuss his future. The choice of Patusan is based on its required isolation from white Western society and is figuratively comparable to Brierly's idea of sending Jim 'underground'. This is, of course, allowing Jim to continue to run away from what he sees as his shameful past. . . In Chapter Twenty, Stein relates his story of when he caught a butterfly and goes on to interpret Jim as a romantic. This understanding may be seen as based on mutual concerns as Stein resembles an older version of Jim. This is because both take pleasure in the thought of attaining their dreams."}

'I have told you these two episodes at length to show his manner of dealing with himself under the new conditions of his life. There were many others of the sort, more than I could count on the fingers of my two hands. They were all equally tinged by a high-minded absurdity of intention which made their futility profound and touching. To fling away your daily bread so as to get your hands free for a grapple with a ghost may be an act of prosaic heroism. Men had done it before (though we who have lived know full well that it is not the haunted soul but the hungry body that makes an outcast), and men who had eaten and meant to eat every day had applauded the creditable folly. He was indeed unfortunate, for all his recklessness could not carry him out from under the shadow. There was always a doubt of his courage. The truth seems to be that it is impossible to lay the ghost of a fact. You can face it or shirk it--and I have come across a man or two who could wink at their familiar shades. Obviously Jim was not of the winking sort; but what I could never make up my mind about was whether his line of conduct amounted to shirking his ghost or to facing him out. 'I strained my mental eyesight only to discover that, as with the complexion of all our actions, the shade of difference was so delicate that it was impossible to say. It might have been flight and it might have been a mode of combat. To the common mind he became known as a rolling stone, because this was the funniest part: he did after a time become perfectly known, and even notorious, within the circle of his wanderings (which had a diameter of, say, three thousand miles), in the same way as an eccentric character is known to a whole countryside. For instance, in Bankok, where he found employment with Yucker Brothers, charterers and teak merchants, it was almost pathetic to see him go about in sunshine hugging his secret, which was known to the very up-country logs on the river. Schomberg, the keeper of the hotel where he boarded, a hirsute Alsatian of manly bearing and an irrepressible retailer of all the scandalous gossip of the place, would, with both elbows on the table, impart an adorned version of the story to any guest who cared to imbibe knowledge along with the more costly liquors. "And, mind you, the nicest fellow you could meet," would be his generous conclusion; "quite superior." It says a lot for the casual crowd that frequented Schomberg's establishment that Jim managed to hang out in Bankok for a whole six months. I remarked that people, perfect strangers, took to him as one takes to a nice child. His manner was reserved, but it was as though his personal appearance, his hair, his eyes, his smile, made friends for him wherever he went. And, of course, he was no fool. I heard Siegmund Yucker (native of Switzerland), a gentle creature ravaged by a cruel dyspepsia, and so frightfully lame that his head swung through a quarter of a circle at every step he took, declare appreciatively that for one so young he was "of great gabasidy," as though it had been a mere question of cubic contents. "Why not send him up country?" I suggested anxiously. (Yucker Brothers had concessions and teak forests in the interior.) "If he has capacity, as you say, he will soon get hold of the work. And physically he is very fit. His health is always excellent." "Ach! It's a great ting in dis goundry to be vree vrom tispep-shia," sighed poor Yucker enviously, casting a stealthy glance at the pit of his ruined stomach. I left him drumming pensively on his desk and muttering, "Es ist ein' Idee. Es ist ein' Idee." Unfortunately, that very evening an unpleasant affair took place in the hotel. 'I don't know that I blame Jim very much, but it was a truly regrettable incident. It belonged to the lamentable species of bar-room scuffles, and the other party to it was a cross-eyed Dane of sorts whose visiting-card recited, under his misbegotten name: first lieutenant in the Royal Siamese Navy. The fellow, of course, was utterly hopeless at billiards, but did not like to be beaten, I suppose. He had had enough to drink to turn nasty after the sixth game, and make some scornful remark at Jim's expense. Most of the people there didn't hear what was said, and those who had heard seemed to have had all precise recollection scared out of them by the appalling nature of the consequences that immediately ensued. It was very lucky for the Dane that he could swim, because the room opened on a verandah and the Menam flowed below very wide and black. A boat-load of Chinamen, bound, as likely as not, on some thieving expedition, fished out the officer of the King of Siam, and Jim turned up at about midnight on board my ship without a hat. "Everybody in the room seemed to know," he said, gasping yet from the contest, as it were. He was rather sorry, on general principles, for what had happened, though in this case there had been, he said, "no option." But what dismayed him was to find the nature of his burden as well known to everybody as though he had gone about all that time carrying it on his shoulders. Naturally after this he couldn't remain in the place. He was universally condemned for the brutal violence, so unbecoming a man in his delicate position; some maintained he had been disgracefully drunk at the time; others criticised his want of tact. Even Schomberg was very much annoyed. "He is a very nice young man," he said argumentatively to me, "but the lieutenant is a first-rate fellow too. He dines every night at my table d'hote, you know. And there's a billiard-cue broken. I can't allow that. First thing this morning I went over with my apologies to the lieutenant, and I think I've made it all right for myself; but only think, captain, if everybody started such games! Why, the man might have been drowned! And here I can't run out into the next street and buy a new cue. I've got to write to Europe for them. No, no! A temper like that won't do!" . . . He was extremely sore on the subject. 'This was the worst incident of all in his--his retreat. Nobody could deplore it more than myself; for if, as somebody said hearing him mentioned, "Oh yes! I know. He has knocked about a good deal out here," yet he had somehow avoided being battered and chipped in the process. This last affair, however, made me seriously uneasy, because if his exquisite sensibilities were to go the length of involving him in pot-house shindies, he would lose his name of an inoffensive, if aggravating, fool, and acquire that of a common loafer. For all my confidence in him I could not help reflecting that in such cases from the name to the thing itself is but a step. I suppose you will understand that by that time I could not think of washing my hands of him. I took him away from Bankok in my ship, and we had a longish passage. It was pitiful to see how he shrank within himself. A seaman, even if a mere passenger, takes an interest in a ship, and looks at the sea-life around him with the critical enjoyment of a painter, for instance, looking at another man's work. In every sense of the expression he is "on deck"; but my Jim, for the most part, skulked down below as though he had been a stowaway. He infected me so that I avoided speaking on professional matters, such as would suggest themselves naturally to two sailors during a passage. For whole days we did not exchange a word; I felt extremely unwilling to give orders to my officers in his presence. Often, when alone with him on deck or in the cabin, we didn't know what to do with our eyes. 'I placed him with De Jongh, as you know, glad enough to dispose of him in any way, yet persuaded that his position was now growing intolerable. He had lost some of that elasticity which had enabled him to rebound back into his uncompromising position after every overthrow. One day, coming ashore, I saw him standing on the quay; the water of the roadstead and the sea in the offing made one smooth ascending plane, and the outermost ships at anchor seemed to ride motionless in the sky. He was waiting for his boat, which was being loaded at our feet with packages of small stores for some vessel ready to leave. After exchanging greetings, we remained silent--side by side. "Jove!" he said suddenly, "this is killing work." 'He smiled at me; I must say he generally could manage a smile. I made no reply. I knew very well he was not alluding to his duties; he had an easy time of it with De Jongh. Nevertheless, as soon as he had spoken I became completely convinced that the work was killing. I did not even look at him. "Would you like," said I, "to leave this part of the world altogether; try California or the West Coast? I'll see what I can do . . ." He interrupted me a little scornfully. "What difference would it make?" . . . I felt at once convinced that he was right. It would make no difference; it was not relief he wanted; I seemed to perceive dimly that what he wanted, what he was, as it were, waiting for, was something not easy to define--something in the nature of an opportunity. I had given him many opportunities, but they had been merely opportunities to earn his bread. Yet what more could any man do? The position struck me as hopeless, and poor Brierly's saying recurred to me, "Let him creep twenty feet underground and stay there." Better that, I thought, than this waiting above ground for the impossible. Yet one could not be sure even of that. There and then, before his boat was three oars' lengths away from the quay, I had made up my mind to go and consult Stein in the evening. 'This Stein was a wealthy and respected merchant. His "house" (because it was a house, Stein & Co., and there was some sort of partner who, as Stein said, "looked after the Moluccas") had a large inter-island business, with a lot of trading posts established in the most out-of-the-way places for collecting the produce. His wealth and his respectability were not exactly the reasons why I was anxious to seek his advice. I desired to confide my difficulty to him because he was one of the most trustworthy men I had ever known. The gentle light of a simple, unwearied, as it were, and intelligent good-nature illumined his long hairless face. It had deep downward folds, and was pale as of a man who had always led a sedentary life--which was indeed very far from being the case. His hair was thin, and brushed back from a massive and lofty forehead. One fancied that at twenty he must have looked very much like what he was now at threescore. It was a student's face; only the eyebrows nearly all white, thick and bushy, together with the resolute searching glance that came from under them, were not in accord with his, I may say, learned appearance. He was tall and loose-jointed; his slight stoop, together with an innocent smile, made him appear benevolently ready to lend you his ear; his long arms with pale big hands had rare deliberate gestures of a pointing out, demonstrating kind. I speak of him at length, because under this exterior, and in conjunction with an upright and indulgent nature, this man possessed an intrepidity of spirit and a physical courage that could have been called reckless had it not been like a natural function of the body--say good digestion, for instance--completely unconscious of itself. It is sometimes said of a man that he carries his life in his hand. Such a saying would have been inadequate if applied to him; during the early part of his existence in the East he had been playing ball with it. All this was in the past, but I knew the story of his life and the origin of his fortune. He was also a naturalist of some distinction, or perhaps I should say a learned collector. Entomology was his special study. His collection of Buprestidae and Longicorns--beetles all--horrible miniature monsters, looking malevolent in death and immobility, and his cabinet of butterflies, beautiful and hovering under the glass of cases on lifeless wings, had spread his fame far over the earth. The name of this merchant, adventurer, sometime adviser of a Malay sultan (to whom he never alluded otherwise than as "my poor Mohammed Bonso"), had, on account of a few bushels of dead insects, become known to learned persons in Europe, who could have had no conception, and certainly would not have cared to know anything, of his life or character. I, who knew, considered him an eminently suitable person to receive my confidences about Jim's difficulties as well as my own.''Late in the evening I entered his study, after traversing an imposing but empty dining-room very dimly lit. The house was silent. I was preceded by an elderly grim Javanese servant in a sort of livery of white jacket and yellow sarong, who, after throwing the door open, exclaimed low, "O master!" and stepping aside, vanished in a mysterious way as though he had been a ghost only momentarily embodied for that particular service. Stein turned round with the chair, and in the same movement his spectacles seemed to get pushed up on his forehead. He welcomed me in his quiet and humorous voice. Only one corner of the vast room, the corner in which stood his writing-desk, was strongly lighted by a shaded reading-lamp, and the rest of the spacious apartment melted into shapeless gloom like a cavern. Narrow shelves filled with dark boxes of uniform shape and colour ran round the walls, not from floor to ceiling, but in a sombre belt about four feet broad. Catacombs of beetles. Wooden tablets were hung above at irregular intervals. The light reached one of them, and the word Coleoptera written in gold letters glittered mysteriously upon a vast dimness. The glass cases containing the collection of butterflies were ranged in three long rows upon slender-legged little tables. One of these cases had been removed from its place and stood on the desk, which was bestrewn with oblong slips of paper blackened with minute handwriting. '"So you see me--so," he said. His hand hovered over the case where a butterfly in solitary grandeur spread out dark bronze wings, seven inches or more across, with exquisite white veinings and a gorgeous border of yellow spots. "Only one specimen like this they have in _your_ London, and then--no more. To my small native town this my collection I shall bequeath. Something of me. The best." 'He bent forward in the chair and gazed intently, his chin over the front of the case. I stood at his back. "Marvellous," he whispered, and seemed to forget my presence. His history was curious. He had been born in Bavaria, and when a youth of twenty-two had taken an active part in the revolutionary movement of 1848. Heavily compromised, he managed to make his escape, and at first found a refuge with a poor republican watchmaker in Trieste. From there he made his way to Tripoli with a stock of cheap watches to hawk about,--not a very great opening truly, but it turned out lucky enough, because it was there he came upon a Dutch traveller--a rather famous man, I believe, but I don't remember his name. It was that naturalist who, engaging him as a sort of assistant, took him to the East. They travelled in the Archipelago together and separately, collecting insects and birds, for four years or more. Then the naturalist went home, and Stein, having no home to go to, remained with an old trader he had come across in his journeys in the interior of Celebes--if Celebes may be said to have an interior. This old Scotsman, the only white man allowed to reside in the country at the time, was a privileged friend of the chief ruler of Wajo States, who was a woman. I often heard Stein relate how that chap, who was slightly paralysed on one side, had introduced him to the native court a short time before another stroke carried him off. He was a heavy man with a patriarchal white beard, and of imposing stature. He came into the council-hall where all the rajahs, pangerans, and headmen were assembled, with the queen, a fat wrinkled woman (very free in her speech, Stein said), reclining on a high couch under a canopy. He dragged his leg, thumping with his stick, and grasped Stein's arm, leading him right up to the couch. "Look, queen, and you rajahs, this is my son," he proclaimed in a stentorian voice. "I have traded with your fathers, and when I die he shall trade with you and your sons." 'By means of this simple formality Stein inherited the Scotsman's privileged position and all his stock-in-trade, together with a fortified house on the banks of the only navigable river in the country. Shortly afterwards the old queen, who was so free in her speech, died, and the country became disturbed by various pretenders to the throne. Stein joined the party of a younger son, the one of whom thirty years later he never spoke otherwise but as "my poor Mohammed Bonso." They both became the heroes of innumerable exploits; they had wonderful adventures, and once stood a siege in the Scotsman's house for a month, with only a score of followers against a whole army. I believe the natives talk of that war to this day. Meantime, it seems, Stein never failed to annex on his own account every butterfly or beetle he could lay hands on. After some eight years of war, negotiations, false truces, sudden outbreaks, reconciliation, treachery, and so on, and just as peace seemed at last permanently established, his "poor Mohammed Bonso" was assassinated at the gate of his own royal residence while dismounting in the highest spirits on his return from a successful deer-hunt. This event rendered Stein's position extremely insecure, but he would have stayed perhaps had it not been that a short time afterwards he lost Mohammed's sister ("my dear wife the princess," he used to say solemnly), by whom he had had a daughter--mother and child both dying within three days of each other from some infectious fever. He left the country, which this cruel loss had made unbearable to him. Thus ended the first and adventurous part of his existence. What followed was so different that, but for the reality of sorrow which remained with him, this strange part must have resembled a dream. He had a little money; he started life afresh, and in the course of years acquired a considerable fortune. At first he had travelled a good deal amongst the islands, but age had stolen upon him, and of late he seldom left his spacious house three miles out of town, with an extensive garden, and surrounded by stables, offices, and bamboo cottages for his servants and dependants, of whom he had many. He drove in his buggy every morning to town, where he had an office with white and Chinese clerks. He owned a small fleet of schooners and native craft, and dealt in island produce on a large scale. For the rest he lived solitary, but not misanthropic, with his books and his collection, classing and arranging specimens, corresponding with entomologists in Europe, writing up a descriptive catalogue of his treasures. Such was the history of the man whom I had come to consult upon Jim's case without any definite hope. Simply to hear what he would have to say would have been a relief. I was very anxious, but I respected the intense, almost passionate, absorption with which he looked at a butterfly, as though on the bronze sheen of these frail wings, in the white tracings, in the gorgeous markings, he could see other things, an image of something as perishable and defying destruction as these delicate and lifeless tissues displaying a splendour unmarred by death. '"Marvellous!" he repeated, looking up at me. "Look! The beauty--but that is nothing--look at the accuracy, the harmony. And so fragile! And so strong! And so exact! This is Nature--the balance of colossal forces. Every star is so--and every blade of grass stands so--and the mighty Kosmos ib perfect equilibrium produces--this. This wonder; this masterpiece of Nature--the great artist." '"Never heard an entomologist go on like this," I observed cheerfully. "Masterpiece! And what of man?" '"Man is amazing, but he is not a masterpiece," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the glass case. "Perhaps the artist was a little mad. Eh? What do you think? Sometimes it seems to me that man is come where he is not wanted, where there is no place for him; for if not, why should he want all the place? Why should he run about here and there making a great noise about himself, talking about the stars, disturbing the blades of grass? . . ." '"Catching butterflies," I chimed in. 'He smiled, threw himself back in his chair, and stretched his legs. "Sit down," he said. "I captured this rare specimen myself one very fine morning. And I had a very big emotion. You don't know what it is for a collector to capture such a rare specimen. You can't know." 'I smiled at my ease in a rocking-chair. His eyes seemed to look far beyond the wall at which they stared; and he narrated how, one night, a messenger arrived from his "poor Mohammed," requiring his presence at the "residenz"--as he called it--which was distant some nine or ten miles by a bridle-path over a cultivated plain, with patches of forest here and there. Early in the morning he started from his fortified house, after embracing his little Emma, and leaving the "princess," his wife, in command. He described how she came with him as far as the gate, walking with one hand on the neck of his horse; she had on a white jacket, gold pins in her hair, and a brown leather belt over her left shoulder with a revolver in it. "She talked as women will talk," he said, "telling me to be careful, and to try to get back before dark, and what a great wickedness it was for me to go alone. We were at war, and the country was not safe; my men were putting up bullet-proof shutters to the house and loading their rifles, and she begged me to have no fear for her. She could defend the house against anybody till I returned. And I laughed with pleasure a little. I liked to see her so brave and young and strong. I too was young then. At the gate she caught hold of my hand and gave it one squeeze and fell back. I made my horse stand still outside till I heard the bars of the gate put up behind me. There was a great enemy of mine, a great noble--and a great rascal too--roaming with a band in the neighbourhood. I cantered for four or five miles; there had been rain in the night, but the musts had gone up, up--and the face of the earth was clean; it lay smiling to me, so fresh and innocent--like a little child. Suddenly somebody fires a volley--twenty shots at least it seemed to me. I hear bullets sing in my ear, and my hat jumps to the back of my head. It was a little intrigue, you understand. They got my poor Mohammed to send for me and then laid that ambush. I see it all in a minute, and I think--This wants a little management. My pony snort, jump, and stand, and I fall slowly forward with my head on his mane. He begins to walk, and with one eye I could see over his neck a faint cloud of smoke hanging in front of a clump of bamboos to my left. I think--Aha! my friends, why you not wait long enough before you shoot? This is not yet gelungen. Oh no! I get hold of my revolver with my right hand--quiet--quiet. After all, there were only seven of these rascals. They get up from the grass and start running with their sarongs tucked up, waving spears above their heads, and yelling to each other to look out and catch the horse, because I was dead. I let them come as close as the door here, and then bang, bang, bang--take aim each time too. One more shot I fire at a man's back, but I miss. Too far already. And then I sit alone on my horse with the clean earth smiling at me, and there are the bodies of three men lying on the ground. One was curled up like a dog, another on his back had an arm over his eyes as if to keep off the sun, and the third man he draws up his leg very slowly and makes it with one kick straight again. I watch him very carefully from my horse, but there is no more--bleibt ganz ruhig--keep still, so. And as I looked at his face for some sign of life I observed something like a faint shadow pass over his forehead. It was the shadow of this butterfly. Look at the form of the wing. This species fly high with a strong flight. I raised my eyes and I saw him fluttering away. I think--Can it be possible? And then I lost him. I dismounted and went on very slow, leading my horse and holding my revolver with one hand and my eyes darting up and down and right and left, everywhere! At last I saw him sitting on a small heap of dirt ten feet away. At once my heart began to beat quick. I let go my horse, keep my revolver in one hand, and with the other snatch my soft felt hat off my head. One step. Steady. Another step. Flop! I got him! When I got up I shook like a leaf with excitement, and when I opened these beautiful wings and made sure what a rare and so extraordinary perfect specimen I had, my head went round and my legs became so weak with emotion that I had to sit on the ground. I had greatly desired to possess myself of a specimen of that species when collecting for the professor. I took long journeys and underwent great privations; I had dreamed of him in my sleep, and here suddenly I had him in my fingers--for myself! In the words of the poet" (he pronounced it "boet")-- "'So halt' ich's endlich denn in meinen Handen, Und nenn' es in gewissem Sinne mein.'" He gave to the last word the emphasis of a suddenly lowered voice, and withdrew his eyes slowly from my face. He began to charge a long-stemmed pipe busily and in silence, then, pausing with his thumb on the orifice of the bowl, looked again at me significantly. '"Yes, my good friend. On that day I had nothing to desire; I had greatly annoyed my principal enemy; I was young, strong; I had friendship; I had the love" (he said "lof") "of woman, a child I had, to make my heart very full--and even what I had once dreamed in my sleep had come into my hand too!" 'He struck a match, which flared violently. His thoughtful placid face twitched once. '"Friend, wife, child," he said slowly, gazing at the small flame--"phoo!" The match was blown out. He sighed and turned again to the glass case. The frail and beautiful wings quivered faintly, as if his breath had for an instant called back to life that gorgeous object of his dreams. '"The work," he began suddenly, pointing to the scattered slips, and in his usual gentle and cheery tone, "is making great progress. I have been this rare specimen describing. . . . Na! And what is your good news?" '"To tell you the truth, Stein," I said with an effort that surprised me, "I came here to describe a specimen. . . ." '"Butterfly?" he asked, with an unbelieving and humorous eagerness. '"Nothing so perfect," I answered, feeling suddenly dispirited with all sorts of doubts. "A man!" '"Ach so!" he murmured, and his smiling countenance, turned to me, became grave. Then after looking at me for a while he said slowly, "Well--I am a man too." 'Here you have him as he was; he knew how to be so generously encouraging as to make a scrupulous man hesitate on the brink of confidence; but if I did hesitate it was not for long. 'He heard me out, sitting with crossed legs. Sometimes his head would disappear completely in a great eruption of smoke, and a sympathetic growl would come out from the cloud. When I finished he uncrossed his legs, laid down his pipe, leaned forward towards me earnestly with his elbows on the arms of his chair, the tips of his fingers together. '"I understand very well. He is romantic." 'He had diagnosed the case for me, and at first I was quite startled to find how simple it was; and indeed our conference resembled so much a medical consultation--Stein, of learned aspect, sitting in an arm-chair before his desk; I, anxious, in another, facing him, but a little to one side--that it seemed natural to ask-- '"What's good for it?" 'He lifted up a long forefinger. '"There is only one remedy! One thing alone can us from being ourselves cure!" The finger came down on the desk with a smart rap. The case which he had made to look so simple before became if possible still simpler--and altogether hopeless. There was a pause. "Yes," said I, "strictly speaking, the question is not how to get cured, but how to live." 'He approved with his head, a little sadly as it seemed. "Ja! ja! In general, adapting the words of your great poet: That is the question. . . ." He went on nodding sympathetically. . . . "How to be! Ach! How to be." 'He stood up with the tips of his fingers resting on the desk. '"We want in so many different ways to be," he began again. "This magnificent butterfly finds a little heap of dirt and sits still on it; but man he will never on his heap of mud keep still. He want to be so, and again he want to be so. . . ." He moved his hand up, then down. . . . "He wants to be a saint, and he wants to be a devil--and every time he shuts his eyes he sees himself as a very fine fellow--so fine as he can never be. . . . In a dream. . . ." 'He lowered the glass lid, the automatic lock clicked sharply, and taking up the case in both hands he bore it religiously away to its place, passing out of the bright circle of the lamp into the ring of fainter light--into shapeless dusk at last. It had an odd effect--as if these few steps had carried him out of this concrete and perplexed world. His tall form, as though robbed of its substance, hovered noiselessly over invisible things with stooping and indefinite movements; his voice, heard in that remoteness where he could be glimpsed mysteriously busy with immaterial cares, was no longer incisive, seemed to roll voluminous and grave--mellowed by distance. '"And because you not always can keep your eyes shut there comes the real trouble--the heart pain--the world pain. I tell you, my friend, it is not good for you to find you cannot make your dream come true, for the reason that you not strong enough are, or not clever enough. . . . Ja! . . . And all the time you are such a fine fellow too! Wie? Was? Gott im Himmel! How can that be? Ha! ha! ha!" 'The shadow prowling amongst the graves of butterflies laughed boisterously. '"Yes! Very funny this terrible thing is. A man that is born falls into a dream like a man who falls into the sea. If he tries to climb out into the air as inexperienced people endeavour to do, he drowns--nicht wahr? . . . No! I tell you! The way is to the destructive element submit yourself, and with the exertions of your hands and feet in the water make the deep, deep sea keep you up. So if you ask me--how to be?" 'His voice leaped up extraordinarily strong, as though away there in the dusk he had been inspired by some whisper of knowledge. "I will tell you! For that too there is only one way." 'With a hasty swish-swish of his slippers he loomed up in the ring of faint light, and suddenly appeared in the bright circle of the lamp. His extended hand aimed at my breast like a pistol; his deepset eyes seemed to pierce through me, but his twitching lips uttered no word, and the austere exaltation of a certitude seen in the dusk vanished from his face. The hand that had been pointing at my breast fell, and by-and-by, coming a step nearer, he laid it gently on my shoulder. There were things, he said mournfully, that perhaps could never be told, only he had lived so much alone that sometimes he forgot--he forgot. The light had destroyed the assurance which had inspired him in the distant shadows. He sat down and, with both elbows on the desk, rubbed his forehead. "And yet it is true--it is true. In the destructive element immerse." . . . He spoke in a subdued tone, without looking at me, one hand on each side of his face. "That was the way. To follow the dream, and again to follow the dream--and so--ewig--usque ad finem. . . ." The whisper of his conviction seemed to open before me a vast and uncertain expanse, as of a crepuscular horizon on a plain at dawn--or was it, perchance, at the coming of the night? One had not the courage to decide; but it was a charming and deceptive light, throwing the impalpable poesy of its dimness over pitfalls--over graves. His life had begun in sacrifice, in enthusiasm for generous ideas; he had travelled very far, on various ways, on strange paths, and whatever he followed it had been without faltering, and therefore without shame and without regret. In so far he was right. That was the way, no doubt. Yet for all that, the great plain on which men wander amongst graves and pitfalls remained very desolate under the impalpable poesy of its crepuscular light, overshadowed in the centre, circled with a bright edge as if surrounded by an abyss full of flames. When at last I broke the silence it was to express the opinion that no one could be more romantic than himself. 'He shook his head slowly, and afterwards looked at me with a patient and inquiring glance. It was a shame, he said. There we were sitting and talking like two boys, instead of putting our heads together to find something practical--a practical remedy--for the evil--for the great evil--he repeated, with a humorous and indulgent smile. For all that, our talk did not grow more practical. We avoided pronouncing Jim's name as though we had tried to keep flesh and blood out of our discussion, or he were nothing but an erring spirit, a suffering and nameless shade. "Na!" said Stein, rising. "To-night you sleep here, and in the morning we shall do something practical--practical. . . ." He lit a two-branched candlestick and led the way. We passed through empty dark rooms, escorted by gleams from the lights Stein carried. They glided along the waxed floors, sweeping here and there over the polished surface of a table, leaped upon a fragmentary curve of a piece of furniture, or flashed perpendicularly in and out of distant mirrors, while the forms of two men and the flicker of two flames could be seen for a moment stealing silently across the depths of a crystalline void. He walked slowly a pace in advance with stooping courtesy; there was a profound, as it were a listening, quietude on his face; the long flaxen locks mixed with white threads were scattered thinly upon his slightly bowed neck. '"He is romantic--romantic," he repeated. "And that is very bad--very bad. . . . Very good, too," he added. "But _is he_?" I queried. '"Gewiss," he said, and stood still holding up the candelabrum, but without looking at me. "Evident! What is it that by inward pain makes him know himself? What is it that for you and me makes him--exist?" 'At that moment it was difficult to believe in Jim's existence--starting from a country parsonage, blurred by crowds of men as by clouds of dust, silenced by the clashing claims of life and death in a material world--but his imperishable reality came to me with a convincing, with an irresistible force! I saw it vividly, as though in our progress through the lofty silent rooms amongst fleeting gleams of light and the sudden revelations of human figures stealing with flickering flames within unfathomable and pellucid depths, we had approached nearer to absolute Truth, which, like Beauty itself, floats elusive, obscure, half submerged, in the silent still waters of mystery. "Perhaps he is," I admitted with a slight laugh, whose unexpectedly loud reverberation made me lower my voice directly; "but I am sure you are." With his head dropping on his breast and the light held high he began to walk again. "Well--I exist, too," he said. 'He preceded me. My eyes followed his movements, but what I did see was not the head of the firm, the welcome guest at afternoon receptions, the correspondent of learned societies, the entertainer of stray naturalists; I saw only the reality of his destiny, which he had known how to follow with unfaltering footsteps, that life begun in humble surroundings, rich in generous enthusiasms, in friendship, love, war--in all the exalted elements of romance. At the door of my room he faced me. "Yes," I said, as though carrying on a discussion, "and amongst other things you dreamed foolishly of a certain butterfly; but when one fine morning your dream came in your way you did not let the splendid opportunity escape. Did you? Whereas he . . ." Stein lifted his hand. "And do you know how many opportunities I let escape; how many dreams I had lost that had come in my way?" He shook his head regretfully. "It seems to me that some would have been very fine--if I had made them come true. Do you know how many? Perhaps I myself don't know." "Whether his were fine or not," I said, "he knows of one which he certainly did not catch." "Everybody knows of one or two like that," said Stein; "and that is the trouble--the great trouble. . . ." 'He shook hands on the threshold, peered into my room under his raised arm. "Sleep well. And to-morrow we must do something practical--practical. . . ." 'Though his own room was beyond mine I saw him return the way he came. He was going back to his butterflies.' 'I don't suppose any of you have ever heard of Patusan?' Marlow resumed, after a silence occupied in the careful lighting of a cigar. 'It does not matter; there's many a heavenly body in the lot crowding upon us of a night that mankind had never heard of, it being outside the sphere of its activities and of no earthly importance to anybody but to the astronomers who are paid to talk learnedly about its composition, weight, path--the irregularities of its conduct, the aberrations of its light--a sort of scientific scandal-mongering. Thus with Patusan. It was referred to knowingly in the inner government circles in Batavia, especially as to its irregularities and aberrations, and it was known by name to some few, very few, in the mercantile world. Nobody, however, had been there, and I suspect no one desired to go there in person, just as an astronomer, I should fancy, would strongly object to being transported into a distant heavenly body, where, parted from his earthly emoluments, he would be bewildered by the view of an unfamiliar heavens. However, neither heavenly bodies nor astronomers have anything to do with Patusan. It was Jim who went there. I only meant you to understand that had Stein arranged to send him into a star of the fifth magnitude the change could not have been greater. He left his earthly failings behind him and what sort of reputation he had, and there was a totally new set of conditions for his imaginative faculty to work upon. Entirely new, entirely remarkable. And he got hold of them in a remarkable way. 'Stein was the man who knew more about Patusan than anybody else. More than was known in the government circles I suspect. I have no doubt he had been there, either in his butterfly-hunting days or later on, when he tried in his incorrigible way to season with a pinch of romance the fattening dishes of his commercial kitchen. There were very few places in the Archipelago he had not seen in the original dusk of their being, before light (and even electric light) had been carried into them for the sake of better morality and--and--well--the greater profit, too. It was at breakfast of the morning following our talk about Jim that he mentioned the place, after I had quoted poor Brierly's remark: "Let him creep twenty feet underground and stay there." He looked up at me with interested attention, as though I had been a rare insect. "This could be done, too," he remarked, sipping his coffee. "Bury him in some sort," I explained. "One doesn't like to do it of course, but it would be the best thing, seeing what he is." "Yes; he is young," Stein mused. "The youngest human being now in existence," I affirmed. "Schon. There's Patusan," he went on in the same tone. . . . "And the woman is dead now," he added incomprehensibly. 'Of course I don't know that story; I can only guess that once before Patusan had been used as a grave for some sin, transgression, or misfortune. It is impossible to suspect Stein. The only woman that had ever existed for him was the Malay girl he called "My wife the princess," or, more rarely, in moments of expansion, "the mother of my Emma." Who was the woman he had mentioned in connection with Patusan I can't say; but from his allusions I understand she had been an educated and very good-looking Dutch-Malay girl, with a tragic or perhaps only a pitiful history, whose most painful part no doubt was her marriage with a Malacca Portuguese who had been clerk in some commercial house in the Dutch colonies. I gathered from Stein that this man was an unsatisfactory person in more ways than one, all being more or less indefinite and offensive. It was solely for his wife's sake that Stein had appointed him manager of Stein & Co.'s trading post in Patusan; but commercially the arrangement was not a success, at any rate for the firm, and now the woman had died, Stein was disposed to try another agent there. The Portuguese, whose name was Cornelius, considered himself a very deserving but ill-used person, entitled by his abilities to a better position. This man Jim would have to relieve. "But I don't think he will go away from the place," remarked Stein. "That has nothing to do with me. It was only for the sake of the woman that I . . . But as I think there is a daughter left, I shall let him, if he likes to stay, keep the old house." 'Patusan is a remote district of a native-ruled state, and the chief settlement bears the same name. At a point on the river about forty miles from the sea, where the first houses come into view, there can be seen rising above the level of the forests the summits of two steep hills very close together, and separated by what looks like a deep fissure, the cleavage of some mighty stroke. As a matter of fact, the valley between is nothing but a narrow ravine; the appearance from the settlement is of one irregularly conical hill split in two, and with the two halves leaning slightly apart. On the third day after the full, the moon, as seen from the open space in front of Jim's house (he had a very fine house in the native style when I visited him), rose exactly behind these hills, its diffused light at first throwing the two masses into intensely black relief, and then the nearly perfect disc, glowing ruddily, appeared, gliding upwards between the sides of the chasm, till it floated away above the summits, as if escaping from a yawning grave in gentle triumph. "Wonderful effect," said Jim by my side. "Worth seeing. Is it not?" 'And this question was put with a note of personal pride that made me smile, as though he had had a hand in regulating that unique spectacle. He had regulated so many things in Patusan--things that would have appeared as much beyond his control as the motions of the moon and the stars. 'It was inconceivable. That was the distinctive quality of the part into which Stein and I had tumbled him unwittingly, with no other notion than to get him out of the way; out of his own way, be it understood. That was our main purpose, though, I own, I might have had another motive which had influenced me a little. I was about to go home for a time; and it may be I desired, more than I was aware of myself, to dispose of him--to dispose of him, you understand--before I left. I was going home, and he had come to me from there, with his miserable trouble and his shadowy claim, like a man panting under a burden in a mist. I cannot say I had ever seen him distinctly--not even to this day, after I had my last view of him; but it seemed to me that the less I understood the more I was bound to him in the name of that doubt which is the inseparable part of our knowledge. I did not know so much more about myself. And then, I repeat, I was going home--to that home distant enough for all its hearthstones to be like one hearthstone, by which the humblest of us has the right to sit. We wander in our thousands over the face of the earth, the illustrious and the obscure, earning beyond the seas our fame, our money, or only a crust of bread; but it seems to me that for each of us going home must be like going to render an account. We return to face our superiors, our kindred, our friends--those whom we obey, and those whom we love; but even they who have neither, the most free, lonely, irresponsible and bereft of ties,--even those for whom home holds no dear face, no familiar voice,--even they have to meet the spirit that dwells within the land, under its sky, in its air, in its valleys, and on its rises, in its fields, in its waters and its trees--a mute friend, judge, and inspirer. Say what you like, to get its joy, to breathe its peace, to face its truth, one must return with a clear conscience. All this may seem to you sheer sentimentalism; and indeed very few of us have the will or the capacity to look consciously under the surface of familiar emotions. There are the girls we love, the men we look up to, the tenderness, the friendships, the opportunities, the pleasures! But the fact remains that you must touch your reward with clean hands, lest it turn to dead leaves, to thorns, in your grasp. I think it is the lonely, without a fireside or an affection they may call their own, those who return not to a dwelling but to the land itself, to meet its disembodied, eternal, and unchangeable spirit--it is those who understand best its severity, its saving power, the grace of its secular right to our fidelity, to our obedience. Yes! few of us understand, but we all feel it though, and I say _all_ without exception, because those who do not feel do not count. Each blade of grass has its spot on earth whence it draws its life, its strength; and so is man rooted to the land from which he draws his faith together with his life. I don't know how much Jim understood; but I know he felt, he felt confusedly but powerfully, the demand of some such truth or some such illusion--I don't care how you call it, there is so little difference, and the difference means so little. The thing is that in virtue of his feeling he mattered. He would never go home now. Not he. Never. Had he been capable of picturesque manifestations he would have shuddered at the thought and made you shudder too. But he was not of that sort, though he was expressive enough in his way. Before the idea of going home he would grow desperately stiff and immovable, with lowered chin and pouted lips, and with those candid blue eyes of his glowering darkly under a frown, as if before something unbearable, as if before something revolting. There was imagination in that hard skull of his, over which the thick clustering hair fitted like a cap. As to me, I have no imagination (I would be more certain about him today, if I had), and I do not mean to imply that I figured to myself the spirit of the land uprising above the white cliffs of Dover, to ask me what I--returning with no bones broken, so to speak--had done with my very young brother. I could not make such a mistake. I knew very well he was of those about whom there is no inquiry; I had seen better men go out, disappear, vanish utterly, without provoking a sound of curiosity or sorrow. The spirit of the land, as becomes the ruler of great enterprises, is careless of innumerable lives. Woe to the stragglers! We exist only in so far as we hang together. He had straggled in a way; he had not hung on; but he was aware of it with an intensity that made him touching, just as a man's more intense life makes his death more touching than the death of a tree. I happened to be handy, and I happened to be touched. That's all there is to it. I was concerned as to the way he would go out. It would have hurt me if, for instance, he had taken to drink. The earth is so small that I was afraid of, some day, being waylaid by a blear-eyed, swollen-faced, besmirched loafer, with no soles to his canvas shoes, and with a flutter of rags about the elbows, who, on the strength of old acquaintance, would ask for a loan of five dollars. You know the awful jaunty bearing of these scarecrows coming to you from a decent past, the rasping careless voice, the half-averted impudent glances--those meetings more trying to a man who believes in the solidarity of our lives than the sight of an impenitent death-bed to a priest. That, to tell you the truth, was the only danger I could see for him and for me; but I also mistrusted my want of imagination. It might even come to something worse, in some way it was beyond my powers of fancy to foresee. He wouldn't let me forget how imaginative he was, and your imaginative people swing farther in any direction, as if given a longer scope of cable in the uneasy anchorage of life. They do. They take to drink too. It may be I was belittling him by such a fear. How could I tell? Even Stein could say no more than that he was romantic. I only knew he was one of us. And what business had he to be romantic? I am telling you so much about my own instinctive feelings and bemused reflections because there remains so little to be told of him. He existed for me, and after all it is only through me that he exists for you. I've led him out by the hand; I have paraded him before you. Were my commonplace fears unjust? I won't say--not even now. You may be able to tell better, since the proverb has it that the onlookers see most of the game. At any rate, they were superfluous. He did not go out, not at all; on the contrary, he came on wonderfully, came on straight as a die and in excellent form, which showed that he could stay as well as spurt. I ought to be delighted, for it is a victory in which I had taken my part; but I am not so pleased as I would have expected to be. I ask myself whether his rush had really carried him out of that mist in which he loomed interesting if not very big, with floating outlines--a straggler yearning inconsolably for his humble place in the ranks. And besides, the last word is not said,--probably shall never be said. Are not our lives too short for that full utterance which through all our stammerings is of course our only and abiding intention? I have given up expecting those last words, whose ring, if they could only be pronounced, would shake both heaven and earth. There is never time to say our last word--the last word of our love, of our desire, faith, remorse, submissions, revolt. The heaven and the earth must not be shaken, I suppose--at least, not by us who know so many truths about either. My last words about Jim shall be few. I affirm he had achieved greatness; but the thing would be dwarfed in the telling, or rather in the hearing. Frankly, it is not my words that I mistrust but your minds. I could be eloquent were I not afraid you fellows had starved your imaginations to feed your bodies. I do not mean to be offensive; it is respectable to have no illusions--and safe--and profitable--and dull. Yet you, too, in your time must have known the intensity of life, that light of glamour created in the shock of trifles, as amazing as the glow of sparks struck from a cold stone--and as short-lived, alas!'

Chapters 19-21

https://web.archive.org/web/20210215030710/https://www.novelguide.com/lord-jim/summaries/chapter19-21

Twenty and Twenty One . In Chapter Nineteen, the readers are told that these instances of Jim leaving his post are just two examples that Marlow can give. All of them are 'equally tinged by a high-minded absurdity of intention which made their futility profound and touching'. He sees Jim as unfortunate, because 'his recklessness could not carry him out from under the shadow'. Marlow cannot work out if his conduct 'amounted to shirking his ghost or to facing him out'. It is ironic to Marlow that Jim becomes known as a rolling stone and is famous, even notorious, in the 'circle of his wandering' . . . Jim stays in Bangkok for six months until a first lieutenant of the Royal Siamese Navy makes a scornful remark at his expense. Jim turns up on Marlow's ship at midnight saying everybody in the room seemed to know about him and he cannot keep his job now because he has reacted violently to the lieutenant. Marlow finds him a position with De Jongh; Jim works hard but there are few opportunities for him. Marlow then decides to consult Stein, who is a wealthy and respected merchant, for trustworthy advice. Stein is known to learned persons in Europe for his extensive insect collection and Marlow knows he is eminently suitable to receive his confidences about Jim. . . Chapter Twenty begins with Marlow's visit to Stein. The room where they talk is lined with shelves filled with his insect collection. His background is explained a little . After Stein's wife and daughter died, he started a new life and acquired a fortune. He tells Marlow of how he caught one of his butterflies just after he killed some men who attacked him. Marlow says he has come to describe a specimen and relates the story of Jim. Stein says he understands 'very well' and calls Jim 'romantic'. Stein is also romantic, but, as Marlow points out, when his dream came his way he did not let it escape. Stein counters this by saying that he has lost many other dreams though. Before the two men go to sleep, they decide to do something practical for Jim the next day. . . In Chapter Twenty One, the narrative returns to Marlow talking to his friends in the present and he asks them if they have heard of Patusan. It is a place known by the mercantile world, but no one present had been there. This is where Stein arranges for Jim to start again: ' left his earthly failings behind him and that sort of reputation he had and there was a totally new set of conditions for his imaginative faculty to work upon. Entirely new, entirely remarkable.' . . The narrative shifts to Marlow and Stein again as they make these arrangements for Jim. Marlow tells Stein about Brierly saying, 'let him creep twenty feet underground and stay there'. At this point, Stein suggests Patusan. Marlow is open to this idea for Jim's sake and because of his own conscience. Marlow explains that Jim went on to stay at Patusan and 'came on straight as a die'. .

Twenty and Twenty One . Chapter Nineteen highlights how Jim's behavior since jumping from the ship has brought him notoriety rather than the sought for anonymity. As he attempts to remain unknown, he becomes infamous as a rolling stone and unwittingly draws attention to himself. . . The beginning of his new life starts with the help of Marlow and Stein as they discuss his future. The choice of Patusan is based on its required isolation from white Western society and is figuratively comparable to Brierly's idea of sending Jim 'underground'. This is, of course, allowing Jim to continue to run away from what he sees as his shameful past. . . In Chapter Twenty, Stein relates his story of when he caught a butterfly and goes on to interpret Jim as a romantic. This understanding may be seen as based on mutual concerns as Stein resembles an older version of Jim. This is because both take pleasure in the thought of attaining their dreams.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1130-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra/section_14_part_0.txt

The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra.act iii.scene iii

act iii, scene iii

{"name": "Act III, Scene iii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210116191009/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/antony-cleopatra/summary/act-iii-scene-iii", "summary": "Cleopatra and her servants meet the messenger she had previously whipped. He's bearing news on just how Octavia matches up with Cleopatra in the competition for Antony's affection. The news turns out to be good. He watched Octavia in Rome as she walked between Antony and Caesar. The woman, he reports, isn't beautiful. She's short, brown-haired and round-faced, with a low forehead, walks with a creep instead of a saunter, and she's at least 30. Cleopatra is overjoyed and repents that she cursed Antony. She promises the messenger plenty of gold, and asks forgiveness for that one time when she tried to knife him. Cleopatra's certain that she can win Antony's affections back.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE III. Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and ALEXAS CLEOPATRA. Where is the fellow? ALEXAS. Half afeard to come. CLEOPATRA. Go to, go to. Enter the MESSENGER as before Come hither, sir. ALEXAS. Good Majesty, Herod of Jewry dare not look upon you But when you are well pleas'd. CLEOPATRA. That Herod's head I'll have. But how, when Antony is gone, Through whom I might command it? Come thou near. MESSENGER. Most gracious Majesty! CLEOPATRA. Didst thou behold Octavia? MESSENGER. Ay, dread Queen. CLEOPATRA. Where? MESSENGER. Madam, in Rome I look'd her in the face, and saw her led Between her brother and Mark Antony. CLEOPATRA. Is she as tall as me? MESSENGER. She is not, madam. CLEOPATRA. Didst hear her speak? Is she shrill-tongu'd or low? MESSENGER. Madam, I heard her speak: she is low-voic'd. CLEOPATRA. That's not so good. He cannot like her long. CHARMIAN. Like her? O Isis! 'tis impossible. CLEOPATRA. I think so, Charmian. Dull of tongue and dwarfish! What majesty is in her gait? Remember, If e'er thou look'dst on majesty. MESSENGER. She creeps. Her motion and her station are as one; She shows a body rather than a life, A statue than a breather. CLEOPATRA. Is this certain? MESSENGER. Or I have no observance. CHARMIAN. Three in Egypt Cannot make better note. CLEOPATRA. He's very knowing; I do perceive't. There's nothing in her yet. The fellow has good judgment. CHARMIAN. Excellent. CLEOPATRA. Guess at her years, I prithee. MESSENGER. Madam, She was a widow. CLEOPATRA. Widow? Charmian, hark! MESSENGER. And I do think she's thirty. CLEOPATRA. Bear'st thou her face in mind? Is't long or round? MESSENGER. Round even to faultiness. CLEOPATRA. For the most part, too, they are foolish that are so. Her hair, what colour? MESSENGER. Brown, madam; and her forehead As low as she would wish it. CLEOPATRA. There's gold for thee. Thou must not take my former sharpness ill. I will employ thee back again; I find thee Most fit for business. Go make thee ready; Our letters are prepar'd. Exeunt MESSENGER CHARMIAN. A proper man. CLEOPATRA. Indeed, he is so. I repent me much That so I harried him. Why, methinks, by him, This creature's no such thing. CHARMIAN. Nothing, madam. CLEOPATRA. The man hath seen some majesty, and should know. CHARMIAN. Hath he seen majesty? Isis else defend, And serving you so long! CLEOPATRA. I have one thing more to ask him yet, good Charmian. But 'tis no matter; thou shalt bring him to me Where I will write. All may be well enough. CHARMIAN. I warrant you, madam. Exeunt ACT_3|SC_4

Act III, Scene iii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210116191009/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/antony-cleopatra/summary/act-iii-scene-iii

Cleopatra and her servants meet the messenger she had previously whipped. He's bearing news on just how Octavia matches up with Cleopatra in the competition for Antony's affection. The news turns out to be good. He watched Octavia in Rome as she walked between Antony and Caesar. The woman, he reports, isn't beautiful. She's short, brown-haired and round-faced, with a low forehead, walks with a creep instead of a saunter, and she's at least 30. Cleopatra is overjoyed and repents that she cursed Antony. She promises the messenger plenty of gold, and asks forgiveness for that one time when she tried to knife him. Cleopatra's certain that she can win Antony's affections back.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/92.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_14_part_13.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 12.chapter 13

book 12, chapter 13

{"name": "book 12, Chapter 13", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section15/", "summary": "An Adulterer of Thought Fetyukovich insists that Dmitri's only chance to find redemption amid the tattered shreds of his life is to be set free", "analysis": ""}

Chapter XIII. A Corrupter Of Thought "It's not only the accumulation of facts that threatens my client with ruin, gentlemen of the jury," he began, "what is really damning for my client is one fact--the dead body of his father. Had it been an ordinary case of murder you would have rejected the charge in view of the triviality, the incompleteness, and the fantastic character of the evidence, if you examine each part of it separately; or, at least, you would have hesitated to ruin a man's life simply from the prejudice against him which he has, alas! only too well deserved. But it's not an ordinary case of murder, it's a case of parricide. That impresses men's minds, and to such a degree that the very triviality and incompleteness of the evidence becomes less trivial and less incomplete even to an unprejudiced mind. How can such a prisoner be acquitted? What if he committed the murder and gets off unpunished? That is what every one, almost involuntarily, instinctively, feels at heart. "Yes, it's a fearful thing to shed a father's blood--the father who has begotten me, loved me, not spared his life for me, grieved over my illnesses from childhood up, troubled all his life for my happiness, and has lived in my joys, in my successes. To murder such a father--that's inconceivable. Gentlemen of the jury, what is a father--a real father? What is the meaning of that great word? What is the great idea in that name? We have just indicated in part what a true father is and what he ought to be. In the case in which we are now so deeply occupied and over which our hearts are aching--in the present case, the father, Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov, did not correspond to that conception of a father to which we have just referred. That's the misfortune. And indeed some fathers are a misfortune. Let us examine this misfortune rather more closely: we must shrink from nothing, gentlemen of the jury, considering the importance of the decision you have to make. It's our particular duty not to shrink from any idea, like children or frightened women, as the talented prosecutor happily expresses it. "But in the course of his heated speech my esteemed opponent (and he was my opponent before I opened my lips) exclaimed several times, 'Oh, I will not yield the defense of the prisoner to the lawyer who has come down from Petersburg. I accuse, but I defend also!' He exclaimed that several times, but forgot to mention that if this terrible prisoner was for twenty-three years so grateful for a mere pound of nuts given him by the only man who had been kind to him, as a child in his father's house, might not such a man well have remembered for twenty-three years how he ran in his father's back-yard, 'without boots on his feet and with his little trousers hanging by one button'--to use the expression of the kind-hearted doctor, Herzenstube? "Oh, gentlemen of the jury, why need we look more closely at this misfortune, why repeat what we all know already? What did my client meet with when he arrived here, at his father's house, and why depict my client as a heartless egoist and monster? He is uncontrolled, he is wild and unruly--we are trying him now for that--but who is responsible for his life? Who is responsible for his having received such an unseemly bringing up, in spite of his excellent disposition and his grateful and sensitive heart? Did any one train him to be reasonable? Was he enlightened by study? Did any one love him ever so little in his childhood? My client was left to the care of Providence like a beast of the field. He thirsted perhaps to see his father after long years of separation. A thousand times perhaps he may, recalling his childhood, have driven away the loathsome phantoms that haunted his childish dreams and with all his heart he may have longed to embrace and to forgive his father! And what awaited him? He was met by cynical taunts, suspicions and wrangling about money. He heard nothing but revolting talk and vicious precepts uttered daily over the brandy, and at last he saw his father seducing his mistress from him with his own money. Oh, gentlemen of the jury, that was cruel and revolting! And that old man was always complaining of the disrespect and cruelty of his son. He slandered him in society, injured him, calumniated him, bought up his unpaid debts to get him thrown into prison. "Gentlemen of the jury, people like my client, who are fierce, unruly, and uncontrolled on the surface, are sometimes, most frequently indeed, exceedingly tender-hearted, only they don't express it. Don't laugh, don't laugh at my idea! The talented prosecutor laughed mercilessly just now at my client for loving Schiller--loving the sublime and beautiful! I should not have laughed at that in his place. Yes, such natures--oh, let me speak in defense of such natures, so often and so cruelly misunderstood--these natures often thirst for tenderness, goodness, and justice, as it were, in contrast to themselves, their unruliness, their ferocity--they thirst for it unconsciously. Passionate and fierce on the surface, they are painfully capable of loving woman, for instance, and with a spiritual and elevated love. Again do not laugh at me, this is very often the case in such natures. But they cannot hide their passions--sometimes very coarse--and that is conspicuous and is noticed, but the inner man is unseen. Their passions are quickly exhausted; but, by the side of a noble and lofty creature that seemingly coarse and rough man seeks a new life, seeks to correct himself, to be better, to become noble and honorable, 'sublime and beautiful,' however much the expression has been ridiculed. "I said just now that I would not venture to touch upon my client's engagement. But I may say half a word. What we heard just now was not evidence, but only the scream of a frenzied and revengeful woman, and it was not for her--oh, not for her!--to reproach him with treachery, for she has betrayed him! If she had had but a little time for reflection she would not have given such evidence. Oh, do not believe her! No, my client is not a monster, as she called him! "The Lover of Mankind on the eve of His Crucifixion said: 'I am the Good Shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for his sheep, so that not one of them might be lost.' Let not a man's soul be lost through us! "I asked just now what does 'father' mean, and exclaimed that it was a great word, a precious name. But one must use words honestly, gentlemen, and I venture to call things by their right names: such a father as old Karamazov cannot be called a father and does not deserve to be. Filial love for an unworthy father is an absurdity, an impossibility. Love cannot be created from nothing: only God can create something from nothing. " 'Fathers, provoke not your children to wrath,' the apostle writes, from a heart glowing with love. It's not for the sake of my client that I quote these sacred words, I mention them for all fathers. Who has authorized me to preach to fathers? No one. But as a man and a citizen I make my appeal--_vivos voco!_ We are not long on earth, we do many evil deeds and say many evil words. So let us all catch a favorable moment when we are all together to say a good word to each other. That's what I am doing: while I am in this place I take advantage of my opportunity. Not for nothing is this tribune given us by the highest authority--all Russia hears us! I am not speaking only for the fathers here present, I cry aloud to all fathers: 'Fathers, provoke not your children to wrath.' Yes, let us first fulfill Christ's injunction ourselves and only then venture to expect it of our children. Otherwise we are not fathers, but enemies of our children, and they are not our children, but our enemies, and we have made them our enemies ourselves. 'What measure ye mete it shall be measured unto you again'--it's not I who say that, it's the Gospel precept, measure to others according as they measure to you. How can we blame children if they measure us according to our measure? "Not long ago a servant girl in Finland was suspected of having secretly given birth to a child. She was watched, and a box of which no one knew anything was found in the corner of the loft, behind some bricks. It was opened and inside was found the body of a new-born child which she had killed. In the same box were found the skeletons of two other babies which, according to her own confession, she had killed at the moment of their birth. "Gentlemen of the jury, was she a mother to her children? She gave birth to them, indeed; but was she a mother to them? Would any one venture to give her the sacred name of mother? Let us be bold, gentlemen, let us be audacious even: it's our duty to be so at this moment and not to be afraid of certain words and ideas like the Moscow women in Ostrovsky's play, who are scared at the sound of certain words. No, let us prove that the progress of the last few years has touched even us, and let us say plainly, the father is not merely he who begets the child, but he who begets it and does his duty by it. "Oh, of course, there is the other meaning, there is the other interpretation of the word 'father,' which insists that any father, even though he be a monster, even though he be the enemy of his children, still remains my father simply because he begot me. But this is, so to say, the mystical meaning which I cannot comprehend with my intellect, but can only accept by faith, or, better to say, _on faith_, like many other things which I do not understand, but which religion bids me believe. But in that case let it be kept outside the sphere of actual life. In the sphere of actual life, which has, indeed, its own rights, but also lays upon us great duties and obligations, in that sphere, if we want to be humane--Christian, in fact--we must, or ought to, act only upon convictions justified by reason and experience, which have been passed through the crucible of analysis; in a word, we must act rationally, and not as though in dream and delirium, that we may not do harm, that we may not ill-treat and ruin a man. Then it will be real Christian work, not only mystic, but rational and philanthropic...." There was violent applause at this passage from many parts of the court, but Fetyukovitch waved his hands as though imploring them to let him finish without interruption. The court relapsed into silence at once. The orator went on. "Do you suppose, gentlemen, that our children as they grow up and begin to reason can avoid such questions? No, they cannot, and we will not impose on them an impossible restriction. The sight of an unworthy father involuntarily suggests tormenting questions to a young creature, especially when he compares him with the excellent fathers of his companions. The conventional answer to this question is: 'He begot you, and you are his flesh and blood, and therefore you are bound to love him.' The youth involuntarily reflects: 'But did he love me when he begot me?' he asks, wondering more and more. 'Was it for my sake he begot me? He did not know me, not even my sex, at that moment, at the moment of passion, perhaps, inflamed by wine, and he has only transmitted to me a propensity to drunkenness--that's all he's done for me.... Why am I bound to love him simply for begetting me when he has cared nothing for me all my life after?' "Oh, perhaps those questions strike you as coarse and cruel, but do not expect an impossible restraint from a young mind. 'Drive nature out of the door and it will fly in at the window,' and, above all, let us not be afraid of words, but decide the question according to the dictates of reason and humanity and not of mystic ideas. How shall it be decided? Why, like this. Let the son stand before his father and ask him, 'Father, tell me, why must I love you? Father, show me that I must love you,' and if that father is able to answer him and show him good reason, we have a real, normal, parental relation, not resting on mystical prejudice, but on a rational, responsible and strictly humanitarian basis. But if he does not, there's an end to the family tie. He is not a father to him, and the son has a right to look upon him as a stranger, and even an enemy. Our tribune, gentlemen of the jury, ought to be a school of true and sound ideas." (Here the orator was interrupted by irrepressible and almost frantic applause. Of course, it was not the whole audience, but a good half of it applauded. The fathers and mothers present applauded. Shrieks and exclamations were heard from the gallery, where the ladies were sitting. Handkerchiefs were waved. The President began ringing his bell with all his might. He was obviously irritated by the behavior of the audience, but did not venture to clear the court as he had threatened. Even persons of high position, old men with stars on their breasts, sitting on specially reserved seats behind the judges, applauded the orator and waved their handkerchiefs. So that when the noise died down, the President confined himself to repeating his stern threat to clear the court, and Fetyukovitch, excited and triumphant, continued his speech.) "Gentlemen of the jury, you remember that awful night of which so much has been said to-day, when the son got over the fence and stood face to face with the enemy and persecutor who had begotten him. I insist most emphatically it was not for money he ran to his father's house: the charge of robbery is an absurdity, as I proved before. And it was not to murder him he broke into the house, oh, no! If he had had that design he would, at least, have taken the precaution of arming himself beforehand. The brass pestle he caught up instinctively without knowing why he did it. Granted that he deceived his father by tapping at the window, granted that he made his way in--I've said already that I do not for a moment believe that legend, but let it be so, let us suppose it for a moment. Gentlemen, I swear to you by all that's holy, if it had not been his father, but an ordinary enemy, he would, after running through the rooms and satisfying himself that the woman was not there, have made off, post-haste, without doing any harm to his rival. He would have struck him, pushed him away perhaps, nothing more, for he had no thought and no time to spare for that. What he wanted to know was where she was. But his father, his father! The mere sight of the father who had hated him from his childhood, had been his enemy, his persecutor, and now his unnatural rival, was enough! A feeling of hatred came over him involuntarily, irresistibly, clouding his reason. It all surged up in one moment! It was an impulse of madness and insanity, but also an impulse of nature, irresistibly and unconsciously (like everything in nature) avenging the violation of its eternal laws. "But the prisoner even then did not murder him--I maintain that, I cry that aloud!--no, he only brandished the pestle in a burst of indignant disgust, not meaning to kill him, not knowing that he would kill him. Had he not had this fatal pestle in his hand, he would have only knocked his father down perhaps, but would not have killed him. As he ran away, he did not know whether he had killed the old man. Such a murder is not a murder. Such a murder is not a parricide. No, the murder of such a father cannot be called parricide. Such a murder can only be reckoned parricide by prejudice. "But I appeal to you again and again from the depths of my soul; did this murder actually take place? Gentlemen of the jury, if we convict and punish him, he will say to himself: 'These people have done nothing for my bringing up, for my education, nothing to improve my lot, nothing to make me better, nothing to make me a man. These people have not given me to eat and to drink, have not visited me in prison and nakedness, and here they have sent me to penal servitude. I am quits, I owe them nothing now, and owe no one anything for ever. They are wicked and I will be wicked. They are cruel and I will be cruel.' That is what he will say, gentlemen of the jury. And I swear, by finding him guilty you will only make it easier for him: you will ease his conscience, he will curse the blood he has shed and will not regret it. At the same time you will destroy in him the possibility of becoming a new man, for he will remain in his wickedness and blindness all his life. "But do you want to punish him fearfully, terribly, with the most awful punishment that could be imagined, and at the same time to save him and regenerate his soul? If so, overwhelm him with your mercy! You will see, you will hear how he will tremble and be horror-struck. 'How can I endure this mercy? How can I endure so much love? Am I worthy of it?' That's what he will exclaim. "Oh, I know, I know that heart, that wild but grateful heart, gentlemen of the jury! It will bow before your mercy; it thirsts for a great and loving action, it will melt and mount upwards. There are souls which, in their limitation, blame the whole world. But subdue such a soul with mercy, show it love, and it will curse its past, for there are many good impulses in it. Such a heart will expand and see that God is merciful and that men are good and just. He will be horror-stricken; he will be crushed by remorse and the vast obligation laid upon him henceforth. And he will not say then, 'I am quits,' but will say, 'I am guilty in the sight of all men and am more unworthy than all.' With tears of penitence and poignant, tender anguish, he will exclaim: 'Others are better than I, they wanted to save me, not to ruin me!' Oh, this act of mercy is so easy for you, for in the absence of anything like real evidence it will be too awful for you to pronounce: 'Yes, he is guilty.' "Better acquit ten guilty men than punish one innocent man! Do you hear, do you hear that majestic voice from the past century of our glorious history? It is not for an insignificant person like me to remind you that the Russian court does not exist for the punishment only, but also for the salvation of the criminal! Let other nations think of retribution and the letter of the law, we will cling to the spirit and the meaning--the salvation and the reformation of the lost. If this is true, if Russia and her justice are such, she may go forward with good cheer! Do not try to scare us with your frenzied troikas from which all the nations stand aside in disgust. Not a runaway troika, but the stately chariot of Russia will move calmly and majestically to its goal. In your hands is the fate of my client, in your hands is the fate of Russian justice. You will defend it, you will save it, you will prove that there are men to watch over it, that it is in good hands!"

book 12, Chapter 13

https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section15/

An Adulterer of Thought Fetyukovich insists that Dmitri's only chance to find redemption amid the tattered shreds of his life is to be set free

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/24.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Lord Jim/section_23_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 24

chapter 24

{"name": "Chapter 24", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim33.asp", "summary": "The chapter begins with Marlow's description of Patusan when he visits Jim two years later. The headman of the fishing village at the river's mouth agrees to take Marlow up the river to find his friend. On the trip, he gives Marlow an account of Jim, or Tuan Jim , as he is called. Jim is firmly established in his surroundings. The natives treat Europeans with veneration, and Jim is, therefore, given a lot of respect. In fact, he is loved and trusted by the natives; many of them think he has supernatural powers. Jim's coolness further impresses them. Jim relates the story of his two years in Patusan to Marlow as they sit in front of his house. Jim starts with an account of his arrival. Near the end of the long and tiring trip, he fell asleep. When he awoke, he was taken prisoner by armed men who had boarded the boat. They took him to the house of Raja Allang. As Marlow listens to his young friend, he is impressed that Jim has done so well in Patusan. Because he is loved and respected by the natives, he has positively changed. He no longer expresses guilt or the need to chastise himself. Marlow also notices Jim's closeness to the land. In fact, Jim says that leaving Patusan would be worse than dying; he has found his place in the universe and he never intends to leave it.", "analysis": "Notes The narration in this chapter is not chronological, but skips around between the past and the present. The chapter begins in the present, with Marlow's arrival in Patusan to deliver a message from Stein to Jim. When he sits on the verandah with Jim, the young man begins to tell of his past two years in Patusan through flashbacks. It is important to notice the Mood that Conrad sets in this chapter. As the two men sit and talk, there is an eerie silence all around, and the atmosphere is mysterious. Marlow even says that Jim looks \"unreal\". Perhaps it is because Jim feels so content with his life in Patusan. His ego is satisfied because he feels loved and worshipped by the natives. Marlow is happy for him."}

'The coast of Patusan (I saw it nearly two years afterwards) is straight and sombre, and faces a misty ocean. Red trails are seen like cataracts of rust streaming under the dark-green foliage of bushes and creepers clothing the low cliffs. Swampy plains open out at the mouth of rivers, with a view of jagged blue peaks beyond the vast forests. In the offing a chain of islands, dark, crumbling shapes, stand out in the everlasting sunlit haze like the remnants of a wall breached by the sea. 'There is a village of fisher-folk at the mouth of the Batu Kring branch of the estuary. The river, which had been closed so long, was open then, and Stein's little schooner, in which I had my passage, worked her way up in three tides without being exposed to a fusillade from "irresponsive parties." Such a state of affairs belonged already to ancient history, if I could believe the elderly headman of the fishing village, who came on board to act as a sort of pilot. He talked to me (the second white man he had ever seen) with confidence, and most of his talk was about the first white man he had ever seen. He called him Tuan Jim, and the tone of his references was made remarkable by a strange mixture of familiarity and awe. They, in the village, were under that lord's special protection, which showed that Jim bore no grudge. If he had warned me that I would hear of him it was perfectly true. I was hearing of him. There was already a story that the tide had turned two hours before its time to help him on his journey up the river. The talkative old man himself had steered the canoe and had marvelled at the phenomenon. Moreover, all the glory was in his family. His son and his son-in-law had paddled; but they were only youths without experience, who did not notice the speed of the canoe till he pointed out to them the amazing fact. 'Jim's coming to that fishing village was a blessing; but to them, as to many of us, the blessing came heralded by terrors. So many generations had been released since the last white man had visited the river that the very tradition had been lost. The appearance of the being that descended upon them and demanded inflexibly to be taken up to Patusan was discomposing; his insistence was alarming; his generosity more than suspicious. It was an unheard-of request. There was no precedent. What would the Rajah say to this? What would he do to them? The best part of the night was spent in consultation; but the immediate risk from the anger of that strange man seemed so great that at last a cranky dug-out was got ready. The women shrieked with grief as it put off. A fearless old hag cursed the stranger. 'He sat in it, as I've told you, on his tin box, nursing the unloaded revolver on his lap. He sat with precaution--than which there is nothing more fatiguing--and thus entered the land he was destined to fill with the fame of his virtues, from the blue peaks inland to the white ribbon of surf on the coast. At the first bend he lost sight of the sea with its labouring waves for ever rising, sinking, and vanishing to rise again--the very image of struggling mankind--and faced the immovable forests rooted deep in the soil, soaring towards the sunshine, everlasting in the shadowy might of their tradition, like life itself. And his opportunity sat veiled by his side like an Eastern bride waiting to be uncovered by the hand of the master. He too was the heir of a shadowy and mighty tradition! He told me, however, that he had never in his life felt so depressed and tired as in that canoe. All the movement he dared to allow himself was to reach, as it were by stealth, after the shell of half a cocoa-nut floating between his shoes, and bale some of the water out with a carefully restrained action. He discovered how hard the lid of a block-tin case was to sit upon. He had heroic health; but several times during that journey he experienced fits of giddiness, and between whiles he speculated hazily as to the size of the blister the sun was raising on his back. For amusement he tried by looking ahead to decide whether the muddy object he saw lying on the water's edge was a log of wood or an alligator. Only very soon he had to give that up. No fun in it. Always alligator. One of them flopped into the river and all but capsized the canoe. But this excitement was over directly. Then in a long empty reach he was very grateful to a troop of monkeys who came right down on the bank and made an insulting hullabaloo on his passage. Such was the way in which he was approaching greatness as genuine as any man ever achieved. Principally, he longed for sunset; and meantime his three paddlers were preparing to put into execution their plan of delivering him up to the Rajah. '"I suppose I must have been stupid with fatigue, or perhaps I did doze off for a time," he said. The first thing he knew was his canoe coming to the bank. He became instantaneously aware of the forest having been left behind, of the first houses being visible higher up, of a stockade on his left, and of his boatmen leaping out together upon a low point of land and taking to their heels. Instinctively he leaped out after them. At first he thought himself deserted for some inconceivable reason, but he heard excited shouts, a gate swung open, and a lot of people poured out, making towards him. At the same time a boat full of armed men appeared on the river and came alongside his empty canoe, thus shutting off his retreat. '"I was too startled to be quite cool--don't you know? and if that revolver had been loaded I would have shot somebody--perhaps two, three bodies, and that would have been the end of me. But it wasn't. . . ." "Why not?" I asked. "Well, I couldn't fight the whole population, and I wasn't coming to them as if I were afraid of my life," he said, with just a faint hint of his stubborn sulkiness in the glance he gave me. I refrained from pointing out to him that they could not have known the chambers were actually empty. He had to satisfy himself in his own way. . . . "Anyhow it wasn't," he repeated good-humouredly, "and so I just stood still and asked them what was the matter. That seemed to strike them dumb. I saw some of these thieves going off with my box. That long-legged old scoundrel Kassim (I'll show him to you to-morrow) ran out fussing to me about the Rajah wanting to see me. I said, 'All right.' I too wanted to see the Rajah, and I simply walked in through the gate and--and--here I am." He laughed, and then with unexpected emphasis, "And do you know what's the best in it?" he asked. "I'll tell you. It's the knowledge that had I been wiped out it is this place that would have been the loser." 'He spoke thus to me before his house on that evening I've mentioned--after we had watched the moon float away above the chasm between the hills like an ascending spirit out of a grave; its sheen descended, cold and pale, like the ghost of dead sunlight. There is something haunting in the light of the moon; it has all the dispassionateness of a disembodied soul, and something of its inconceivable mystery. It is to our sunshine, which--say what you like--is all we have to live by, what the echo is to the sound: misleading and confusing whether the note be mocking or sad. It robs all forms of matter--which, after all, is our domain--of their substance, and gives a sinister reality to shadows alone. And the shadows were very real around us, but Jim by my side looked very stalwart, as though nothing--not even the occult power of moonlight--could rob him of his reality in my eyes. Perhaps, indeed, nothing could touch him since he had survived the assault of the dark powers. All was silent, all was still; even on the river the moonbeams slept as on a pool. It was the moment of high water, a moment of immobility that accentuated the utter isolation of this lost corner of the earth. The houses crowding along the wide shining sweep without ripple or glitter, stepping into the water in a line of jostling, vague, grey, silvery forms mingled with black masses of shadow, were like a spectral herd of shapeless creatures pressing forward to drink in a spectral and lifeless stream. Here and there a red gleam twinkled within the bamboo walls, warm, like a living spark, significant of human affections, of shelter, of repose. 'He confessed to me that he often watched these tiny warm gleams go out one by one, that he loved to see people go to sleep under his eyes, confident in the security of to-morrow. "Peaceful here, eh?" he asked. He was not eloquent, but there was a deep meaning in the words that followed. "Look at these houses; there's not one where I am not trusted. Jove! I told you I would hang on. Ask any man, woman, or child . . ." He paused. "Well, I am all right anyhow." 'I observed quickly that he had found that out in the end. I had been sure of it, I added. He shook his head. "Were you?" He pressed my arm lightly above the elbow. "Well, then--you were right." 'There was elation and pride, there was awe almost, in that low exclamation. "Jove!" he cried, "only think what it is to me." Again he pressed my arm. "And you asked me whether I thought of leaving. Good God! I! want to leave! Especially now after what you told me of Mr. Stein's . . . Leave! Why! That's what I was afraid of. It would have been--it would have been harder than dying. No--on my word. Don't laugh. I must feel--every day, every time I open my eyes--that I am trusted--that nobody has a right--don't you know? Leave! For where? What for? To get what?" 'I had told him (indeed it was the main object of my visit) that it was Stein's intention to present him at once with the house and the stock of trading goods, on certain easy conditions which would make the transaction perfectly regular and valid. He began to snort and plunge at first. "Confound your delicacy!" I shouted. "It isn't Stein at all. It's giving you what you had made for yourself. And in any case keep your remarks for McNeil--when you meet him in the other world. I hope it won't happen soon. . . ." He had to give in to my arguments, because all his conquests, the trust, the fame, the friendships, the love--all these things that made him master had made him a captive, too. He looked with an owner's eye at the peace of the evening, at the river, at the houses, at the everlasting life of the forests, at the life of the old mankind, at the secrets of the land, at the pride of his own heart; but it was they that possessed him and made him their own to the innermost thought, to the slightest stir of blood, to his last breath. 'It was something to be proud of. I, too, was proud--for him, if not so certain of the fabulous value of the bargain. It was wonderful. It was not so much of his fearlessness that I thought. It is strange how little account I took of it: as if it had been something too conventional to be at the root of the matter. No. I was more struck by the other gifts he had displayed. He had proved his grasp of the unfamiliar situation, his intellectual alertness in that field of thought. There was his readiness, too! Amazing. And all this had come to him in a manner like keen scent to a well-bred hound. He was not eloquent, but there was a dignity in this constitutional reticence, there was a high seriousness in his stammerings. He had still his old trick of stubborn blushing. Now and then, though, a word, a sentence, would escape him that showed how deeply, how solemnly, he felt about that work which had given him the certitude of rehabilitation. That is why he seemed to love the land and the people with a sort of fierce egoism, with a contemptuous tenderness.'

Chapter 24

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim33.asp

The chapter begins with Marlow's description of Patusan when he visits Jim two years later. The headman of the fishing village at the river's mouth agrees to take Marlow up the river to find his friend. On the trip, he gives Marlow an account of Jim, or Tuan Jim , as he is called. Jim is firmly established in his surroundings. The natives treat Europeans with veneration, and Jim is, therefore, given a lot of respect. In fact, he is loved and trusted by the natives; many of them think he has supernatural powers. Jim's coolness further impresses them. Jim relates the story of his two years in Patusan to Marlow as they sit in front of his house. Jim starts with an account of his arrival. Near the end of the long and tiring trip, he fell asleep. When he awoke, he was taken prisoner by armed men who had boarded the boat. They took him to the house of Raja Allang. As Marlow listens to his young friend, he is impressed that Jim has done so well in Patusan. Because he is loved and respected by the natives, he has positively changed. He no longer expresses guilt or the need to chastise himself. Marlow also notices Jim's closeness to the land. In fact, Jim says that leaving Patusan would be worse than dying; he has found his place in the universe and he never intends to leave it.

Notes The narration in this chapter is not chronological, but skips around between the past and the present. The chapter begins in the present, with Marlow's arrival in Patusan to deliver a message from Stein to Jim. When he sits on the verandah with Jim, the young man begins to tell of his past two years in Patusan through flashbacks. It is important to notice the Mood that Conrad sets in this chapter. As the two men sit and talk, there is an eerie silence all around, and the atmosphere is mysterious. Marlow even says that Jim looks "unreal". Perhaps it is because Jim feels so content with his life in Patusan. His ego is satisfied because he feels loved and worshipped by the natives. Marlow is happy for him.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Far From the Madding Crowd/section_13_part_0.txt

Far From the Madding Crowd.chapter 14

chapter 14

{"name": "Chapter 14", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-14", "summary": "On the evening of Valentine's Day, Boldwood sits down to his supper. Up on his mantle is the letter Bathsheba has sent, and he can't help but stare at the wax seal that says \"Marry Me.\" When he goes to bed, he puts the letter in the corner of his bedroom mirror and can't stop thinking about it. Uh oh. Boldwood is hooked. The next day, Boldwood runs up to the mail cart and blindly seizes a letter from it, thinking for some reason that he'll get another Valentine's Day card. But the letter he's grabbed is addressed to Gabriel Oak. Too late, though. Boldwood has opened it by mistake. Just then, he sees Oak coming over the hill and Boldwood volunteers to take the letter to him himself.", "analysis": ""}

EFFECT OF THE LETTER--SUNRISE At dusk, on the evening of St. Valentine's Day, Boldwood sat down to supper as usual, by a beaming fire of aged logs. Upon the mantel-shelf before him was a time-piece, surmounted by a spread eagle, and upon the eagle's wings was the letter Bathsheba had sent. Here the bachelor's gaze was continually fastening itself, till the large red seal became as a blot of blood on the retina of his eye; and as he ate and drank he still read in fancy the words thereon, although they were too remote for his sight-- "MARRY ME." The pert injunction was like those crystal substances which, colourless themselves, assume the tone of objects about them. Here, in the quiet of Boldwood's parlour, where everything that was not grave was extraneous, and where the atmosphere was that of a Puritan Sunday lasting all the week, the letter and its dictum changed their tenor from the thoughtlessness of their origin to a deep solemnity, imbibed from their accessories now. Since the receipt of the missive in the morning, Boldwood had felt the symmetry of his existence to be slowly getting distorted in the direction of an ideal passion. The disturbance was as the first floating weed to Columbus--the contemptibly little suggesting possibilities of the infinitely great. The letter must have had an origin and a motive. That the latter was of the smallest magnitude compatible with its existence at all, Boldwood, of course, did not know. And such an explanation did not strike him as a possibility even. It is foreign to a mystified condition of mind to realize of the mystifier that the processes of approving a course suggested by circumstance, and of striking out a course from inner impulse, would look the same in the result. The vast difference between starting a train of events, and directing into a particular groove a series already started, is rarely apparent to the person confounded by the issue. When Boldwood went to bed he placed the valentine in the corner of the looking-glass. He was conscious of its presence, even when his back was turned upon it. It was the first time in Boldwood's life that such an event had occurred. The same fascination that caused him to think it an act which had a deliberate motive prevented him from regarding it as an impertinence. He looked again at the direction. The mysterious influences of night invested the writing with the presence of the unknown writer. Somebody's--some WOMAN'S--hand had travelled softly over the paper bearing his name; her unrevealed eyes had watched every curve as she formed it; her brain had seen him in imagination the while. Why should she have imagined him? Her mouth--were the lips red or pale, plump or creased?--had curved itself to a certain expression as the pen went on--the corners had moved with all their natural tremulousness: what had been the expression? The vision of the woman writing, as a supplement to the words written, had no individuality. She was a misty shape, and well she might be, considering that her original was at that moment sound asleep and oblivious of all love and letter-writing under the sky. Whenever Boldwood dozed she took a form, and comparatively ceased to be a vision: when he awoke there was the letter justifying the dream. The moon shone to-night, and its light was not of a customary kind. His window admitted only a reflection of its rays, and the pale sheen had that reversed direction which snow gives, coming upward and lighting up his ceiling in an unnatural way, casting shadows in strange places, and putting lights where shadows had used to be. The substance of the epistle had occupied him but little in comparison with the fact of its arrival. He suddenly wondered if anything more might be found in the envelope than what he had withdrawn. He jumped out of bed in the weird light, took the letter, pulled out the flimsy sheet, shook the envelope--searched it. Nothing more was there. Boldwood looked, as he had a hundred times the preceding day, at the insistent red seal: "Marry me," he said aloud. The solemn and reserved yeoman again closed the letter, and stuck it in the frame of the glass. In doing so he caught sight of his reflected features, wan in expression, and insubstantial in form. He saw how closely compressed was his mouth, and that his eyes were wide-spread and vacant. Feeling uneasy and dissatisfied with himself for this nervous excitability, he returned to bed. Then the dawn drew on. The full power of the clear heaven was not equal to that of a cloudy sky at noon, when Boldwood arose and dressed himself. He descended the stairs and went out towards the gate of a field to the east, leaning over which he paused and looked around. It was one of the usual slow sunrises of this time of the year, and the sky, pure violet in the zenith, was leaden to the northward, and murky to the east, where, over the snowy down or ewe-lease on Weatherbury Upper Farm, and apparently resting upon the ridge, the only half of the sun yet visible burnt rayless, like a red and flameless fire shining over a white hearthstone. The whole effect resembled a sunset as childhood resembles age. In other directions, the fields and sky were so much of one colour by the snow, that it was difficult in a hasty glance to tell whereabouts the horizon occurred; and in general there was here, too, that before-mentioned preternatural inversion of light and shade which attends the prospect when the garish brightness commonly in the sky is found on the earth, and the shades of earth are in the sky. Over the west hung the wasting moon, now dull and greenish-yellow, like tarnished brass. Boldwood was listlessly noting how the frost had hardened and glazed the surface of the snow, till it shone in the red eastern light with the polish of marble; how, in some portions of the slope, withered grass-bents, encased in icicles, bristled through the smooth wan coverlet in the twisted and curved shapes of old Venetian glass; and how the footprints of a few birds, which had hopped over the snow whilst it lay in the state of a soft fleece, were now frozen to a short permanency. A half-muffled noise of light wheels interrupted him. Boldwood turned back into the road. It was the mail-cart--a crazy, two-wheeled vehicle, hardly heavy enough to resist a puff of wind. The driver held out a letter. Boldwood seized it and opened it, expecting another anonymous one--so greatly are people's ideas of probability a mere sense that precedent will repeat itself. "I don't think it is for you, sir," said the man, when he saw Boldwood's action. "Though there is no name, I think it is for your shepherd." Boldwood looked then at the address-- To the New Shepherd, Weatherbury Farm, Near Casterbridge "Oh--what a mistake!--it is not mine. Nor is it for my shepherd. It is for Miss Everdene's. You had better take it on to him--Gabriel Oak--and say I opened it in mistake." At this moment, on the ridge, up against the blazing sky, a figure was visible, like the black snuff in the midst of a candle-flame. Then it moved and began to bustle about vigorously from place to place, carrying square skeleton masses, which were riddled by the same rays. A small figure on all fours followed behind. The tall form was that of Gabriel Oak; the small one that of George; the articles in course of transit were hurdles. "Wait," said Boldwood. "That's the man on the hill. I'll take the letter to him myself." To Boldwood it was now no longer merely a letter to another man. It was an opportunity. Exhibiting a face pregnant with intention, he entered the snowy field. Gabriel, at that minute, descended the hill towards the right. The glow stretched down in this direction now, and touched the distant roof of Warren's Malthouse--whither the shepherd was apparently bent: Boldwood followed at a distance.

Chapter 14

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-14

On the evening of Valentine's Day, Boldwood sits down to his supper. Up on his mantle is the letter Bathsheba has sent, and he can't help but stare at the wax seal that says "Marry Me." When he goes to bed, he puts the letter in the corner of his bedroom mirror and can't stop thinking about it. Uh oh. Boldwood is hooked. The next day, Boldwood runs up to the mail cart and blindly seizes a letter from it, thinking for some reason that he'll get another Valentine's Day card. But the letter he's grabbed is addressed to Gabriel Oak. Too late, though. Boldwood has opened it by mistake. Just then, he sees Oak coming over the hill and Boldwood volunteers to take the letter to him himself.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/30.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_29_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 30

chapter 30

{"name": "Chapter 30", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-30", "summary": "Marlow gives us a few more details about Jim's relationship with Cornelius and Jewel. It's a pretty tense situation because Jim is in danger. When Cornelius offers to smuggle Jim out of Patusan, Jim refuses to go, despite the risk of staying. A scared and angry Jim takes out his troubles on Cornelius and chews out the poor old man.", "analysis": ""}

'He told me further that he didn't know what made him hang on--but of course we may guess. He sympathised deeply with the defenceless girl, at the mercy of that "mean, cowardly scoundrel." It appears Cornelius led her an awful life, stopping only short of actual ill-usage, for which he had not the pluck, I suppose. He insisted upon her calling him father--"and with respect, too--with respect," he would scream, shaking a little yellow fist in her face. "I am a respectable man, and what are you? Tell me--what are you? You think I am going to bring up somebody else's child and not be treated with respect? You ought to be glad I let you. Come--say Yes, father. . . . No? . . . You wait a bit." Thereupon he would begin to abuse the dead woman, till the girl would run off with her hands to her head. He pursued her, dashing in and out and round the house and amongst the sheds, would drive her into some corner, where she would fall on her knees stopping her ears, and then he would stand at a distance and declaim filthy denunciations at her back for half an hour at a stretch. "Your mother was a devil, a deceitful devil--and you too are a devil," he would shriek in a final outburst, pick up a bit of dry earth or a handful of mud (there was plenty of mud around the house), and fling it into her hair. Sometimes, though, she would hold out full of scorn, confronting him in silence, her face sombre and contracted, and only now and then uttering a word or two that would make the other jump and writhe with the sting. Jim told me these scenes were terrible. It was indeed a strange thing to come upon in a wilderness. The endlessness of such a subtly cruel situation was appalling--if you think of it. The respectable Cornelius (Inchi 'Nelyus the Malays called him, with a grimace that meant many things) was a much-disappointed man. I don't know what he had expected would be done for him in consideration of his marriage; but evidently the liberty to steal, and embezzle, and appropriate to himself for many years and in any way that suited him best, the goods of Stein's Trading Company (Stein kept the supply up unfalteringly as long as he could get his skippers to take it there) did not seem to him a fair equivalent for the sacrifice of his honourable name. Jim would have enjoyed exceedingly thrashing Cornelius within an inch of his life; on the other hand, the scenes were of so painful a character, so abominable, that his impulse would be to get out of earshot, in order to spare the girl's feelings. They left her agitated, speechless, clutching her bosom now and then with a stony, desperate face, and then Jim would lounge up and say unhappily, "Now--come--really--what's the use--you must try to eat a bit," or give some such mark of sympathy. Cornelius would keep on slinking through the doorways, across the verandah and back again, as mute as a fish, and with malevolent, mistrustful, underhand glances. "I can stop his game," Jim said to her once. "Just say the word." And do you know what she answered? She said--Jim told me impressively--that if she had not been sure he was intensely wretched himself, she would have found the courage to kill him with her own hands. "Just fancy that! The poor devil of a girl, almost a child, being driven to talk like that," he exclaimed in horror. It seemed impossible to save her not only from that mean rascal but even from herself! It wasn't that he pitied her so much, he affirmed; it was more than pity; it was as if he had something on his conscience, while that life went on. To leave the house would have appeared a base desertion. He had understood at last that there was nothing to expect from a longer stay, neither accounts nor money, nor truth of any sort, but he stayed on, exasperating Cornelius to the verge, I won't say of insanity, but almost of courage. Meantime he felt all sorts of dangers gathering obscurely about him. Doramin had sent over twice a trusty servant to tell him seriously that he could do nothing for his safety unless he would recross the river again and live amongst the Bugis as at first. People of every condition used to call, often in the dead of night, in order to disclose to him plots for his assassination. He was to be poisoned. He was to be stabbed in the bath-house. Arrangements were being made to have him shot from a boat on the river. Each of these informants professed himself to be his very good friend. It was enough--he told me--to spoil a fellow's rest for ever. Something of the kind was extremely possible--nay, probable--but the lying warnings gave him only the sense of deadly scheming going on all around him, on all sides, in the dark. Nothing more calculated to shake the best of nerve. Finally, one night, Cornelius himself, with a great apparatus of alarm and secrecy, unfolded in solemn wheedling tones a little plan wherein for one hundred dollars--or even for eighty; let's say eighty--he, Cornelius, would procure a trustworthy man to smuggle Jim out of the river, all safe. There was nothing else for it now--if Jim cared a pin for his life. What's eighty dollars? A trifle. An insignificant sum. While he, Cornelius, who had to remain behind, was absolutely courting death by this proof of devotion to Mr. Stein's young friend. The sight of his abject grimacing was--Jim told me--very hard to bear: he clutched at his hair, beat his breast, rocked himself to and fro with his hands pressed to his stomach, and actually pretended to shed tears. "Your blood be on your own head," he squeaked at last, and rushed out. It is a curious question how far Cornelius was sincere in that performance. Jim confessed to me that he did not sleep a wink after the fellow had gone. He lay on his back on a thin mat spread over the bamboo flooring, trying idly to make out the bare rafters, and listening to the rustlings in the torn thatch. A star suddenly twinkled through a hole in the roof. His brain was in a whirl; but, nevertheless, it was on that very night that he matured his plan for overcoming Sherif Ali. It had been the thought of all the moments he could spare from the hopeless investigation into Stein's affairs, but the notion--he says--came to him then all at once. He could see, as it were, the guns mounted on the top of the hill. He got very hot and excited lying there; sleep was out of the question more than ever. He jumped up, and went out barefooted on the verandah. Walking silently, he came upon the girl, motionless against the wall, as if on the watch. In his then state of mind it did not surprise him to see her up, nor yet to hear her ask in an anxious whisper where Cornelius could be. He simply said he did not know. She moaned a little, and peered into the campong. Everything was very quiet. He was possessed by his new idea, and so full of it that he could not help telling the girl all about it at once. She listened, clapped her hands lightly, whispered softly her admiration, but was evidently on the alert all the time. It seems he had been used to make a confidant of her all along--and that she on her part could and did give him a lot of useful hints as to Patusan affairs there is no doubt. He assured me more than once that he had never found himself the worse for her advice. At any rate, he was proceeding to explain his plan fully to her there and then, when she pressed his arm once, and vanished from his side. Then Cornelius appeared from somewhere, and, perceiving Jim, ducked sideways, as though he had been shot at, and afterwards stood very still in the dusk. At last he came forward prudently, like a suspicious cat. "There were some fishermen there--with fish," he said in a shaky voice. "To sell fish--you understand." . . . It must have been then two o'clock in the morning--a likely time for anybody to hawk fish about! 'Jim, however, let the statement pass, and did not give it a single thought. Other matters occupied his mind, and besides he had neither seen nor heard anything. He contented himself by saying, "Oh!" absently, got a drink of water out of a pitcher standing there, and leaving Cornelius a prey to some inexplicable emotion--that made him embrace with both arms the worm-eaten rail of the verandah as if his legs had failed--went in again and lay down on his mat to think. By-and-by he heard stealthy footsteps. They stopped. A voice whispered tremulously through the wall, "Are you asleep?" "No! What is it?" he answered briskly, and there was an abrupt movement outside, and then all was still, as if the whisperer had been startled. Extremely annoyed at this, Jim came out impetuously, and Cornelius with a faint shriek fled along the verandah as far as the steps, where he hung on to the broken banister. Very puzzled, Jim called out to him from the distance to know what the devil he meant. "Have you given your consideration to what I spoke to you about?" asked Cornelius, pronouncing the words with difficulty, like a man in the cold fit of a fever. "No!" shouted Jim in a passion. "I have not, and I don't intend to. I am going to live here, in Patusan." "You shall d-d-die h-h-here," answered Cornelius, still shaking violently, and in a sort of expiring voice. The whole performance was so absurd and provoking that Jim didn't know whether he ought to be amused or angry. "Not till I have seen you tucked away, you bet," he called out, exasperated yet ready to laugh. Half seriously (being excited with his own thoughts, you know) he went on shouting, "Nothing can touch me! You can do your damnedest." Somehow the shadowy Cornelius far off there seemed to be the hateful embodiment of all the annoyances and difficulties he had found in his path. He let himself go--his nerves had been over-wrought for days--and called him many pretty names,--swindler, liar, sorry rascal: in fact, carried on in an extraordinary way. He admits he passed all bounds, that he was quite beside himself--defied all Patusan to scare him away--declared he would make them all dance to his own tune yet, and so on, in a menacing, boasting strain. Perfectly bombastic and ridiculous, he said. His ears burned at the bare recollection. Must have been off his chump in some way. . . . The girl, who was sitting with us, nodded her little head at me quickly, frowned faintly, and said, "I heard him," with child-like solemnity. He laughed and blushed. What stopped him at last, he said, was the silence, the complete deathlike silence, of the indistinct figure far over there, that seemed to hang collapsed, doubled over the rail in a weird immobility. He came to his senses, and ceasing suddenly, wondered greatly at himself. He watched for a while. Not a stir, not a sound. "Exactly as if the chap had died while I had been making all that noise," he said. He was so ashamed of himself that he went indoors in a hurry without another word, and flung himself down again. The row seemed to have done him good though, because he went to sleep for the rest of the night like a baby. Hadn't slept like that for weeks. "But _I_ didn't sleep," struck in the girl, one elbow on the table and nursing her cheek. "I watched." Her big eyes flashed, rolling a little, and then she fixed them on my face intently.'

Chapter 30

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-30

Marlow gives us a few more details about Jim's relationship with Cornelius and Jewel. It's a pretty tense situation because Jim is in danger. When Cornelius offers to smuggle Jim out of Patusan, Jim refuses to go, despite the risk of staying. A scared and angry Jim takes out his troubles on Cornelius and chews out the poor old man.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/book_3.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Brothers Karamazov/section_2_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 3.chapter 1-chapter 11

book 3

{"name": "Book 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210422052201/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-brothers-karamazov/study-guide/summary-book-3", "summary": "Book Three begins with an introduction to Fyodor's servants, Grigory and Marfa. Grigory has been Fyodor's servant for years. He is \"stubborn ... honest ... incorruptible.\" For instance, his loyalty to Fyodor is inextinguishable. When the serfs were emancipated in 1861, Grigory was free to do as he pleased. His wife Marfa asked to leave Fyodor, but Grigory would not hear of it. He decided that they would not leave old Karamazov. Years ago, Grigory and Marfa had a child. The poor boy had six fingers and died after only two weeks, devastating his parents. While Grigory was burying the child, he heard a baby crying. Puzzled and thinking he was hallucinating, Grigory followed the sound. He found a dying woman lying on the ground. Next to the woman he saw a baby boy. The woman was known as \"Stinking Lizaveta,\" the town idiot. She was abnormally short, unable to speak, and the daughter of a violent, drunken man. Everyone liked her; she was like an orphan whom the town collectively cared for. The citizens in the town would give her food and clothes, and when they realized that she was pregnant, they were furious. Rumors flew that the only person depraved enough to take advantage of one so innocent and helpless was Fyodor Karamazov. After Grigory and Marfa found the baby, Lizaveta died. They adopted the little boy and Fyodor named it Smerdyakov, \"the stinking one.\" Alyosha leaves the monastery and is worried about his meeting with Katerina. Though he believes that she has noble intentions toward Dmitri, Alyosha cannot put his finger on the vague sense of dread he feels about the meeting. Coincidentally, Alyosha runs into Dmitri on the way to see Katerina, and Dmitri wants to talk. He has been drinking. He wants to tell Alyosha all his troubles and thinks that only Alyosha will understand. Dmitri proceeds to confess to Alyosha, intermittently quoting Schiller's Hymn to Joy. He tells Alyosha his history of seducing women, spending money with abandon, and generally acting with \"insect sensualism.\" Then he tells Alyosha the story of how he met Katerina. The daughter of a commanding officer of the camp, Katerina was a haughty and gorgeous girl who had always ignored Dmitri's advances. One day, Dmitri found out that the commanding officer had lent 4,500 rubles to a man who would not pay him back. Dmitri told Katerina's older sister that the military would come asking for the money, and if her father did not want to be court-martialed or jailed, he should send Katerina to visit Dmitri's room. Dmitri planned on having his way with the girl, but when Katerina visited him, Dmitri did not try to sleep with her or do anything wayward. Instead, he gave her the money with no strings attached. He found her \"noble and generous\" while he was just a \"bedbug.\" He gave her the money with reverence, and she left without another word. Later, Katerina's father dies. When she comes into a large inheritance from a relative, she visits Dmitri again, deeply grateful for his generosity toward her father. She offers him the money he had lent her father and offers him her hand in marriage. He accepts. When Dmitri returns to Fyodor's town, however, he becomes obsessed with a girl named Grushenka. Katerina remains faithful to him even though she has heard rumors of his relationship with Grushenka. She gives him 3,000 rubles and asks him to give the money to her half-sister, but he spends it on a bacchanal with Grushenka instead. Dmitri's financial and moral indebtedness to Katerina makes him unable to bear Katerina's love, so he asks Alyosha to break off his engagement with Katerina. Then he tells Alyosha he wants him to go to Fyodor and ask for 3,000 rubles for him. He knows that Fyodor has an envelope with 3,000 rubles for Grushenka, but he feels that Fyodor is morally indebted to him for his ill treatment of Dmitri's mother. Dmitri wants to repay Katerina and never ask for money again. We now meet Grigory's and Marfa's adopted son Smerdyakov. He has grown up to be an angry, epileptic cook of Fyodor, and he has a penchant for debate and intellectual discussion. He is talking to Fyodor and his foster father Grigory about his views about God. He says that it is hardly a sin to renounce God, for man can always repent and come back to God if he feels the urge. After he and Grigory leave, the Karamazovs continue to talk about their views of God. Ivan says that God does not exist--and neither does immortality. Alyosha disagrees. Fyodor, who has been sitting through this lofty conversation for too long, decides to talk about \"wenches.\" When his tirade turns on Alyosha's mother, however, Alyosha faints and has a seizure. Ivan is angry at his father for hurting his brother and verbally attacking his mother. Dmitri runs into the room at this instant looking for Grushenka, who is not to be found. When Fyodor begins chastising Dmitri for stealing money from him, Dmitri, already in a fit of rage, attacks the old man and kicks him in the temple. As he leaves, he threatens his father once more. As Ivan and Alyosha are looking after their wounded father, Ivan's hostility toward his brother decreases. Alyosha visits Katerina, who thinks that Dmitri will get over Grushenka. To Alyosha's surprise, Grushenka comes out from behind a curtain; she has been there all along. Grushenka admits that she is going back to a former lover, and Katerina is ecstatic at the news. She compliments Grushenka profusely, but Grushenka does not return her affection. In fact, she says that she may not reunite with her old lover and may pursue Dmitri instead. Katerina becomes furious and screams at Grushenka as she leaves. As Alyosha is returning from Katerina's, he receives a letter from Lise. He sees Dmitri again, and the two talk about Alyosha's visit with Katerina. Dmitri becomes sad about how cowardly he has been in his relationships toward the two women. Alyosha returns to the monastery to find that Father Zossima's health is declining, and that Zossima will not live for much longer. Alyosha resolves to stay by the side of the man who has acted more like a father to him than Fyodor has. He reads the letter from Lise, which says that she is in love with him and that she wants to marry him one day. She apologizes for her earlier jokes at his expense, and she asks him to visit her. Exhausted from his day, Alyosha falls into a deep sleep.", "analysis": "Grigory and Marfa are less complex than the characters who have already been established. They do not have the verve of Dmitri or Fyodor, the high-minded intellectualism of Ivan, or the depth of purpose of Alyosha or Father Zossima. They lead simple lives with a singular purpose, staying faithful to their master. They are good, dependable people. They care for all of Fyodor's children, and when their desire for their own child is thwarted by fate, they are rewarded with Lizaveta's orphan. They both are very caring and compassionate. Grigory acts as a third father figure in the novel. In addition to the biological paternity of Fyodor and the spiritual guidance of Father Zossima, Grigory acts as a father to the Karamazov boys and Smerdyakov in purely logistical ways. He spends time with them, feeds them, and cares for them. It is unclear whose method of paternity has the largest effect on a boy's growth, or if they all have an equal effect. Interestingly, Smerdyakov, the one boy Grigory and Marfa raise as their own, is resentful and bitter. Their compassion does not turn him into a loving person. Perhaps it is Fyodor's influence that makes him like he is. Alyosha, on the other hand, seems unaffected by his biological lineage. This suggests that a person is responsible for his own personality. His reactions to the influences in his life depend on his own strengths, weaknesses, and proclivities. This book also sheds more light on Dmitri's character. He is quite likeable despite his foibles, since he is clearly well-intentioned but deeply fallible. His actions with the captain and Katerina are very complicated. He shows a manipulative streak, uncovering a depravity that is similar to Fyodor's. Then he undergoes a complete change, acting nobly toward Katerina, feeling guilty about his former actions. But instead of learning from his mistakes, Dmitri does not continue to treat Katerina with respect. He spends her money and takes up with another woman after they get engaged. He becomes guilty about this, too, and feels that repaying Katerina is the only honorable course of action. Dmitri is perpetually caught between his desire to do good and his appetite for gratification. He seems unable to break the cycle of guilt and longing for redemption. He is too cowardly to ask his father for money again or to break off his engagement with Katerina in person. Nevertheless, he was re-promoted during his time in the army for \"gallantry.\" Dmitri is full of contradictions. He embodies many of the arguments in the novel, showing how one man can contain multitudes. Grushenka is very much what the reader expects her to be, capricious and mischievous. Katerina is less transparent. It is unclear if Katerina loves Dmitri or if she is obsessed by the idea of being a martyr. Dmitri has shunned her, but she remains faithful to him. She does not even expect his love in return, though. She feels relatively complacent about the idea that Dmitri may never return her love. Perhaps she relishes suffering. Indeed, yearning for suffering is a motif in the novel. Dostoevsky himself wrote most of his important works after spending years of hard labor in Siberia. He felt that suffering changed him, and many of his characters are either changed by their suffering or desire suffering. The value of this suffering is not based on the justice done, however. Katerina does not want to suffer because she deserves retribution for some sin. Instead, she wants to suffer for suffering's sake. Katerina is not the only one who yearns for pain. Later in the novel, Dmitri and Lise express similar feelings. Aside from this, Katerina seems honorable. She has quite a temper, but she seems to be motivated mostly by love and the desire to do right. Alyosha continues to get along well with his brother Dmitri, who clearly returns his affection. Alyosha has earned Dmitri's trust, and Alyosha does what he can to help him out. It seems that everyone needs Alyosha's help, and Alyosha is very willing to offer his services. Ivan, however, has not warmed up to Alyosha yet. They represent two theological extremes. Simply put, Alyosha is a believer while Ivan is not. They very plainly disagree about faith, but not hostilely. They are civil as they discuss immortality and the existence of God. Since Alyosha has been proving time and again that he is thoughtful, helpful, and loving, Ivan is taking the position of a villain by disagreeing with his brother. The only way Ivan has revealed his character thus far, however, has been through his opinions about intellectual matters; his emotions and motivations are still veiled. It is curious that he is becoming a foil to Alyosha given that they both have the same mother. The only two characters who have the same parents have the widest disparity in their opinions about God. Ivan does respect Alyosha, though at first he was suspicious that Alyosha's opinions were the opinions of a thoughtless religious fanatic. The brothers have learned to understand each other, and they all are starting to be able to tolerate each other. The same cannot be said for Fyodor's and Dmitri's relationship. As expected, the first conversation they had since the meeting with Father Zossima turned violent. Their situation has worsened, and a resolution for them is nowhere in sight."}

Book III. The Sensualists Chapter I. In The Servants' Quarters The Karamazovs' house was far from being in the center of the town, but it was not quite outside it. It was a pleasant-looking old house of two stories, painted gray, with a red iron roof. It was roomy and snug, and might still last many years. There were all sorts of unexpected little cupboards and closets and staircases. There were rats in it, but Fyodor Pavlovitch did not altogether dislike them. "One doesn't feel so solitary when one's left alone in the evening," he used to say. It was his habit to send the servants away to the lodge for the night and to lock himself up alone. The lodge was a roomy and solid building in the yard. Fyodor Pavlovitch used to have the cooking done there, although there was a kitchen in the house; he did not like the smell of cooking, and, winter and summer alike, the dishes were carried in across the courtyard. The house was built for a large family; there was room for five times as many, with their servants. But at the time of our story there was no one living in the house but Fyodor Pavlovitch and his son Ivan. And in the lodge there were only three servants: old Grigory, and his old wife Marfa, and a young man called Smerdyakov. Of these three we must say a few words. Of old Grigory we have said something already. He was firm and determined and went blindly and obstinately for his object, if once he had been brought by any reasons (and they were often very illogical ones) to believe that it was immutably right. He was honest and incorruptible. His wife, Marfa Ignatyevna, had obeyed her husband's will implicitly all her life, yet she had pestered him terribly after the emancipation of the serfs. She was set on leaving Fyodor Pavlovitch and opening a little shop in Moscow with their small savings. But Grigory decided then, once for all, that "the woman's talking nonsense, for every woman is dishonest," and that they ought not to leave their old master, whatever he might be, for "that was now their duty." "Do you understand what duty is?" he asked Marfa Ignatyevna. "I understand what duty means, Grigory Vassilyevitch, but why it's our duty to stay here I never shall understand," Marfa answered firmly. "Well, don't understand then. But so it shall be. And you hold your tongue." And so it was. They did not go away, and Fyodor Pavlovitch promised them a small sum for wages, and paid it regularly. Grigory knew, too, that he had an indisputable influence over his master. It was true, and he was aware of it. Fyodor Pavlovitch was an obstinate and cunning buffoon, yet, though his will was strong enough "in some of the affairs of life," as he expressed it, he found himself, to his surprise, extremely feeble in facing certain other emergencies. He knew his weaknesses and was afraid of them. There are positions in which one has to keep a sharp look out. And that's not easy without a trustworthy man, and Grigory was a most trustworthy man. Many times in the course of his life Fyodor Pavlovitch had only just escaped a sound thrashing through Grigory's intervention, and on each occasion the old servant gave him a good lecture. But it wasn't only thrashings that Fyodor Pavlovitch was afraid of. There were graver occasions, and very subtle and complicated ones, when Fyodor Pavlovitch could not have explained the extraordinary craving for some one faithful and devoted, which sometimes unaccountably came upon him all in a moment. It was almost a morbid condition. Corrupt and often cruel in his lust, like some noxious insect, Fyodor Pavlovitch was sometimes, in moments of drunkenness, overcome by superstitious terror and a moral convulsion which took an almost physical form. "My soul's simply quaking in my throat at those times," he used to say. At such moments he liked to feel that there was near at hand, in the lodge if not in the room, a strong, faithful man, virtuous and unlike himself, who had seen all his debauchery and knew all his secrets, but was ready in his devotion to overlook all that, not to oppose him, above all, not to reproach him or threaten him with anything, either in this world or in the next, and, in case of need, to defend him--from whom? From somebody unknown, but terrible and dangerous. What he needed was to feel that there was _another_ man, an old and tried friend, that he might call him in his sick moments merely to look at his face, or, perhaps, exchange some quite irrelevant words with him. And if the old servant were not angry, he felt comforted, and if he were angry, he was more dejected. It happened even (very rarely however) that Fyodor Pavlovitch went at night to the lodge to wake Grigory and fetch him for a moment. When the old man came, Fyodor Pavlovitch would begin talking about the most trivial matters, and would soon let him go again, sometimes even with a jest. And after he had gone, Fyodor Pavlovitch would get into bed with a curse and sleep the sleep of the just. Something of the same sort had happened to Fyodor Pavlovitch on Alyosha's arrival. Alyosha "pierced his heart" by "living with him, seeing everything and blaming nothing." Moreover, Alyosha brought with him something his father had never known before: a complete absence of contempt for him and an invariable kindness, a perfectly natural unaffected devotion to the old man who deserved it so little. All this was a complete surprise to the old profligate, who had dropped all family ties. It was a new and surprising experience for him, who had till then loved nothing but "evil." When Alyosha had left him, he confessed to himself that he had learnt something he had not till then been willing to learn. I have mentioned already that Grigory had detested Adelaida Ivanovna, the first wife of Fyodor Pavlovitch and the mother of Dmitri, and that he had, on the contrary, protected Sofya Ivanovna, the poor "crazy woman," against his master and any one who chanced to speak ill or lightly of her. His sympathy for the unhappy wife had become something sacred to him, so that even now, twenty years after, he could not bear a slighting allusion to her from any one, and would at once check the offender. Externally, Grigory was cold, dignified and taciturn, and spoke, weighing his words, without frivolity. It was impossible to tell at first sight whether he loved his meek, obedient wife; but he really did love her, and she knew it. Marfa Ignatyevna was by no means foolish; she was probably, indeed, cleverer than her husband, or, at least, more prudent than he in worldly affairs, and yet she had given in to him in everything without question or complaint ever since her marriage, and respected him for his spiritual superiority. It was remarkable how little they spoke to one another in the course of their lives, and only of the most necessary daily affairs. The grave and dignified Grigory thought over all his cares and duties alone, so that Marfa Ignatyevna had long grown used to knowing that he did not need her advice. She felt that her husband respected her silence, and took it as a sign of her good sense. He had never beaten her but once, and then only slightly. Once during the year after Fyodor Pavlovitch's marriage with Adelaida Ivanovna, the village girls and women--at that time serfs--were called together before the house to sing and dance. They were beginning "In the Green Meadows," when Marfa, at that time a young woman, skipped forward and danced "the Russian Dance," not in the village fashion, but as she had danced it when she was a servant in the service of the rich Miuesov family, in their private theater, where the actors were taught to dance by a dancing master from Moscow. Grigory saw how his wife danced, and, an hour later, at home in their cottage he gave her a lesson, pulling her hair a little. But there it ended: the beating was never repeated, and Marfa Ignatyevna gave up dancing. God had not blessed them with children. One child was born but it died. Grigory was fond of children, and was not ashamed of showing it. When Adelaida Ivanovna had run away, Grigory took Dmitri, then a child of three years old, combed his hair and washed him in a tub with his own hands, and looked after him for almost a year. Afterwards he had looked after Ivan and Alyosha, for which the general's widow had rewarded him with a slap in the face; but I have already related all that. The only happiness his own child had brought him had been in the anticipation of its birth. When it was born, he was overwhelmed with grief and horror. The baby had six fingers. Grigory was so crushed by this, that he was not only silent till the day of the christening, but kept away in the garden. It was spring, and he spent three days digging the kitchen garden. The third day was fixed for christening the baby: mean-time Grigory had reached a conclusion. Going into the cottage where the clergy were assembled and the visitors had arrived, including Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was to stand god- father, he suddenly announced that the baby "ought not to be christened at all." He announced this quietly, briefly, forcing out his words, and gazing with dull intentness at the priest. "Why not?" asked the priest with good-humored surprise. "Because it's a dragon," muttered Grigory. "A dragon? What dragon?" Grigory did not speak for some time. "It's a confusion of nature," he muttered vaguely, but firmly, and obviously unwilling to say more. They laughed, and of course christened the poor baby. Grigory prayed earnestly at the font, but his opinion of the new-born child remained unchanged. Yet he did not interfere in any way. As long as the sickly infant lived he scarcely looked at it, tried indeed not to notice it, and for the most part kept out of the cottage. But when, at the end of a fortnight, the baby died of thrush, he himself laid the child in its little coffin, looked at it in profound grief, and when they were filling up the shallow little grave he fell on his knees and bowed down to the earth. He did not for years afterwards mention his child, nor did Marfa speak of the baby before him, and, even if Grigory were not present, she never spoke of it above a whisper. Marfa observed that, from the day of the burial, he devoted himself to "religion," and took to reading the _Lives of the Saints_, for the most part sitting alone and in silence, and always putting on his big, round, silver-rimmed spectacles. He rarely read aloud, only perhaps in Lent. He was fond of the Book of Job, and had somehow got hold of a copy of the sayings and sermons of "the God-fearing Father Isaac the Syrian," which he read persistently for years together, understanding very little of it, but perhaps prizing and loving it the more for that. Of late he had begun to listen to the doctrines of the sect of Flagellants settled in the neighborhood. He was evidently shaken by them, but judged it unfitting to go over to the new faith. His habit of theological reading gave him an expression of still greater gravity. He was perhaps predisposed to mysticism. And the birth of his deformed child, and its death, had, as though by special design, been accompanied by another strange and marvelous event, which, as he said later, had left a "stamp" upon his soul. It happened that, on the very night after the burial of his child, Marfa was awakened by the wail of a new-born baby. She was frightened and waked her husband. He listened and said he thought it was more like some one groaning, "it might be a woman." He got up and dressed. It was a rather warm night in May. As he went down the steps, he distinctly heard groans coming from the garden. But the gate from the yard into the garden was locked at night, and there was no other way of entering it, for it was enclosed all round by a strong, high fence. Going back into the house, Grigory lighted a lantern, took the garden key, and taking no notice of the hysterical fears of his wife, who was still persuaded that she heard a child crying, and that it was her own baby crying and calling for her, went into the garden in silence. There he heard at once that the groans came from the bath-house that stood near the garden gate, and that they were the groans of a woman. Opening the door of the bath-house, he saw a sight which petrified him. An idiot girl, who wandered about the streets and was known to the whole town by the nickname of Lizaveta Smerdyastchaya (Stinking Lizaveta), had got into the bath- house and had just given birth to a child. She lay dying with the baby beside her. She said nothing, for she had never been able to speak. But her story needs a chapter to itself. Chapter II. Lizaveta There was one circumstance which struck Grigory particularly, and confirmed a very unpleasant and revolting suspicion. This Lizaveta was a dwarfish creature, "not five foot within a wee bit," as many of the pious old women said pathetically about her, after her death. Her broad, healthy, red face had a look of blank idiocy and the fixed stare in her eyes was unpleasant, in spite of their meek expression. She wandered about, summer and winter alike, barefooted, wearing nothing but a hempen smock. Her coarse, almost black hair curled like lamb's wool, and formed a sort of huge cap on her head. It was always crusted with mud, and had leaves, bits of stick, and shavings clinging to it, as she always slept on the ground and in the dirt. Her father, a homeless, sickly drunkard, called Ilya, had lost everything and lived many years as a workman with some well-to-do tradespeople. Her mother had long been dead. Spiteful and diseased, Ilya used to beat Lizaveta inhumanly whenever she returned to him. But she rarely did so, for every one in the town was ready to look after her as being an idiot, and so specially dear to God. Ilya's employers, and many others in the town, especially of the tradespeople, tried to clothe her better, and always rigged her out with high boots and sheepskin coat for the winter. But, although she allowed them to dress her up without resisting, she usually went away, preferably to the cathedral porch, and taking off all that had been given her--kerchief, sheepskin, skirt or boots--she left them there and walked away barefoot in her smock as before. It happened on one occasion that a new governor of the province, making a tour of inspection in our town, saw Lizaveta, and was wounded in his tenderest susceptibilities. And though he was told she was an idiot, he pronounced that for a young woman of twenty to wander about in nothing but a smock was a breach of the proprieties, and must not occur again. But the governor went his way, and Lizaveta was left as she was. At last her father died, which made her even more acceptable in the eyes of the religious persons of the town, as an orphan. In fact, every one seemed to like her; even the boys did not tease her, and the boys of our town, especially the schoolboys, are a mischievous set. She would walk into strange houses, and no one drove her away. Every one was kind to her and gave her something. If she were given a copper, she would take it, and at once drop it in the alms-jug of the church or prison. If she were given a roll or bun in the market, she would hand it to the first child she met. Sometimes she would stop one of the richest ladies in the town and give it to her, and the lady would be pleased to take it. She herself never tasted anything but black bread and water. If she went into an expensive shop, where there were costly goods or money lying about, no one kept watch on her, for they knew that if she saw thousands of roubles overlooked by them, she would not have touched a farthing. She scarcely ever went to church. She slept either in the church porch or climbed over a hurdle (there are many hurdles instead of fences to this day in our town) into a kitchen garden. She used at least once a week to turn up "at home," that is at the house of her father's former employers, and in the winter went there every night, and slept either in the passage or the cowhouse. People were amazed that she could stand such a life, but she was accustomed to it, and, although she was so tiny, she was of a robust constitution. Some of the townspeople declared that she did all this only from pride, but that is hardly credible. She could hardly speak, and only from time to time uttered an inarticulate grunt. How could she have been proud? It happened one clear, warm, moonlight night in September (many years ago) five or six drunken revelers were returning from the club at a very late hour, according to our provincial notions. They passed through the "back- way," which led between the back gardens of the houses, with hurdles on either side. This way leads out on to the bridge over the long, stinking pool which we were accustomed to call a river. Among the nettles and burdocks under the hurdle our revelers saw Lizaveta asleep. They stopped to look at her, laughing, and began jesting with unbridled licentiousness. It occurred to one young gentleman to make the whimsical inquiry whether any one could possibly look upon such an animal as a woman, and so forth.... They all pronounced with lofty repugnance that it was impossible. But Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was among them, sprang forward and declared that it was by no means impossible, and that, indeed, there was a certain piquancy about it, and so on.... It is true that at that time he was overdoing his part as a buffoon. He liked to put himself forward and entertain the company, ostensibly on equal terms, of course, though in reality he was on a servile footing with them. It was just at the time when he had received the news of his first wife's death in Petersburg, and, with crape upon his hat, was drinking and behaving so shamelessly that even the most reckless among us were shocked at the sight of him. The revelers, of course, laughed at this unexpected opinion; and one of them even began challenging him to act upon it. The others repelled the idea even more emphatically, although still with the utmost hilarity, and at last they went on their way. Later on, Fyodor Pavlovitch swore that he had gone with them, and perhaps it was so, no one knows for certain, and no one ever knew. But five or six months later, all the town was talking, with intense and sincere indignation, of Lizaveta's condition, and trying to find out who was the miscreant who had wronged her. Then suddenly a terrible rumor was all over the town that this miscreant was no other than Fyodor Pavlovitch. Who set the rumor going? Of that drunken band five had left the town and the only one still among us was an elderly and much respected civil councilor, the father of grown-up daughters, who could hardly have spread the tale, even if there had been any foundation for it. But rumor pointed straight at Fyodor Pavlovitch, and persisted in pointing at him. Of course this was no great grievance to him: he would not have troubled to contradict a set of tradespeople. In those days he was proud, and did not condescend to talk except in his own circle of the officials and nobles, whom he entertained so well. At the time, Grigory stood up for his master vigorously. He provoked quarrels and altercations in defense of him and succeeded in bringing some people round to his side. "It's the wench's own fault," he asserted, and the culprit was Karp, a dangerous convict, who had escaped from prison and whose name was well known to us, as he had hidden in our town. This conjecture sounded plausible, for it was remembered that Karp had been in the neighborhood just at that time in the autumn, and had robbed three people. But this affair and all the talk about it did not estrange popular sympathy from the poor idiot. She was better looked after than ever. A well-to-do merchant's widow named Kondratyev arranged to take her into her house at the end of April, meaning not to let her go out until after the confinement. They kept a constant watch over her, but in spite of their vigilance she escaped on the very last day, and made her way into Fyodor Pavlovitch's garden. How, in her condition, she managed to climb over the high, strong fence remained a mystery. Some maintained that she must have been lifted over by somebody; others hinted at something more uncanny. The most likely explanation is that it happened naturally--that Lizaveta, accustomed to clambering over hurdles to sleep in gardens, had somehow managed to climb this fence, in spite of her condition, and had leapt down, injuring herself. Grigory rushed to Marfa and sent her to Lizaveta, while he ran to fetch an old midwife who lived close by. They saved the baby, but Lizaveta died at dawn. Grigory took the baby, brought it home, and making his wife sit down, put it on her lap. "A child of God--an orphan is akin to all," he said, "and to us above others. Our little lost one has sent us this, who has come from the devil's son and a holy innocent. Nurse him and weep no more." So Marfa brought up the child. He was christened Pavel, to which people were not slow in adding Fyodorovitch (son of Fyodor). Fyodor Pavlovitch did not object to any of this, and thought it amusing, though he persisted vigorously in denying his responsibility. The townspeople were pleased at his adopting the foundling. Later on, Fyodor Pavlovitch invented a surname for the child, calling him Smerdyakov, after his mother's nickname. So this Smerdyakov became Fyodor Pavlovitch's second servant, and was living in the lodge with Grigory and Marfa at the time our story begins. He was employed as cook. I ought to say something of this Smerdyakov, but I am ashamed of keeping my readers' attention so long occupied with these common menials, and I will go back to my story, hoping to say more of Smerdyakov in the course of it. Chapter III. The Confession Of A Passionate Heart--In Verse Alyosha remained for some time irresolute after hearing the command his father shouted to him from the carriage. But in spite of his uneasiness he did not stand still. That was not his way. He went at once to the kitchen to find out what his father had been doing above. Then he set off, trusting that on the way he would find some answer to the doubt tormenting him. I hasten to add that his father's shouts, commanding him to return home "with his mattress and pillow" did not frighten him in the least. He understood perfectly that those peremptory shouts were merely "a flourish" to produce an effect. In the same way a tradesman in our town who was celebrating his name-day with a party of friends, getting angry at being refused more vodka, smashed up his own crockery and furniture and tore his own and his wife's clothes, and finally broke his windows, all for the sake of effect. Next day, of course, when he was sober, he regretted the broken cups and saucers. Alyosha knew that his father would let him go back to the monastery next day, possibly even that evening. Moreover, he was fully persuaded that his father might hurt any one else, but would not hurt him. Alyosha was certain that no one in the whole world ever would want to hurt him, and, what is more, he knew that no one could hurt him. This was for him an axiom, assumed once for all without question, and he went his way without hesitation, relying on it. But at that moment an anxiety of a different sort disturbed him, and worried him the more because he could not formulate it. It was the fear of a woman, of Katerina Ivanovna, who had so urgently entreated him in the note handed to him by Madame Hohlakov to come and see her about something. This request and the necessity of going had at once aroused an uneasy feeling in his heart, and this feeling had grown more and more painful all the morning in spite of the scenes at the hermitage and at the Father Superior's. He was not uneasy because he did not know what she would speak of and what he must answer. And he was not afraid of her simply as a woman. Though he knew little of women, he had spent his life, from early childhood till he entered the monastery, entirely with women. He was afraid of that woman, Katerina Ivanovna. He had been afraid of her from the first time he saw her. He had only seen her two or three times, and had only chanced to say a few words to her. He thought of her as a beautiful, proud, imperious girl. It was not her beauty which troubled him, but something else. And the vagueness of his apprehension increased the apprehension itself. The girl's aims were of the noblest, he knew that. She was trying to save his brother Dmitri simply through generosity, though he had already behaved badly to her. Yet, although Alyosha recognized and did justice to all these fine and generous sentiments, a shiver began to run down his back as soon as he drew near her house. He reflected that he would not find Ivan, who was so intimate a friend, with her, for Ivan was certainly now with his father. Dmitri he was even more certain not to find there, and he had a foreboding of the reason. And so his conversation would be with her alone. He had a great longing to run and see his brother Dmitri before that fateful interview. Without showing him the letter, he could talk to him about it. But Dmitri lived a long way off, and he was sure to be away from home too. Standing still for a minute, he reached a final decision. Crossing himself with a rapid and accustomed gesture, and at once smiling, he turned resolutely in the direction of his terrible lady. He knew her house. If he went by the High Street and then across the market-place, it was a long way round. Though our town is small, it is scattered, and the houses are far apart. And meanwhile his father was expecting him, and perhaps had not yet forgotten his command. He might be unreasonable, and so he had to make haste to get there and back. So he decided to take a short cut by the back-way, for he knew every inch of the ground. This meant skirting fences, climbing over hurdles, and crossing other people's back-yards, where every one he met knew him and greeted him. In this way he could reach the High Street in half the time. He had to pass the garden adjoining his father's, and belonging to a little tumbledown house with four windows. The owner of this house, as Alyosha knew, was a bedridden old woman, living with her daughter, who had been a genteel maid-servant in generals' families in Petersburg. Now she had been at home a year, looking after her sick mother. She always dressed up in fine clothes, though her old mother and she had sunk into such poverty that they went every day to Fyodor Pavlovitch's kitchen for soup and bread, which Marfa gave readily. Yet, though the young woman came up for soup, she had never sold any of her dresses, and one of these even had a long train--a fact which Alyosha had learned from Rakitin, who always knew everything that was going on in the town. He had forgotten it as soon as he heard it, but now, on reaching the garden, he remembered the dress with the train, raised his head, which had been bowed in thought, and came upon something quite unexpected. Over the hurdle in the garden, Dmitri, mounted on something, was leaning forward, gesticulating violently, beckoning to him, obviously afraid to utter a word for fear of being overheard. Alyosha ran up to the hurdle. "It's a good thing you looked up. I was nearly shouting to you," Mitya said in a joyful, hurried whisper. "Climb in here quickly! How splendid that you've come! I was just thinking of you!" Alyosha was delighted too, but he did not know how to get over the hurdle. Mitya put his powerful hand under his elbow to help him jump. Tucking up his cassock, Alyosha leapt over the hurdle with the agility of a bare- legged street urchin. "Well done! Now come along," said Mitya in an enthusiastic whisper. "Where?" whispered Alyosha, looking about him and finding himself in a deserted garden with no one near but themselves. The garden was small, but the house was at least fifty paces away. "There's no one here. Why do you whisper?" asked Alyosha. "Why do I whisper? Deuce take it!" cried Dmitri at the top of his voice. "You see what silly tricks nature plays one. I am here in secret, and on the watch. I'll explain later on, but, knowing it's a secret, I began whispering like a fool, when there's no need. Let us go. Over there. Till then be quiet. I want to kiss you. Glory to God in the world, Glory to God in me ... I was just repeating that, sitting here, before you came." The garden was about three acres in extent, and planted with trees only along the fence at the four sides. There were apple-trees, maples, limes and birch-trees. The middle of the garden was an empty grass space, from which several hundredweight of hay was carried in the summer. The garden was let out for a few roubles for the summer. There were also plantations of raspberries and currants and gooseberries laid out along the sides; a kitchen garden had been planted lately near the house. Dmitri led his brother to the most secluded corner of the garden. There, in a thicket of lime-trees and old bushes of black currant, elder, snowball-tree, and lilac, there stood a tumble-down green summer-house, blackened with age. Its walls were of lattice-work, but there was still a roof which could give shelter. God knows when this summer-house was built. There was a tradition that it had been put up some fifty years before by a retired colonel called von Schmidt, who owned the house at that time. It was all in decay, the floor was rotting, the planks were loose, the woodwork smelled musty. In the summer-house there was a green wooden table fixed in the ground, and round it were some green benches upon which it was still possible to sit. Alyosha had at once observed his brother's exhilarated condition, and on entering the arbor he saw half a bottle of brandy and a wineglass on the table. "That's brandy," Mitya laughed. "I see your look: 'He's drinking again!' Distrust the apparition. Distrust the worthless, lying crowd, And lay aside thy doubts. I'm not drinking, I'm only 'indulging,' as that pig, your Rakitin, says. He'll be a civil councilor one day, but he'll always talk about 'indulging.' Sit down. I could take you in my arms, Alyosha, and press you to my bosom till I crush you, for in the whole world--in reality--in re-al- i-ty--(can you take it in?) I love no one but you!" He uttered the last words in a sort of exaltation. "No one but you and one 'jade' I have fallen in love with, to my ruin. But being in love doesn't mean loving. You may be in love with a woman and yet hate her. Remember that! I can talk about it gayly still. Sit down here by the table and I'll sit beside you and look at you, and go on talking. You shall keep quiet and I'll go on talking, for the time has come. But on reflection, you know, I'd better speak quietly, for here--here--you can never tell what ears are listening. I will explain everything; as they say, 'the story will be continued.' Why have I been longing for you? Why have I been thirsting for you all these days, and just now? (It's five days since I've cast anchor here.) Because it's only to you I can tell everything; because I must, because I need you, because to-morrow I shall fly from the clouds, because to-morrow life is ending and beginning. Have you ever felt, have you ever dreamt of falling down a precipice into a pit? That's just how I'm falling, but not in a dream. And I'm not afraid, and don't you be afraid. At least, I am afraid, but I enjoy it. It's not enjoyment though, but ecstasy. Damn it all, whatever it is! A strong spirit, a weak spirit, a womanish spirit--whatever it is! Let us praise nature: you see what sunshine, how clear the sky is, the leaves are all green, it's still summer; four o'clock in the afternoon and the stillness! Where were you going?" "I was going to father's, but I meant to go to Katerina Ivanovna's first." "To her, and to father! Oo! what a coincidence! Why was I waiting for you? Hungering and thirsting for you in every cranny of my soul and even in my ribs? Why, to send you to father and to her, Katerina Ivanovna, so as to have done with her and with father. To send an angel. I might have sent any one, but I wanted to send an angel. And here you are on your way to see father and her." "Did you really mean to send me?" cried Alyosha with a distressed expression. "Stay! You knew it! And I see you understand it all at once. But be quiet, be quiet for a time. Don't be sorry, and don't cry." Dmitri stood up, thought a moment, and put his finger to his forehead. "She's asked you, written to you a letter or something, that's why you're going to her? You wouldn't be going except for that?" "Here is her note." Alyosha took it out of his pocket. Mitya looked through it quickly. "And you were going the back-way! Oh, gods, I thank you for sending him by the back-way, and he came to me like the golden fish to the silly old fishermen in the fable! Listen, Alyosha, listen, brother! Now I mean to tell you everything, for I must tell some one. An angel in heaven I've told already; but I want to tell an angel on earth. You are an angel on earth. You will hear and judge and forgive. And that's what I need, that some one above me should forgive. Listen! If two people break away from everything on earth and fly off into the unknown, or at least one of them, and before flying off or going to ruin he comes to some one else and says, 'Do this for me'--some favor never asked before that could only be asked on one's deathbed--would that other refuse, if he were a friend or a brother?" "I will do it, but tell me what it is, and make haste," said Alyosha. "Make haste! H'm!... Don't be in a hurry, Alyosha, you hurry and worry yourself. There's no need to hurry now. Now the world has taken a new turning. Ah, Alyosha, what a pity you can't understand ecstasy. But what am I saying to him? As though you didn't understand it. What an ass I am! What am I saying? 'Be noble, O man!'--who says that?" Alyosha made up his mind to wait. He felt that, perhaps, indeed, his work lay here. Mitya sank into thought for a moment, with his elbow on the table and his head in his hand. Both were silent. "Alyosha," said Mitya, "you're the only one who won't laugh. I should like to begin--my confession--with Schiller's _Hymn to Joy_, _An die Freude_! I don't know German, I only know it's called that. Don't think I'm talking nonsense because I'm drunk. I'm not a bit drunk. Brandy's all very well, but I need two bottles to make me drunk: Silenus with his rosy phiz Upon his stumbling ass. But I've not drunk a quarter of a bottle, and I'm not Silenus. I'm not Silenus, though I am strong,(1) for I've made a decision once for all. Forgive me the pun; you'll have to forgive me a lot more than puns to-day. Don't be uneasy. I'm not spinning it out. I'm talking sense, and I'll come to the point in a minute. I won't keep you in suspense. Stay, how does it go?" He raised his head, thought a minute, and began with enthusiasm: "Wild and fearful in his cavern Hid the naked troglodyte, And the homeless nomad wandered Laying waste the fertile plain. Menacing with spear and arrow In the woods the hunter strayed.... Woe to all poor wretches stranded On those cruel and hostile shores! "From the peak of high Olympus Came the mother Ceres down, Seeking in those savage regions Her lost daughter Proserpine. But the Goddess found no refuge, Found no kindly welcome there, And no temple bearing witness To the worship of the gods. "From the fields and from the vineyards Came no fruits to deck the feasts, Only flesh of bloodstained victims Smoldered on the altar-fires, And where'er the grieving goddess Turns her melancholy gaze, Sunk in vilest degradation Man his loathsomeness displays." Mitya broke into sobs and seized Alyosha's hand. "My dear, my dear, in degradation, in degradation now, too. There's a terrible amount of suffering for man on earth, a terrible lot of trouble. Don't think I'm only a brute in an officer's uniform, wallowing in dirt and drink. I hardly think of anything but of that degraded man--if only I'm not lying. I pray God I'm not lying and showing off. I think about that man because I am that man myself. Would he purge his soul from vileness And attain to light and worth, He must turn and cling for ever To his ancient Mother Earth. But the difficulty is how am I to cling for ever to Mother Earth. I don't kiss her. I don't cleave to her bosom. Am I to become a peasant or a shepherd? I go on and I don't know whether I'm going to shame or to light and joy. That's the trouble, for everything in the world is a riddle! And whenever I've happened to sink into the vilest degradation (and it's always been happening) I always read that poem about Ceres and man. Has it reformed me? Never! For I'm a Karamazov. For when I do leap into the pit, I go headlong with my heels up, and am pleased to be falling in that degrading attitude, and pride myself upon it. And in the very depths of that degradation I begin a hymn of praise. Let me be accursed. Let me be vile and base, only let me kiss the hem of the veil in which my God is shrouded. Though I may be following the devil, I am Thy son, O Lord, and I love Thee, and I feel the joy without which the world cannot stand. Joy everlasting fostereth The soul of all creation, It is her secret ferment fires The cup of life with flame. 'Tis at her beck the grass hath turned Each blade towards the light And solar systems have evolved From chaos and dark night, Filling the realms of boundless space Beyond the sage's sight. At bounteous Nature's kindly breast, All things that breathe drink Joy, And birds and beasts and creeping things All follow where She leads. Her gifts to man are friends in need, The wreath, the foaming must, To angels--vision of God's throne, To insects--sensual lust. But enough poetry! I am in tears; let me cry. It may be foolishness that every one would laugh at. But you won't laugh. Your eyes are shining, too. Enough poetry. I want to tell you now about the insects to whom God gave "sensual lust." To insects--sensual lust. I am that insect, brother, and it is said of me specially. All we Karamazovs are such insects, and, angel as you are, that insect lives in you, too, and will stir up a tempest in your blood. Tempests, because sensual lust is a tempest--worse than a tempest! Beauty is a terrible and awful thing! It is terrible because it has not been fathomed and never can be fathomed, for God sets us nothing but riddles. Here the boundaries meet and all contradictions exist side by side. I am not a cultivated man, brother, but I've thought a lot about this. It's terrible what mysteries there are! Too many riddles weigh men down on earth. We must solve them as we can, and try to keep a dry skin in the water. Beauty! I can't endure the thought that a man of lofty mind and heart begins with the ideal of the Madonna and ends with the ideal of Sodom. What's still more awful is that a man with the ideal of Sodom in his soul does not renounce the ideal of the Madonna, and his heart may be on fire with that ideal, genuinely on fire, just as in his days of youth and innocence. Yes, man is broad, too broad, indeed. I'd have him narrower. The devil only knows what to make of it! What to the mind is shameful is beauty and nothing else to the heart. Is there beauty in Sodom? Believe me, that for the immense mass of mankind beauty is found in Sodom. Did you know that secret? The awful thing is that beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and the devil are fighting there and the battlefield is the heart of man. But a man always talks of his own ache. Listen, now to come to facts." Chapter IV. The Confession Of A Passionate Heart--In Anecdote "I was leading a wild life then. Father said just now that I spent several thousand roubles in seducing young girls. That's a swinish invention, and there was nothing of the sort. And if there was, I didn't need money simply for _that_. With me money is an accessory, the overflow of my heart, the framework. To-day she would be my lady, to-morrow a wench out of the streets in her place. I entertained them both. I threw away money by the handful on music, rioting, and gypsies. Sometimes I gave it to the ladies, too, for they'll take it greedily, that must be admitted, and be pleased and thankful for it. Ladies used to be fond of me: not all of them, but it happened, it happened. But I always liked side-paths, little dark back-alleys behind the main road--there one finds adventures and surprises, and precious metal in the dirt. I am speaking figuratively, brother. In the town I was in, there were no such back-alleys in the literal sense, but morally there were. If you were like me, you'd know what that means. I loved vice, I loved the ignominy of vice. I loved cruelty; am I not a bug, am I not a noxious insect? In fact a Karamazov! Once we went, a whole lot of us, for a picnic, in seven sledges. It was dark, it was winter, and I began squeezing a girl's hand, and forced her to kiss me. She was the daughter of an official, a sweet, gentle, submissive creature. She allowed me, she allowed me much in the dark. She thought, poor thing, that I should come next day to make her an offer (I was looked upon as a good match, too). But I didn't say a word to her for five months. I used to see her in a corner at dances (we were always having dances), her eyes watching me. I saw how they glowed with fire--a fire of gentle indignation. This game only tickled that insect lust I cherished in my soul. Five months later she married an official and left the town, still angry, and still, perhaps, in love with me. Now they live happily. Observe that I told no one. I didn't boast of it. Though I'm full of low desires, and love what's low, I'm not dishonorable. You're blushing; your eyes flashed. Enough of this filth with you. And all this was nothing much--wayside blossoms _a la_ Paul de Kock--though the cruel insect had already grown strong in my soul. I've a perfect album of reminiscences, brother. God bless them, the darlings. I tried to break it off without quarreling. And I never gave them away. I never bragged of one of them. But that's enough. You can't suppose I brought you here simply to talk of such nonsense. No, I'm going to tell you something more curious; and don't be surprised that I'm glad to tell you, instead of being ashamed." "You say that because I blushed," Alyosha said suddenly. "I wasn't blushing at what you were saying or at what you've done. I blushed because I am the same as you are." "You? Come, that's going a little too far!" "No, it's not too far," said Alyosha warmly (obviously the idea was not a new one). "The ladder's the same. I'm at the bottom step, and you're above, somewhere about the thirteenth. That's how I see it. But it's all the same. Absolutely the same in kind. Any one on the bottom step is bound to go up to the top one." "Then one ought not to step on at all." "Any one who can help it had better not." "But can you?" "I think not." "Hush, Alyosha, hush, darling! I could kiss your hand, you touch me so. That rogue Grushenka has an eye for men. She told me once that she'd devour you one day. There, there, I won't! From this field of corruption fouled by flies, let's pass to my tragedy, also befouled by flies, that is by every sort of vileness. Although the old man told lies about my seducing innocence, there really was something of the sort in my tragedy, though it was only once, and then it did not come off. The old man who has reproached me with what never happened does not even know of this fact; I never told any one about it. You're the first, except Ivan, of course--Ivan knows everything. He knew about it long before you. But Ivan's a tomb." "Ivan's a tomb?" "Yes." Alyosha listened with great attention. "I was lieutenant in a line regiment, but still I was under supervision, like a kind of convict. Yet I was awfully well received in the little town. I spent money right and left. I was thought to be rich; I thought so myself. But I must have pleased them in other ways as well. Although they shook their heads over me, they liked me. My colonel, who was an old man, took a sudden dislike to me. He was always down upon me, but I had powerful friends, and, moreover, all the town was on my side, so he couldn't do me much harm. I was in fault myself for refusing to treat him with proper respect. I was proud. This obstinate old fellow, who was really a very good sort, kind-hearted and hospitable, had had two wives, both dead. His first wife, who was of a humble family, left a daughter as unpretentious as herself. She was a young woman of four and twenty when I was there, and was living with her father and an aunt, her mother's sister. The aunt was simple and illiterate; the niece was simple but lively. I like to say nice things about people. I never knew a woman of more charming character than Agafya--fancy, her name was Agafya Ivanovna! And she wasn't bad-looking either, in the Russian style: tall, stout, with a full figure, and beautiful eyes, though a rather coarse face. She had not married, although she had had two suitors. She refused them, but was as cheerful as ever. I was intimate with her, not in 'that' way, it was pure friendship. I have often been friendly with women quite innocently. I used to talk to her with shocking frankness, and she only laughed. Many women like such freedom, and she was a girl too, which made it very amusing. Another thing, one could never think of her as a young lady. She and her aunt lived in her father's house with a sort of voluntary humility, not putting themselves on an equality with other people. She was a general favorite, and of use to every one, for she was a clever dressmaker. She had a talent for it. She gave her services freely without asking for payment, but if any one offered her payment, she didn't refuse. The colonel, of course, was a very different matter. He was one of the chief personages in the district. He kept open house, entertained the whole town, gave suppers and dances. At the time I arrived and joined the battalion, all the town was talking of the expected return of the colonel's second daughter, a great beauty, who had just left a fashionable school in the capital. This second daughter is Katerina Ivanovna, and she was the child of the second wife, who belonged to a distinguished general's family; although, as I learnt on good authority, she too brought the colonel no money. She had connections, and that was all. There may have been expectations, but they had come to nothing. "Yet, when the young lady came from boarding-school on a visit, the whole town revived. Our most distinguished ladies--two 'Excellencies' and a colonel's wife--and all the rest following their lead, at once took her up and gave entertainments in her honor. She was the belle of the balls and picnics, and they got up _tableaux vivants_ in aid of distressed governesses. I took no notice, I went on as wildly as before, and one of my exploits at the time set all the town talking. I saw her eyes taking my measure one evening at the battery commander's, but I didn't go up to her, as though I disdained her acquaintance. I did go up and speak to her at an evening party not long after. She scarcely looked at me, and compressed her lips scornfully. 'Wait a bit. I'll have my revenge,' thought I. I behaved like an awful fool on many occasions at that time, and I was conscious of it myself. What made it worse was that I felt that 'Katenka' was not an innocent boarding-school miss, but a person of character, proud and really high-principled; above all, she had education and intellect, and I had neither. You think I meant to make her an offer? No, I simply wanted to revenge myself, because I was such a hero and she didn't seem to feel it. "Meanwhile, I spent my time in drink and riot, till the lieutenant-colonel put me under arrest for three days. Just at that time father sent me six thousand roubles in return for my sending him a deed giving up all claims upon him--settling our accounts, so to speak, and saying that I wouldn't expect anything more. I didn't understand a word of it at the time. Until I came here, Alyosha, till the last few days, indeed, perhaps even now, I haven't been able to make head or tail of my money affairs with father. But never mind that, we'll talk of it later. "Just as I received the money, I got a letter from a friend telling me something that interested me immensely. The authorities, I learnt, were dissatisfied with our lieutenant-colonel. He was suspected of irregularities; in fact, his enemies were preparing a surprise for him. And then the commander of the division arrived, and kicked up the devil of a shindy. Shortly afterwards he was ordered to retire. I won't tell you how it all happened. He had enemies certainly. Suddenly there was a marked coolness in the town towards him and all his family. His friends all turned their backs on him. Then I took my first step. I met Agafya Ivanovna, with whom I'd always kept up a friendship, and said, 'Do you know there's a deficit of 4,500 roubles of government money in your father's accounts?' " 'What do you mean? What makes you say so? The general was here not long ago, and everything was all right.' " 'Then it was, but now it isn't.' "She was terribly scared. " 'Don't frighten me!' she said. 'Who told you so?' " 'Don't be uneasy,' I said, 'I won't tell any one. You know I'm as silent as the tomb. I only wanted, in view of "possibilities," to add, that when they demand that 4,500 roubles from your father, and he can't produce it, he'll be tried, and made to serve as a common soldier in his old age, unless you like to send me your young lady secretly. I've just had money paid me. I'll give her four thousand, if you like, and keep the secret religiously.' " 'Ah, you scoundrel!'--that's what she said. 'You wicked scoundrel! How dare you!' "She went away furiously indignant, while I shouted after her once more that the secret should be kept sacred. Those two simple creatures, Agafya and her aunt, I may as well say at once, behaved like perfect angels all through this business. They genuinely adored their 'Katya,' thought her far above them, and waited on her, hand and foot. But Agafya told her of our conversation. I found that out afterwards. She didn't keep it back, and of course that was all I wanted. "Suddenly the new major arrived to take command of the battalion. The old lieutenant-colonel was taken ill at once, couldn't leave his room for two days, and didn't hand over the government money. Dr. Kravchenko declared that he really was ill. But I knew for a fact, and had known for a long time, that for the last four years the money had never been in his hands except when the Commander made his visits of inspection. He used to lend it to a trustworthy person, a merchant of our town called Trifonov, an old widower, with a big beard and gold-rimmed spectacles. He used to go to the fair, do a profitable business with the money, and return the whole sum to the colonel, bringing with it a present from the fair, as well as interest on the loan. But this time (I heard all about it quite by chance from Trifonov's son and heir, a driveling youth and one of the most vicious in the world)--this time, I say, Trifonov brought nothing back from the fair. The lieutenant-colonel flew to him. 'I've never received any money from you, and couldn't possibly have received any.' That was all the answer he got. So now our lieutenant-colonel is confined to the house, with a towel round his head, while they're all three busy putting ice on it. All at once an orderly arrives on the scene with the book and the order to 'hand over the battalion money immediately, within two hours.' He signed the book (I saw the signature in the book afterwards), stood up, saying he would put on his uniform, ran to his bedroom, loaded his double-barreled gun with a service bullet, took the boot off his right foot, fixed the gun against his chest, and began feeling for the trigger with his foot. But Agafya, remembering what I had told her, had her suspicions. She stole up and peeped into the room just in time. She rushed in, flung herself upon him from behind, threw her arms round him, and the gun went off, hit the ceiling, but hurt no one. The others ran in, took away the gun, and held him by the arms. I heard all about this afterwards. I was at home, it was getting dusk, and I was just preparing to go out. I had dressed, brushed my hair, scented my handkerchief, and taken up my cap, when suddenly the door opened, and facing me in the room stood Katerina Ivanovna. "It's strange how things happen sometimes. No one had seen her in the street, so that no one knew of it in the town. I lodged with two decrepit old ladies, who looked after me. They were most obliging old things, ready to do anything for me, and at my request were as silent afterwards as two cast-iron posts. Of course I grasped the position at once. She walked in and looked straight at me, her dark eyes determined, even defiant, but on her lips and round her mouth I saw uncertainty. " 'My sister told me,' she began, 'that you would give me 4,500 roubles if I came to you for it--myself. I have come ... give me the money!' "She couldn't keep it up. She was breathless, frightened, her voice failed her, and the corners of her mouth and the lines round it quivered. Alyosha, are you listening, or are you asleep?" "Mitya, I know you will tell the whole truth," said Alyosha in agitation. "I am telling it. If I tell the whole truth just as it happened I shan't spare myself. My first idea was a--Karamazov one. Once I was bitten by a centipede, brother, and laid up a fortnight with fever from it. Well, I felt a centipede biting at my heart then--a noxious insect, you understand? I looked her up and down. You've seen her? She's a beauty. But she was beautiful in another way then. At that moment she was beautiful because she was noble, and I was a scoundrel; she in all the grandeur of her generosity and sacrifice for her father, and I--a bug! And, scoundrel as I was, she was altogether at my mercy, body and soul. She was hemmed in. I tell you frankly, that thought, that venomous thought, so possessed my heart that it almost swooned with suspense. It seemed as if there could be no resisting it; as though I should act like a bug, like a venomous spider, without a spark of pity. I could scarcely breathe. Understand, I should have gone next day to ask for her hand, so that it might end honorably, so to speak, and that nobody would or could know. For though I'm a man of base desires, I'm honest. And at that very second some voice seemed to whisper in my ear, 'But when you come to-morrow to make your proposal, that girl won't even see you; she'll order her coachman to kick you out of the yard. "Publish it through all the town," she would say, "I'm not afraid of you." ' I looked at the young lady, my voice had not deceived me. That is how it would be, not a doubt of it. I could see from her face now that I should be turned out of the house. My spite was roused. I longed to play her the nastiest swinish cad's trick: to look at her with a sneer, and on the spot where she stood before me to stun her with a tone of voice that only a shopman could use. " 'Four thousand! What do you mean? I was joking. You've been counting your chickens too easily, madam. Two hundred, if you like, with all my heart. But four thousand is not a sum to throw away on such frivolity. You've put yourself out to no purpose.' "I should have lost the game, of course. She'd have run away. But it would have been an infernal revenge. It would have been worth it all. I'd have howled with regret all the rest of my life, only to have played that trick. Would you believe it, it has never happened to me with any other woman, not one, to look at her at such a moment with hatred. But, on my oath, I looked at her for three seconds, or five perhaps, with fearful hatred--that hate which is only a hair's-breadth from love, from the maddest love! "I went to the window, put my forehead against the frozen pane, and I remember the ice burnt my forehead like fire. I did not keep her long, don't be afraid. I turned round, went up to the table, opened the drawer and took out a banknote for five thousand roubles (it was lying in a French dictionary). Then I showed it her in silence, folded it, handed it to her, opened the door into the passage, and, stepping back, made her a deep bow, a most respectful, a most impressive bow, believe me! She shuddered all over, gazed at me for a second, turned horribly pale--white as a sheet, in fact--and all at once, not impetuously but softly, gently, bowed down to my feet--not a boarding-school curtsey, but a Russian bow, with her forehead to the floor. She jumped up and ran away. I was wearing my sword. I drew it and nearly stabbed myself with it on the spot; why, I don't know. It would have been frightfully stupid, of course. I suppose it was from delight. Can you understand that one might kill oneself from delight? But I didn't stab myself. I only kissed my sword and put it back in the scabbard--which there was no need to have told you, by the way. And I fancy that in telling you about my inner conflict I have laid it on rather thick to glorify myself. But let it pass, and to hell with all who pry into the human heart! Well, so much for that 'adventure' with Katerina Ivanovna. So now Ivan knows of it, and you--no one else." Dmitri got up, took a step or two in his excitement, pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead, then sat down again, not in the same place as before, but on the opposite side, so that Alyosha had to turn quite round to face him. Chapter V. The Confession Of A Passionate Heart--"Heels Up" "Now," said Alyosha, "I understand the first half." "You understand the first half. That half is a drama, and it was played out there. The second half is a tragedy, and it is being acted here." "And I understand nothing of that second half so far," said Alyosha. "And I? Do you suppose I understand it?" "Stop, Dmitri. There's one important question. Tell me, you were betrothed, you are betrothed still?" "We weren't betrothed at once, not for three months after that adventure. The next day I told myself that the incident was closed, concluded, that there would be no sequel. It seemed to me caddish to make her an offer. On her side she gave no sign of life for the six weeks that she remained in the town; except, indeed, for one action. The day after her visit the maid-servant slipped round with an envelope addressed to me. I tore it open: it contained the change out of the banknote. Only four thousand five hundred roubles was needed, but there was a discount of about two hundred on changing it. She only sent me about two hundred and sixty. I don't remember exactly, but not a note, not a word of explanation. I searched the packet for a pencil mark--n-nothing! Well, I spent the rest of the money on such an orgy that the new major was obliged to reprimand me. "Well, the lieutenant-colonel produced the battalion money, to the astonishment of every one, for nobody believed that he had the money untouched. He'd no sooner paid it than he fell ill, took to his bed, and, three weeks later, softening of the brain set in, and he died five days afterwards. He was buried with military honors, for he had not had time to receive his discharge. Ten days after his funeral, Katerina Ivanovna, with her aunt and sister, went to Moscow. And, behold, on the very day they went away (I hadn't seen them, didn't see them off or take leave) I received a tiny note, a sheet of thin blue paper, and on it only one line in pencil: 'I will write to you. Wait. K.' And that was all. "I'll explain the rest now, in two words. In Moscow their fortunes changed with the swiftness of lightning and the unexpectedness of an Arabian fairy-tale. That general's widow, their nearest relation, suddenly lost the two nieces who were her heiresses and next-of-kin--both died in the same week of small-pox. The old lady, prostrated with grief, welcomed Katya as a daughter, as her one hope, clutched at her, altered her will in Katya's favor. But that concerned the future. Meanwhile she gave her, for present use, eighty thousand roubles, as a marriage portion, to do what she liked with. She was an hysterical woman. I saw something of her in Moscow, later. "Well, suddenly I received by post four thousand five hundred roubles. I was speechless with surprise, as you may suppose. Three days later came the promised letter. I have it with me now. You must read it. She offers to be my wife, offers herself to me. 'I love you madly,' she says, 'even if you don't love me, never mind. Be my husband. Don't be afraid. I won't hamper you in any way. I will be your chattel. I will be the carpet under your feet. I want to love you for ever. I want to save you from yourself.' Alyosha, I am not worthy to repeat those lines in my vulgar words and in my vulgar tone, my everlastingly vulgar tone, that I can never cure myself of. That letter stabs me even now. Do you think I don't mind--that I don't mind still? I wrote her an answer at once, as it was impossible for me to go to Moscow. I wrote to her with tears. One thing I shall be ashamed of for ever. I referred to her being rich and having a dowry while I was only a stuck-up beggar! I mentioned money! I ought to have borne it in silence, but it slipped from my pen. Then I wrote at once to Ivan, and told him all I could about it in a letter of six pages, and sent him to her. Why do you look like that? Why are you staring at me? Yes, Ivan fell in love with her; he's in love with her still. I know that. I did a stupid thing, in the world's opinion; but perhaps that one stupid thing may be the saving of us all now. Oo! Don't you see what a lot she thinks of Ivan, how she respects him? When she compares us, do you suppose she can love a man like me, especially after all that has happened here?" "But I am convinced that she does love a man like you, and not a man like him." "She loves her own _virtue_, not me." The words broke involuntarily, and almost malignantly, from Dmitri. He laughed, but a minute later his eyes gleamed, he flushed crimson and struck the table violently with his fist. "I swear, Alyosha," he cried, with intense and genuine anger at himself; "you may not believe me, but as God is holy, and as Christ is God, I swear that though I smiled at her lofty sentiments just now, I know that I am a million times baser in soul than she, and that these lofty sentiments of hers are as sincere as a heavenly angel's. That's the tragedy of it--that I know that for certain. What if any one does show off a bit? Don't I do it myself? And yet I'm sincere, I'm sincere. As for Ivan, I can understand how he must be cursing nature now--with his intellect, too! To see the preference given--to whom, to what? To a monster who, though he is betrothed and all eyes are fixed on him, can't restrain his debaucheries--and before the very eyes of his betrothed! And a man like me is preferred, while he is rejected. And why? Because a girl wants to sacrifice her life and destiny out of gratitude. It's ridiculous! I've never said a word of this to Ivan, and Ivan of course has never dropped a hint of the sort to me. But destiny will be accomplished, and the best man will hold his ground while the undeserving one will vanish into his back- alley for ever--his filthy back-alley, his beloved back-alley, where he is at home and where he will sink in filth and stench at his own free will and with enjoyment. I've been talking foolishly. I've no words left. I use them at random, but it will be as I have said. I shall drown in the back- alley, and she will marry Ivan." "Stop, Dmitri," Alyosha interrupted again with great anxiety. "There's one thing you haven't made clear yet: you are still betrothed all the same, aren't you? How can you break off the engagement if she, your betrothed, doesn't want to?" "Yes, formally and solemnly betrothed. It was all done on my arrival in Moscow, with great ceremony, with ikons, all in fine style. The general's wife blessed us, and--would you believe it?--congratulated Katya. 'You've made a good choice,' she said, 'I see right through him.' And--would you believe it?--she didn't like Ivan, and hardly greeted him. I had a lot of talk with Katya in Moscow. I told her about myself--sincerely, honorably. She listened to everything. There was sweet confusion, There were tender words. Though there were proud words, too. She wrung out of me a mighty promise to reform. I gave my promise, and here--" "What?" "Why, I called to you and brought you out here to-day, this very day--remember it--to send you--this very day again--to Katerina Ivanovna, and--" "What?" "To tell her that I shall never come to see her again. Say, 'He sends you his compliments.' " "But is that possible?" "That's just the reason I'm sending you, in my place, because it's impossible. And, how could I tell her myself?" "And where are you going?" "To the back-alley." "To Grushenka, then!" Alyosha exclaimed mournfully, clasping his hands. "Can Rakitin really have told the truth? I thought that you had just visited her, and that was all." "Can a betrothed man pay such visits? Is such a thing possible and with such a betrothed, and before the eyes of all the world? Confound it, I have some honor! As soon as I began visiting Grushenka, I ceased to be betrothed, and to be an honest man. I understand that. Why do you look at me? You see, I went in the first place to beat her. I had heard, and I know for a fact now, that that captain, father's agent, had given Grushenka an I.O.U. of mine for her to sue me for payment, so as to put an end to me. They wanted to scare me. I went to beat her. I had had a glimpse of her before. She doesn't strike one at first sight. I knew about her old merchant, who's lying ill now, paralyzed; but he's leaving her a decent little sum. I knew, too, that she was fond of money, that she hoarded it, and lent it at a wicked rate of interest, that she's a merciless cheat and swindler. I went to beat her, and I stayed. The storm broke--it struck me down like the plague. I'm plague-stricken still, and I know that everything is over, that there will never be anything more for me. The cycle of the ages is accomplished. That's my position. And though I'm a beggar, as fate would have it, I had three thousand just then in my pocket. I drove with Grushenka to Mokroe, a place twenty-five versts from here. I got gypsies there and champagne and made all the peasants there drunk on it, and all the women and girls. I sent the thousands flying. In three days' time I was stripped bare, but a hero. Do you suppose the hero had gained his end? Not a sign of it from her. I tell you that rogue, Grushenka, has a supple curve all over her body. You can see it in her little foot, even in her little toe. I saw it, and kissed it, but that was all, I swear! 'I'll marry you if you like,' she said, 'you're a beggar, you know. Say that you won't beat me, and will let me do anything I choose, and perhaps I will marry you.' She laughed, and she's laughing still!" Dmitri leapt up with a sort of fury. He seemed all at once as though he were drunk. His eyes became suddenly bloodshot. "And do you really mean to marry her?" "At once, if she will. And if she won't, I shall stay all the same. I'll be the porter at her gate. Alyosha!" he cried. He stopped short before him, and taking him by the shoulders began shaking him violently. "Do you know, you innocent boy, that this is all delirium, senseless delirium, for there's a tragedy here. Let me tell you, Alexey, that I may be a low man, with low and degraded passions, but a thief and a pickpocket Dmitri Karamazov never can be. Well, then; let me tell you that I am a thief and a pickpocket. That very morning, just before I went to beat Grushenka, Katerina Ivanovna sent for me, and in strict secrecy (why I don't know, I suppose she had some reason) asked me to go to the chief town of the province and to post three thousand roubles to Agafya Ivanovna in Moscow, so that nothing should be known of it in the town here. So I had that three thousand roubles in my pocket when I went to see Grushenka, and it was that money we spent at Mokroe. Afterwards I pretended I had been to the town, but did not show her the post office receipt. I said I had sent the money and would bring the receipt, and so far I haven't brought it. I've forgotten it. Now what do you think you're going to her to-day to say? 'He sends his compliments,' and she'll ask you, 'What about the money?' You might still have said to her, 'He's a degraded sensualist, and a low creature, with uncontrolled passions. He didn't send your money then, but wasted it, because, like a low brute, he couldn't control himself.' But still you might have added, 'He isn't a thief though. Here is your three thousand; he sends it back. Send it yourself to Agafya Ivanovna. But he told me to say "he sends his compliments." ' But, as it is, she will ask, 'But where is the money?' " "Mitya, you are unhappy, yes! But not as unhappy as you think. Don't worry yourself to death with despair." "What, do you suppose I'd shoot myself because I can't get three thousand to pay back? That's just it. I shan't shoot myself. I haven't the strength now. Afterwards, perhaps. But now I'm going to Grushenka. I don't care what happens." "And what then?" "I'll be her husband if she deigns to have me, and when lovers come, I'll go into the next room. I'll clean her friends' goloshes, blow up their samovar, run their errands." "Katerina Ivanovna will understand it all," Alyosha said solemnly. "She'll understand how great this trouble is and will forgive. She has a lofty mind, and no one could be more unhappy than you. She'll see that for herself." "She won't forgive everything," said Dmitri, with a grin. "There's something in it, brother, that no woman could forgive. Do you know what would be the best thing to do?" "What?" "Pay back the three thousand." "Where can we get it from? I say, I have two thousand. Ivan will give you another thousand--that makes three. Take it and pay it back." "And when would you get it, your three thousand? You're not of age, besides, and you must--you absolutely must--take my farewell to her to-day, with the money or without it, for I can't drag on any longer, things have come to such a pass. To-morrow is too late. I shall send you to father." "To father?" "Yes, to father first. Ask him for three thousand." "But, Mitya, he won't give it." "As though he would! I know he won't. Do you know the meaning of despair, Alexey?" "Yes." "Listen. Legally he owes me nothing. I've had it all from him, I know that. But morally he owes me something, doesn't he? You know he started with twenty-eight thousand of my mother's money and made a hundred thousand with it. Let him give me back only three out of the twenty-eight thousand, and he'll draw my soul out of hell, and it will atone for many of his sins. For that three thousand--I give you my solemn word--I'll make an end of everything, and he shall hear nothing more of me. For the last time I give him the chance to be a father. Tell him God Himself sends him this chance." "Mitya, he won't give it for anything." "I know he won't. I know it perfectly well. Now, especially. That's not all. I know something more. Now, only a few days ago, perhaps only yesterday he found out for the first time _in earnest_ (underline _in earnest_) that Grushenka is really perhaps not joking, and really means to marry me. He knows her nature; he knows the cat. And do you suppose he's going to give me money to help to bring that about when he's crazy about her himself? And that's not all, either. I can tell you more than that. I know that for the last five days he has had three thousand drawn out of the bank, changed into notes of a hundred roubles, packed into a large envelope, sealed with five seals, and tied across with red tape. You see how well I know all about it! On the envelope is written: 'To my angel, Grushenka, when she will come to me.' He scrawled it himself in silence and in secret, and no one knows that the money's there except the valet, Smerdyakov, whom he trusts like himself. So now he has been expecting Grushenka for the last three or four days; he hopes she'll come for the money. He has sent her word of it, and she has sent him word that perhaps she'll come. And if she does go to the old man, can I marry her after that? You understand now why I'm here in secret and what I'm on the watch for." "For her?" "Yes, for her. Foma has a room in the house of these sluts here. Foma comes from our parts; he was a soldier in our regiment. He does jobs for them. He's watchman at night and goes grouse-shooting in the day-time; and that's how he lives. I've established myself in his room. Neither he nor the women of the house know the secret--that is, that I am on the watch here." "No one but Smerdyakov knows, then?" "No one else. He will let me know if she goes to the old man." "It was he told you about the money, then?" "Yes. It's a dead secret. Even Ivan doesn't know about the money, or anything. The old man is sending Ivan to Tchermashnya on a two or three days' journey. A purchaser has turned up for the copse: he'll give eight thousand for the timber. So the old man keeps asking Ivan to help him by going to arrange it. It will take him two or three days. That's what the old man wants, so that Grushenka can come while he's away." "Then he's expecting Grushenka to-day?" "No, she won't come to-day; there are signs. She's certain not to come," cried Mitya suddenly. "Smerdyakov thinks so, too. Father's drinking now. He's sitting at table with Ivan. Go to him, Alyosha, and ask for the three thousand." "Mitya, dear, what's the matter with you?" cried Alyosha, jumping up from his place, and looking keenly at his brother's frenzied face. For one moment the thought struck him that Dmitri was mad. "What is it? I'm not insane," said Dmitri, looking intently and earnestly at him. "No fear. I am sending you to father, and I know what I'm saying. I believe in miracles." "In miracles?" "In a miracle of Divine Providence. God knows my heart. He sees my despair. He sees the whole picture. Surely He won't let something awful happen. Alyosha, I believe in miracles. Go!" "I am going. Tell me, will you wait for me here?" "Yes. I know it will take some time. You can't go at him point blank. He's drunk now. I'll wait three hours--four, five, six, seven. Only remember you must go to Katerina Ivanovna to-day, if it has to be at midnight, _with the money or without the money_, and say, 'He sends his compliments to you.' I want you to say that verse to her: 'He sends his compliments to you.' " "Mitya! And what if Grushenka comes to-day--if not to-day, to-morrow, or the next day?" "Grushenka? I shall see her. I shall rush out and prevent it." "And if--" "If there's an if, it will be murder. I couldn't endure it." "Who will be murdered?" "The old man. I shan't kill her." "Brother, what are you saying?" "Oh, I don't know.... I don't know. Perhaps I shan't kill, and perhaps I shall. I'm afraid that he will suddenly become so loathsome to me with his face at that moment. I hate his ugly throat, his nose, his eyes, his shameless snigger. I feel a physical repulsion. That's what I'm afraid of. That's what may be too much for me." "I'll go, Mitya. I believe that God will order things for the best, that nothing awful may happen." "And I will sit and wait for the miracle. And if it doesn't come to pass--" Alyosha went thoughtfully towards his father's house. Chapter VI. Smerdyakov He did in fact find his father still at table. Though there was a dining- room in the house, the table was laid as usual in the drawing-room, which was the largest room, and furnished with old-fashioned ostentation. The furniture was white and very old, upholstered in old, red, silky material. In the spaces between the windows there were mirrors in elaborate white and gilt frames, of old-fashioned carving. On the walls, covered with white paper, which was torn in many places, there hung two large portraits--one of some prince who had been governor of the district thirty years before, and the other of some bishop, also long since dead. In the corner opposite the door there were several ikons, before which a lamp was lighted at nightfall ... not so much for devotional purposes as to light the room. Fyodor Pavlovitch used to go to bed very late, at three or four o'clock in the morning, and would wander about the room at night or sit in an arm-chair, thinking. This had become a habit with him. He often slept quite alone in the house, sending his servants to the lodge; but usually Smerdyakov remained, sleeping on a bench in the hall. When Alyosha came in, dinner was over, but coffee and preserves had been served. Fyodor Pavlovitch liked sweet things with brandy after dinner. Ivan was also at table, sipping coffee. The servants, Grigory and Smerdyakov, were standing by. Both the gentlemen and the servants seemed in singularly good spirits. Fyodor Pavlovitch was roaring with laughter. Before he entered the room, Alyosha heard the shrill laugh he knew so well, and could tell from the sound of it that his father had only reached the good-humored stage, and was far from being completely drunk. "Here he is! Here he is!" yelled Fyodor Pavlovitch, highly delighted at seeing Alyosha. "Join us. Sit down. Coffee is a lenten dish, but it's hot and good. I don't offer you brandy, you're keeping the fast. But would you like some? No; I'd better give you some of our famous liqueur. Smerdyakov, go to the cupboard, the second shelf on the right. Here are the keys. Look sharp!" Alyosha began refusing the liqueur. "Never mind. If you won't have it, we will," said Fyodor Pavlovitch, beaming. "But stay--have you dined?" "Yes," answered Alyosha, who had in truth only eaten a piece of bread and drunk a glass of kvas in the Father Superior's kitchen. "Though I should be pleased to have some hot coffee." "Bravo, my darling! He'll have some coffee. Does it want warming? No, it's boiling. It's capital coffee: Smerdyakov's making. My Smerdyakov's an artist at coffee and at fish patties, and at fish soup, too. You must come one day and have some fish soup. Let me know beforehand.... But, stay; didn't I tell you this morning to come home with your mattress and pillow and all? Have you brought your mattress? He he he!" "No, I haven't," said Alyosha, smiling, too. "Ah, but you were frightened, you were frightened this morning, weren't you? There, my darling, I couldn't do anything to vex you. Do you know, Ivan, I can't resist the way he looks one straight in the face and laughs? It makes me laugh all over. I'm so fond of him. Alyosha, let me give you my blessing--a father's blessing." Alyosha rose, but Fyodor Pavlovitch had already changed his mind. "No, no," he said. "I'll just make the sign of the cross over you, for now. Sit still. Now we've a treat for you, in your own line, too. It'll make you laugh. Balaam's ass has begun talking to us here--and how he talks! How he talks!" Balaam's ass, it appeared, was the valet, Smerdyakov. He was a young man of about four and twenty, remarkably unsociable and taciturn. Not that he was shy or bashful. On the contrary, he was conceited and seemed to despise everybody. But we must pause to say a few words about him now. He was brought up by Grigory and Marfa, but the boy grew up "with no sense of gratitude," as Grigory expressed it; he was an unfriendly boy, and seemed to look at the world mistrustfully. In his childhood he was very fond of hanging cats, and burying them with great ceremony. He used to dress up in a sheet as though it were a surplice, and sang, and waved some object over the dead cat as though it were a censer. All this he did on the sly, with the greatest secrecy. Grigory caught him once at this diversion and gave him a sound beating. He shrank into a corner and sulked there for a week. "He doesn't care for you or me, the monster," Grigory used to say to Marfa, "and he doesn't care for any one. Are you a human being?" he said, addressing the boy directly. "You're not a human being. You grew from the mildew in the bath-house.(2) That's what you are." Smerdyakov, it appeared afterwards, could never forgive him those words. Grigory taught him to read and write, and when he was twelve years old, began teaching him the Scriptures. But this teaching came to nothing. At the second or third lesson the boy suddenly grinned. "What's that for?" asked Grigory, looking at him threateningly from under his spectacles. "Oh, nothing. God created light on the first day, and the sun, moon, and stars on the fourth day. Where did the light come from on the first day?" Grigory was thunderstruck. The boy looked sarcastically at his teacher. There was something positively condescending in his expression. Grigory could not restrain himself. "I'll show you where!" he cried, and gave the boy a violent slap on the cheek. The boy took the slap without a word, but withdrew into his corner again for some days. A week later he had his first attack of the disease to which he was subject all the rest of his life--epilepsy. When Fyodor Pavlovitch heard of it, his attitude to the boy seemed changed at once. Till then he had taken no notice of him, though he never scolded him, and always gave him a copeck when he met him. Sometimes, when he was in good humor, he would send the boy something sweet from his table. But as soon as he heard of his illness, he showed an active interest in him, sent for a doctor, and tried remedies, but the disease turned out to be incurable. The fits occurred, on an average, once a month, but at various intervals. The fits varied too, in violence: some were light and some were very severe. Fyodor Pavlovitch strictly forbade Grigory to use corporal punishment to the boy, and began allowing him to come upstairs to him. He forbade him to be taught anything whatever for a time, too. One day when the boy was about fifteen, Fyodor Pavlovitch noticed him lingering by the bookcase, and reading the titles through the glass. Fyodor Pavlovitch had a fair number of books--over a hundred--but no one ever saw him reading. He at once gave Smerdyakov the key of the bookcase. "Come, read. You shall be my librarian. You'll be better sitting reading than hanging about the courtyard. Come, read this," and Fyodor Pavlovitch gave him _Evenings in a Cottage near Dikanka_. He read a little but didn't like it. He did not once smile, and ended by frowning. "Why? Isn't it funny?" asked Fyodor Pavlovitch. Smerdyakov did not speak. "Answer, stupid!" "It's all untrue," mumbled the boy, with a grin. "Then go to the devil! You have the soul of a lackey. Stay, here's Smaragdov's _Universal History_. That's all true. Read that." But Smerdyakov did not get through ten pages of Smaragdov. He thought it dull. So the bookcase was closed again. Shortly afterwards Marfa and Grigory reported to Fyodor Pavlovitch that Smerdyakov was gradually beginning to show an extraordinary fastidiousness. He would sit before his soup, take up his spoon and look into the soup, bend over it, examine it, take a spoonful and hold it to the light. "What is it? A beetle?" Grigory would ask. "A fly, perhaps," observed Marfa. The squeamish youth never answered, but he did the same with his bread, his meat, and everything he ate. He would hold a piece on his fork to the light, scrutinize it microscopically, and only after long deliberation decide to put it in his mouth. "Ach! What fine gentlemen's airs!" Grigory muttered, looking at him. When Fyodor Pavlovitch heard of this development in Smerdyakov he determined to make him his cook, and sent him to Moscow to be trained. He spent some years there and came back remarkably changed in appearance. He looked extraordinarily old for his age. His face had grown wrinkled, yellow, and strangely emasculate. In character he seemed almost exactly the same as before he went away. He was just as unsociable, and showed not the slightest inclination for any companionship. In Moscow, too, as we heard afterwards, he had always been silent. Moscow itself had little interest for him; he saw very little there, and took scarcely any notice of anything. He went once to the theater, but returned silent and displeased with it. On the other hand, he came back to us from Moscow well dressed, in a clean coat and clean linen. He brushed his clothes most scrupulously twice a day invariably, and was very fond of cleaning his smart calf boots with a special English polish, so that they shone like mirrors. He turned out a first-rate cook. Fyodor Pavlovitch paid him a salary, almost the whole of which Smerdyakov spent on clothes, pomade, perfumes, and such things. But he seemed to have as much contempt for the female sex as for men; he was discreet, almost unapproachable, with them. Fyodor Pavlovitch began to regard him rather differently. His fits were becoming more frequent, and on the days he was ill Marfa cooked, which did not suit Fyodor Pavlovitch at all. "Why are your fits getting worse?" asked Fyodor Pavlovitch, looking askance at his new cook. "Would you like to get married? Shall I find you a wife?" But Smerdyakov turned pale with anger, and made no reply. Fyodor Pavlovitch left him with an impatient gesture. The great thing was that he had absolute confidence in his honesty. It happened once, when Fyodor Pavlovitch was drunk, that he dropped in the muddy courtyard three hundred-rouble notes which he had only just received. He only missed them next day, and was just hastening to search his pockets when he saw the notes lying on the table. Where had they come from? Smerdyakov had picked them up and brought them in the day before. "Well, my lad, I've never met any one like you," Fyodor Pavlovitch said shortly, and gave him ten roubles. We may add that he not only believed in his honesty, but had, for some reason, a liking for him, although the young man looked as morosely at him as at every one and was always silent. He rarely spoke. If it had occurred to any one to wonder at the time what the young man was interested in, and what was in his mind, it would have been impossible to tell by looking at him. Yet he used sometimes to stop suddenly in the house, or even in the yard or street, and would stand still for ten minutes, lost in thought. A physiognomist studying his face would have said that there was no thought in it, no reflection, but only a sort of contemplation. There is a remarkable picture by the painter Kramskoy, called "Contemplation." There is a forest in winter, and on a roadway through the forest, in absolute solitude, stands a peasant in a torn kaftan and bark shoes. He stands, as it were, lost in thought. Yet he is not thinking; he is "contemplating." If any one touched him he would start and look at one as though awakening and bewildered. It's true he would come to himself immediately; but if he were asked what he had been thinking about, he would remember nothing. Yet probably he has, hidden within himself, the impression which had dominated him during the period of contemplation. Those impressions are dear to him and no doubt he hoards them imperceptibly, and even unconsciously. How and why, of course, he does not know either. He may suddenly, after hoarding impressions for many years, abandon everything and go off to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage for his soul's salvation, or perhaps he will suddenly set fire to his native village, and perhaps do both. There are a good many "contemplatives" among the peasantry. Well, Smerdyakov was probably one of them, and he probably was greedily hoarding up his impressions, hardly knowing why. Chapter VII. The Controversy But Balaam's ass had suddenly spoken. The subject was a strange one. Grigory had gone in the morning to make purchases, and had heard from the shopkeeper Lukyanov the story of a Russian soldier which had appeared in the newspaper of that day. This soldier had been taken prisoner in some remote part of Asia, and was threatened with an immediate agonizing death if he did not renounce Christianity and follow Islam. He refused to deny his faith, and was tortured, flayed alive, and died, praising and glorifying Christ. Grigory had related the story at table. Fyodor Pavlovitch always liked, over the dessert after dinner, to laugh and talk, if only with Grigory. This afternoon he was in a particularly good-humored and expansive mood. Sipping his brandy and listening to the story, he observed that they ought to make a saint of a soldier like that, and to take his skin to some monastery. "That would make the people flock, and bring the money in." Grigory frowned, seeing that Fyodor Pavlovitch was by no means touched, but, as usual, was beginning to scoff. At that moment Smerdyakov, who was standing by the door, smiled. Smerdyakov often waited at table towards the end of dinner, and since Ivan's arrival in our town he had done so every day. "What are you grinning at?" asked Fyodor Pavlovitch, catching the smile instantly, and knowing that it referred to Grigory. "Well, my opinion is," Smerdyakov began suddenly and unexpectedly in a loud voice, "that if that laudable soldier's exploit was so very great there would have been, to my thinking, no sin in it if he had on such an emergency renounced, so to speak, the name of Christ and his own christening, to save by that same his life, for good deeds, by which, in the course of years to expiate his cowardice." "How could it not be a sin? You're talking nonsense. For that you'll go straight to hell and be roasted there like mutton," put in Fyodor Pavlovitch. It was at this point that Alyosha came in, and Fyodor Pavlovitch, as we have seen, was highly delighted at his appearance. "We're on your subject, your subject," he chuckled gleefully, making Alyosha sit down to listen. "As for mutton, that's not so, and there'll be nothing there for this, and there shouldn't be either, if it's according to justice," Smerdyakov maintained stoutly. "How do you mean 'according to justice'?" Fyodor Pavlovitch cried still more gayly, nudging Alyosha with his knee. "He's a rascal, that's what he is!" burst from Grigory. He looked Smerdyakov wrathfully in the face. "As for being a rascal, wait a little, Grigory Vassilyevitch," answered Smerdyakov with perfect composure. "You'd better consider yourself that, once I am taken prisoner by the enemies of the Christian race, and they demand from me to curse the name of God and to renounce my holy christening, I am fully entitled to act by my own reason, since there would be no sin in it." "But you've said that before. Don't waste words. Prove it," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch. "Soup-maker!" muttered Grigory contemptuously. "As for being a soup-maker, wait a bit, too, and consider for yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch, without abusing me. For as soon as I say to those enemies, 'No, I'm not a Christian, and I curse my true God,' then at once, by God's high judgment, I become immediately and specially anathema accursed, and am cut off from the Holy Church, exactly as though I were a heathen, so that at that very instant, not only when I say it aloud, but when I think of saying it, before a quarter of a second has passed, I am cut off. Is that so or not, Grigory Vassilyevitch?" He addressed Grigory with obvious satisfaction, though he was really answering Fyodor Pavlovitch's questions, and was well aware of it, and intentionally pretending that Grigory had asked the questions. "Ivan," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch suddenly, "stoop down for me to whisper. He's got this all up for your benefit. He wants you to praise him. Praise him." Ivan listened with perfect seriousness to his father's excited whisper. "Stay, Smerdyakov, be quiet a minute," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch once more. "Ivan, your ear again." Ivan bent down again with a perfectly grave face. "I love you as I do Alyosha. Don't think I don't love you. Some brandy?" "Yes.--But you're rather drunk yourself," thought Ivan, looking steadily at his father. He was watching Smerdyakov with great curiosity. "You're anathema accursed, as it is," Grigory suddenly burst out, "and how dare you argue, you rascal, after that, if--" "Don't scold him, Grigory, don't scold him," Fyodor Pavlovitch cut him short. "You should wait, Grigory Vassilyevitch, if only a short time, and listen, for I haven't finished all I had to say. For at the very moment I become accursed, at that same highest moment, I become exactly like a heathen, and my christening is taken off me and becomes of no avail. Isn't that so?" "Make haste and finish, my boy," Fyodor Pavlovitch urged him, sipping from his wine-glass with relish. "And if I've ceased to be a Christian, then I told no lie to the enemy when they asked whether I was a Christian or not a Christian, seeing I had already been relieved by God Himself of my Christianity by reason of the thought alone, before I had time to utter a word to the enemy. And if I have already been discharged, in what manner and with what sort of justice can I be held responsible as a Christian in the other world for having denied Christ, when, through the very thought alone, before denying Him I had been relieved from my christening? If I'm no longer a Christian, then I can't renounce Christ, for I've nothing then to renounce. Who will hold an unclean Tatar responsible, Grigory Vassilyevitch, even in heaven, for not having been born a Christian? And who would punish him for that, considering that you can't take two skins off one ox? For God Almighty Himself, even if He did make the Tatar responsible, when he dies would give him the smallest possible punishment, I imagine (since he must be punished), judging that he is not to blame if he has come into the world an unclean heathen, from heathen parents. The Lord God can't surely take a Tatar and say he was a Christian? That would mean that the Almighty would tell a real untruth. And can the Lord of Heaven and earth tell a lie, even in one word?" Grigory was thunderstruck and looked at the orator, his eyes nearly starting out of his head. Though he did not clearly understand what was said, he had caught something in this rigmarole, and stood, looking like a man who has just hit his head against a wall. Fyodor Pavlovitch emptied his glass and went off into his shrill laugh. "Alyosha! Alyosha! What do you say to that! Ah, you casuist! He must have been with the Jesuits, somewhere, Ivan. Oh, you stinking Jesuit, who taught you? But you're talking nonsense, you casuist, nonsense, nonsense, nonsense. Don't cry, Grigory, we'll reduce him to smoke and ashes in a moment. Tell me this, O ass; you may be right before your enemies, but you have renounced your faith all the same in your own heart, and you say yourself that in that very hour you became anathema accursed. And if once you're anathema they won't pat you on the head for it in hell. What do you say to that, my fine Jesuit?" "There is no doubt that I have renounced it in my own heart, but there was no special sin in that. Or if there was sin, it was the most ordinary." "How's that the most ordinary?" "You lie, accursed one!" hissed Grigory. "Consider yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch," Smerdyakov went on, staid and unruffled, conscious of his triumph, but, as it were, generous to the vanquished foe. "Consider yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch; it is said in the Scripture that if you have faith, even as a mustard seed, and bid a mountain move into the sea, it will move without the least delay at your bidding. Well, Grigory Vassilyevitch, if I'm without faith and you have so great a faith that you are continually swearing at me, you try yourself telling this mountain, not to move into the sea for that's a long way off, but even to our stinking little river which runs at the bottom of the garden. You'll see for yourself that it won't budge, but will remain just where it is however much you shout at it, and that shows, Grigory Vassilyevitch, that you haven't faith in the proper manner, and only abuse others about it. Again, taking into consideration that no one in our day, not only you, but actually no one, from the highest person to the lowest peasant, can shove mountains into the sea--except perhaps some one man in the world, or, at most, two, and they most likely are saving their souls in secret somewhere in the Egyptian desert, so you wouldn't find them--if so it be, if all the rest have no faith, will God curse all the rest? that is, the population of the whole earth, except about two hermits in the desert, and in His well-known mercy will He not forgive one of them? And so I'm persuaded that though I may once have doubted I shall be forgiven if I shed tears of repentance." "Stay!" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, in a transport of delight. "So you do suppose there are two who can move mountains? Ivan, make a note of it, write it down. There you have the Russian all over!" "You're quite right in saying it's characteristic of the people's faith," Ivan assented, with an approving smile. "You agree. Then it must be so, if you agree. It's true, isn't it, Alyosha? That's the Russian faith all over, isn't it?" "No, Smerdyakov has not the Russian faith at all," said Alyosha firmly and gravely. "I'm not talking about his faith. I mean those two in the desert, only that idea. Surely that's Russian, isn't it?" "Yes, that's purely Russian," said Alyosha smiling. "Your words are worth a gold piece, O ass, and I'll give it to you to-day. But as to the rest you talk nonsense, nonsense, nonsense. Let me tell you, stupid, that we here are all of little faith, only from carelessness, because we haven't time; things are too much for us, and, in the second place, the Lord God has given us so little time, only twenty-four hours in the day, so that one hasn't even time to get sleep enough, much less to repent of one's sins. While you have denied your faith to your enemies when you'd nothing else to think about but to show your faith! So I consider, brother, that it constitutes a sin." "Constitute a sin it may, but consider yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch, that it only extenuates it, if it does constitute. If I had believed then in very truth, as I ought to have believed, then it really would have been sinful if I had not faced tortures for my faith, and had gone over to the pagan Mohammedan faith. But, of course, it wouldn't have come to torture then, because I should only have had to say at that instant to the mountain, 'Move and crush the tormentor,' and it would have moved and at the very instant have crushed him like a black-beetle, and I should have walked away as though nothing had happened, praising and glorifying God. But, suppose at that very moment I had tried all that, and cried to that mountain, 'Crush these tormentors,' and it hadn't crushed them, how could I have helped doubting, pray, at such a time, and at such a dread hour of mortal terror? And apart from that, I should know already that I could not attain to the fullness of the Kingdom of Heaven (for since the mountain had not moved at my word, they could not think very much of my faith up aloft, and there could be no very great reward awaiting me in the world to come). So why should I let them flay the skin off me as well, and to no good purpose? For, even though they had flayed my skin half off my back, even then the mountain would not have moved at my word or at my cry. And at such a moment not only doubt might come over one but one might lose one's reason from fear, so that one would not be able to think at all. And, therefore, how should I be particularly to blame if not seeing my advantage or reward there or here, I should, at least, save my skin. And so trusting fully in the grace of the Lord I should cherish the hope that I might be altogether forgiven." Chapter VIII. Over The Brandy The controversy was over. But, strange to say, Fyodor Pavlovitch, who had been so gay, suddenly began frowning. He frowned and gulped brandy, and it was already a glass too much. "Get along with you, Jesuits!" he cried to the servants. "Go away, Smerdyakov. I'll send you the gold piece I promised you to-day, but be off! Don't cry, Grigory. Go to Marfa. She'll comfort you and put you to bed. The rascals won't let us sit in peace after dinner," he snapped peevishly, as the servants promptly withdrew at his word. "Smerdyakov always pokes himself in now, after dinner. It's you he's so interested in. What have you done to fascinate him?" he added to Ivan. "Nothing whatever," answered Ivan. "He's pleased to have a high opinion of me; he's a lackey and a mean soul. Raw material for revolution, however, when the time comes." "For revolution?" "There will be others and better ones. But there will be some like him as well. His kind will come first, and better ones after." "And when will the time come?" "The rocket will go off and fizzle out, perhaps. The peasants are not very fond of listening to these soup-makers, so far." "Ah, brother, but a Balaam's ass like that thinks and thinks, and the devil knows where he gets to." "He's storing up ideas," said Ivan, smiling. "You see, I know he can't bear me, nor any one else, even you, though you fancy that he has a high opinion of you. Worse still with Alyosha, he despises Alyosha. But he doesn't steal, that's one thing, and he's not a gossip, he holds his tongue, and doesn't wash our dirty linen in public. He makes capital fish pasties too. But, damn him, is he worth talking about so much?" "Of course he isn't." "And as for the ideas he may be hatching, the Russian peasant, generally speaking, needs thrashing. That I've always maintained. Our peasants are swindlers, and don't deserve to be pitied, and it's a good thing they're still flogged sometimes. Russia is rich in birches. If they destroyed the forests, it would be the ruin of Russia. I stand up for the clever people. We've left off thrashing the peasants, we've grown so clever, but they go on thrashing themselves. And a good thing too. 'For with what measure ye mete it shall be measured to you again,' or how does it go? Anyhow, it will be measured. But Russia's all swinishness. My dear, if you only knew how I hate Russia.... That is, not Russia, but all this vice! But maybe I mean Russia. _Tout cela c'est de la cochonnerie_.... Do you know what I like? I like wit." "You've had another glass. That's enough." "Wait a bit. I'll have one more, and then another, and then I'll stop. No, stay, you interrupted me. At Mokroe I was talking to an old man, and he told me: 'There's nothing we like so much as sentencing girls to be thrashed, and we always give the lads the job of thrashing them. And the girl he has thrashed to-day, the young man will ask in marriage to-morrow. So it quite suits the girls, too,' he said. There's a set of de Sades for you! But it's clever, anyway. Shall we go over and have a look at it, eh? Alyosha, are you blushing? Don't be bashful, child. I'm sorry I didn't stay to dinner at the Superior's and tell the monks about the girls at Mokroe. Alyosha, don't be angry that I offended your Superior this morning. I lost my temper. If there is a God, if He exists, then, of course, I'm to blame, and I shall have to answer for it. But if there isn't a God at all, what do they deserve, your fathers? It's not enough to cut their heads off, for they keep back progress. Would you believe it, Ivan, that that lacerates my sentiments? No, you don't believe it as I see from your eyes. You believe what people say, that I'm nothing but a buffoon. Alyosha, do you believe that I'm nothing but a buffoon?" "No, I don't believe it." "And I believe you don't, and that you speak the truth. You look sincere and you speak sincerely. But not Ivan. Ivan's supercilious.... I'd make an end of your monks, though, all the same. I'd take all that mystic stuff and suppress it, once for all, all over Russia, so as to bring all the fools to reason. And the gold and the silver that would flow into the mint!" "But why suppress it?" asked Ivan. "That Truth may prevail. That's why." "Well, if Truth were to prevail, you know, you'd be the first to be robbed and suppressed." "Ah! I dare say you're right. Ah, I'm an ass!" burst out Fyodor Pavlovitch, striking himself lightly on the forehead. "Well, your monastery may stand then, Alyosha, if that's how it is. And we clever people will sit snug and enjoy our brandy. You know, Ivan, it must have been so ordained by the Almighty Himself. Ivan, speak, is there a God or not? Stay, speak the truth, speak seriously. Why are you laughing again?" "I'm laughing that you should have made a clever remark just now about Smerdyakov's belief in the existence of two saints who could move mountains." "Why, am I like him now, then?" "Very much." "Well, that shows I'm a Russian, too, and I have a Russian characteristic. And you may be caught in the same way, though you are a philosopher. Shall I catch you? What do you bet that I'll catch you to-morrow. Speak, all the same, is there a God, or not? Only, be serious. I want you to be serious now." "No, there is no God." "Alyosha, is there a God?" "There is." "Ivan, and is there immortality of some sort, just a little, just a tiny bit?" "There is no immortality either." "None at all?" "None at all." "There's absolute nothingness then. Perhaps there is just something? Anything is better than nothing!" "Absolute nothingness." "Alyosha, is there immortality?" "There is." "God and immortality?" "God and immortality. In God is immortality." "H'm! It's more likely Ivan's right. Good Lord! to think what faith, what force of all kinds, man has lavished for nothing, on that dream, and for how many thousand years. Who is it laughing at man? Ivan! For the last time, once for all, is there a God or not? I ask for the last time!" "And for the last time there is not." "Who is laughing at mankind, Ivan?" "It must be the devil," said Ivan, smiling. "And the devil? Does he exist?" "No, there's no devil either." "It's a pity. Damn it all, what wouldn't I do to the man who first invented God! Hanging on a bitter aspen tree would be too good for him." "There would have been no civilization if they hadn't invented God." "Wouldn't there have been? Without God?" "No. And there would have been no brandy either. But I must take your brandy away from you, anyway." "Stop, stop, stop, dear boy, one more little glass. I've hurt Alyosha's feelings. You're not angry with me, Alyosha? My dear little Alexey!" "No, I am not angry. I know your thoughts. Your heart is better than your head." "My heart better than my head, is it? Oh, Lord! And that from you. Ivan, do you love Alyosha?" "Yes." "You must love him" (Fyodor Pavlovitch was by this time very drunk). "Listen, Alyosha, I was rude to your elder this morning. But I was excited. But there's wit in that elder, don't you think, Ivan?" "Very likely." "There is, there is. _Il y a du Piron la-dedans._ He's a Jesuit, a Russian one, that is. As he's an honorable person there's a hidden indignation boiling within him at having to pretend and affect holiness." "But, of course, he believes in God." "Not a bit of it. Didn't you know? Why, he tells every one so, himself. That is, not every one, but all the clever people who come to him. He said straight out to Governor Schultz not long ago: '_Credo_, but I don't know in what.' " "Really?" "He really did. But I respect him. There's something of Mephistopheles about him, or rather of 'The hero of our time' ... Arbenin, or what's his name?... You see, he's a sensualist. He's such a sensualist that I should be afraid for my daughter or my wife if she went to confess to him. You know, when he begins telling stories.... The year before last he invited us to tea, tea with liqueur (the ladies send him liqueur), and began telling us about old times till we nearly split our sides.... Especially how he once cured a paralyzed woman. 'If my legs were not bad I know a dance I could dance you,' he said. What do you say to that? 'I've plenty of tricks in my time,' said he. He did Dernidov, the merchant, out of sixty thousand." "What, he stole it?" "He brought him the money as a man he could trust, saying, 'Take care of it for me, friend, there'll be a police search at my place to-morrow.' And he kept it. 'You have given it to the Church,' he declared. I said to him: 'You're a scoundrel,' I said. 'No,' said he, 'I'm not a scoundrel, but I'm broad-minded.' But that wasn't he, that was some one else. I've muddled him with some one else ... without noticing it. Come, another glass and that's enough. Take away the bottle, Ivan. I've been telling lies. Why didn't you stop me, Ivan, and tell me I was lying?" "I knew you'd stop of yourself." "That's a lie. You did it from spite, from simple spite against me. You despise me. You have come to me and despised me in my own house." "Well, I'm going away. You've had too much brandy." "I've begged you for Christ's sake to go to Tchermashnya for a day or two, and you don't go." "I'll go to-morrow if you're so set upon it." "You won't go. You want to keep an eye on me. That's what you want, spiteful fellow. That's why you won't go." The old man persisted. He had reached that state of drunkenness when the drunkard who has till then been inoffensive tries to pick a quarrel and to assert himself. "Why are you looking at me? Why do you look like that? Your eyes look at me and say, 'You ugly drunkard!' Your eyes are mistrustful. They're contemptuous.... You've come here with some design. Alyosha, here, looks at me and his eyes shine. Alyosha doesn't despise me. Alexey, you mustn't love Ivan." "Don't be ill-tempered with my brother. Leave off attacking him," Alyosha said emphatically. "Oh, all right. Ugh, my head aches. Take away the brandy, Ivan. It's the third time I've told you." He mused, and suddenly a slow, cunning grin spread over his face. "Don't be angry with a feeble old man, Ivan. I know you don't love me, but don't be angry all the same. You've nothing to love me for. You go to Tchermashnya. I'll come to you myself and bring you a present. I'll show you a little wench there. I've had my eye on her a long time. She's still running about bare-foot. Don't be afraid of bare-footed wenches--don't despise them--they're pearls!" And he kissed his hand with a smack. "To my thinking," he revived at once, seeming to grow sober the instant he touched on his favorite topic. "To my thinking ... Ah, you boys! You children, little sucking-pigs, to my thinking ... I never thought a woman ugly in my life--that's been my rule! Can you understand that? How could you understand it? You've milk in your veins, not blood. You're not out of your shells yet. My rule has been that you can always find something devilishly interesting in every woman that you wouldn't find in any other. Only, one must know how to find it, that's the point! That's a talent! To my mind there are no ugly women. The very fact that she is a woman is half the battle ... but how could you understand that? Even in _vieilles filles_, even in them you may discover something that makes you simply wonder that men have been such fools as to let them grow old without noticing them. Bare-footed girls or unattractive ones, you must take by surprise. Didn't you know that? You must astound them till they're fascinated, upset, ashamed that such a gentleman should fall in love with such a little slut. It's a jolly good thing that there always are and will be masters and slaves in the world, so there always will be a little maid- of-all-work and her master, and you know, that's all that's needed for happiness. Stay ... listen, Alyosha, I always used to surprise your mother, but in a different way. I paid no attention to her at all, but all at once, when the minute came, I'd be all devotion to her, crawl on my knees, kiss her feet, and I always, always--I remember it as though it were to-day--reduced her to that tinkling, quiet, nervous, queer little laugh. It was peculiar to her. I knew her attacks always used to begin like that. The next day she would begin shrieking hysterically, and this little laugh was not a sign of delight, though it made a very good counterfeit. That's the great thing, to know how to take every one. Once Belyavsky--he was a handsome fellow, and rich--used to like to come here and hang about her--suddenly gave me a slap in the face in her presence. And she--such a mild sheep--why, I thought she would have knocked me down for that blow. How she set on me! 'You're beaten, beaten now,' she said. 'You've taken a blow from him. You have been trying to sell me to him,' she said.... 'And how dared he strike you in my presence! Don't dare come near me again, never, never! Run at once, challenge him to a duel!'... I took her to the monastery then to bring her to her senses. The holy Fathers prayed her back to reason. But I swear, by God, Alyosha, I never insulted the poor crazy girl! Only once, perhaps, in the first year; then she was very fond of praying. She used to keep the feasts of Our Lady particularly and used to turn me out of her room then. I'll knock that mysticism out of her, thought I! 'Here,' said I, 'you see your holy image. Here it is. Here I take it down. You believe it's miraculous, but here, I'll spit on it directly and nothing will happen to me for it!'... When she saw it, good Lord! I thought she would kill me. But she only jumped up, wrung her hands, then suddenly hid her face in them, began trembling all over and fell on the floor ... fell all of a heap. Alyosha, Alyosha, what's the matter?" The old man jumped up in alarm. From the time he had begun speaking about his mother, a change had gradually come over Alyosha's face. He flushed crimson, his eyes glowed, his lips quivered. The old sot had gone spluttering on, noticing nothing, till the moment when something very strange happened to Alyosha. Precisely what he was describing in the crazy woman was suddenly repeated with Alyosha. He jumped up from his seat exactly as his mother was said to have done, wrung his hands, hid his face in them, and fell back in his chair, shaking all over in an hysterical paroxysm of sudden violent, silent weeping. His extraordinary resemblance to his mother particularly impressed the old man. "Ivan, Ivan! Water, quickly! It's like her, exactly as she used to be then, his mother. Spurt some water on him from your mouth, that's what I used to do to her. He's upset about his mother, his mother," he muttered to Ivan. "But she was my mother, too, I believe, his mother. Was she not?" said Ivan, with uncontrolled anger and contempt. The old man shrank before his flashing eyes. But something very strange had happened, though only for a second; it seemed really to have escaped the old man's mind that Alyosha's mother actually was the mother of Ivan too. "Your mother?" he muttered, not understanding. "What do you mean? What mother are you talking about? Was she?... Why, damn it! of course she was yours too! Damn it! My mind has never been so darkened before. Excuse me, why, I was thinking, Ivan.... He he he!" He stopped. A broad, drunken, half-senseless grin overspread his face. At that moment a fearful noise and clamor was heard in the hall, there were violent shouts, the door was flung open, and Dmitri burst into the room. The old man rushed to Ivan in terror. "He'll kill me! He'll kill me! Don't let him get at me!" he screamed, clinging to the skirt of Ivan's coat. Chapter IX. The Sensualists Grigory and Smerdyakov ran into the room after Dmitri. They had been struggling with him in the passage, refusing to admit him, acting on instructions given them by Fyodor Pavlovitch some days before. Taking advantage of the fact that Dmitri stopped a moment on entering the room to look about him, Grigory ran round the table, closed the double doors on the opposite side of the room leading to the inner apartments, and stood before the closed doors, stretching wide his arms, prepared to defend the entrance, so to speak, with the last drop of his blood. Seeing this, Dmitri uttered a scream rather than a shout and rushed at Grigory. "Then she's there! She's hidden there! Out of the way, scoundrel!" He tried to pull Grigory away, but the old servant pushed him back. Beside himself with fury, Dmitri struck out, and hit Grigory with all his might. The old man fell like a log, and Dmitri, leaping over him, broke in the door. Smerdyakov remained pale and trembling at the other end of the room, huddling close to Fyodor Pavlovitch. "She's here!" shouted Dmitri. "I saw her turn towards the house just now, but I couldn't catch her. Where is she? Where is she?" That shout, "She's here!" produced an indescribable effect on Fyodor Pavlovitch. All his terror left him. "Hold him! Hold him!" he cried, and dashed after Dmitri. Meanwhile Grigory had got up from the floor, but still seemed stunned. Ivan and Alyosha ran after their father. In the third room something was heard to fall on the floor with a ringing crash: it was a large glass vase--not an expensive one--on a marble pedestal which Dmitri had upset as he ran past it. "At him!" shouted the old man. "Help!" Ivan and Alyosha caught the old man and were forcibly bringing him back. "Why do you run after him? He'll murder you outright," Ivan cried wrathfully at his father. "Ivan! Alyosha! She must be here. Grushenka's here. He said he saw her himself, running." He was choking. He was not expecting Grushenka at the time, and the sudden news that she was here made him beside himself. He was trembling all over. He seemed frantic. "But you've seen for yourself that she hasn't come," cried Ivan. "But she may have come by that other entrance." "You know that entrance is locked, and you have the key." Dmitri suddenly reappeared in the drawing-room. He had, of course, found the other entrance locked, and the key actually was in Fyodor Pavlovitch's pocket. The windows of all the rooms were also closed, so Grushenka could not have come in anywhere nor have run out anywhere. "Hold him!" shrieked Fyodor Pavlovitch, as soon as he saw him again. "He's been stealing money in my bedroom." And tearing himself from Ivan he rushed again at Dmitri. But Dmitri threw up both hands and suddenly clutched the old man by the two tufts of hair that remained on his temples, tugged at them, and flung him with a crash on the floor. He kicked him two or three times with his heel in the face. The old man moaned shrilly. Ivan, though not so strong as Dmitri, threw his arms round him, and with all his might pulled him away. Alyosha helped him with his slender strength, holding Dmitri in front. "Madman! You've killed him!" cried Ivan. "Serve him right!" shouted Dmitri breathlessly. "If I haven't killed him, I'll come again and kill him. You can't protect him!" "Dmitri! Go away at once!" cried Alyosha commandingly. "Alexey! You tell me. It's only you I can believe; was she here just now, or not? I saw her myself creeping this way by the fence from the lane. I shouted, she ran away." "I swear she's not been here, and no one expected her." "But I saw her.... So she must ... I'll find out at once where she is.... Good-by, Alexey! Not a word to AEsop about the money now. But go to Katerina Ivanovna at once and be sure to say, 'He sends his compliments to you!' Compliments, his compliments! Just compliments and farewell! Describe the scene to her." Meanwhile Ivan and Grigory had raised the old man and seated him in an arm-chair. His face was covered with blood, but he was conscious and listened greedily to Dmitri's cries. He was still fancying that Grushenka really was somewhere in the house. Dmitri looked at him with hatred as he went out. "I don't repent shedding your blood!" he cried. "Beware, old man, beware of your dream, for I have my dream, too. I curse you, and disown you altogether." He ran out of the room. "She's here. She must be here. Smerdyakov! Smerdyakov!" the old man wheezed, scarcely audibly, beckoning to him with his finger. "No, she's not here, you old lunatic!" Ivan shouted at him angrily. "Here, he's fainting! Water! A towel! Make haste, Smerdyakov!" Smerdyakov ran for water. At last they got the old man undressed, and put him to bed. They wrapped a wet towel round his head. Exhausted by the brandy, by his violent emotion, and the blows he had received, he shut his eyes and fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. Ivan and Alyosha went back to the drawing-room. Smerdyakov removed the fragments of the broken vase, while Grigory stood by the table looking gloomily at the floor. "Shouldn't you put a wet bandage on your head and go to bed, too?" Alyosha said to him. "We'll look after him. My brother gave you a terrible blow--on the head." "He's insulted me!" Grigory articulated gloomily and distinctly. "He's 'insulted' his father, not only you," observed Ivan with a forced smile. "I used to wash him in his tub. He's insulted me," repeated Grigory. "Damn it all, if I hadn't pulled him away perhaps he'd have murdered him. It wouldn't take much to do for AEsop, would it?" whispered Ivan to Alyosha. "God forbid!" cried Alyosha. "Why should He forbid?" Ivan went on in the same whisper, with a malignant grimace. "One reptile will devour the other. And serve them both right, too." Alyosha shuddered. "Of course I won't let him be murdered as I didn't just now. Stay here, Alyosha, I'll go for a turn in the yard. My head's begun to ache." Alyosha went to his father's bedroom and sat by his bedside behind the screen for about an hour. The old man suddenly opened his eyes and gazed for a long while at Alyosha, evidently remembering and meditating. All at once his face betrayed extraordinary excitement. "Alyosha," he whispered apprehensively, "where's Ivan?" "In the yard. He's got a headache. He's on the watch." "Give me that looking-glass. It stands over there. Give it me." Alyosha gave him a little round folding looking-glass which stood on the chest of drawers. The old man looked at himself in it; his nose was considerably swollen, and on the left side of his forehead there was a rather large crimson bruise. "What does Ivan say? Alyosha, my dear, my only son, I'm afraid of Ivan. I'm more afraid of Ivan than the other. You're the only one I'm not afraid of...." "Don't be afraid of Ivan either. He is angry, but he'll defend you." "Alyosha, and what of the other? He's run to Grushenka. My angel, tell me the truth, was she here just now or not?" "No one has seen her. It was a mistake. She has not been here." "You know Mitya wants to marry her, to marry her." "She won't marry him." "She won't. She won't. She won't. She won't on any account!" The old man fairly fluttered with joy, as though nothing more comforting could have been said to him. In his delight he seized Alyosha's hand and pressed it warmly to his heart. Tears positively glittered in his eyes. "That image of the Mother of God of which I was telling you just now," he said. "Take it home and keep it for yourself. And I'll let you go back to the monastery.... I was joking this morning, don't be angry with me. My head aches, Alyosha.... Alyosha, comfort my heart. Be an angel and tell me the truth!" "You're still asking whether she has been here or not?" Alyosha said sorrowfully. "No, no, no. I believe you. I'll tell you what it is: you go to Grushenka yourself, or see her somehow; make haste and ask her; see for yourself, which she means to choose, him or me. Eh? What? Can you?" "If I see her I'll ask her," Alyosha muttered, embarrassed. "No, she won't tell you," the old man interrupted, "she's a rogue. She'll begin kissing you and say that it's you she wants. She's a deceitful, shameless hussy. You mustn't go to her, you mustn't!" "No, father, and it wouldn't be suitable, it wouldn't be right at all." "Where was he sending you just now? He shouted 'Go' as he ran away." "To Katerina Ivanovna." "For money? To ask her for money?" "No. Not for money." "He's no money; not a farthing. I'll settle down for the night, and think things over, and you can go. Perhaps you'll meet her.... Only be sure to come to me to-morrow in the morning. Be sure to. I have a word to say to you to-morrow. Will you come?" "Yes." "When you come, pretend you've come of your own accord to ask after me. Don't tell any one I told you to. Don't say a word to Ivan." "Very well." "Good-by, my angel. You stood up for me, just now. I shall never forget it. I've a word to say to you to-morrow--but I must think about it." "And how do you feel now?" "I shall get up to-morrow and go out, perfectly well, perfectly well!" Crossing the yard Alyosha found Ivan sitting on the bench at the gateway. He was sitting writing something in pencil in his note-book. Alyosha told Ivan that their father had waked up, was conscious, and had let him go back to sleep at the monastery. "Alyosha, I should be very glad to meet you to-morrow morning," said Ivan cordially, standing up. His cordiality was a complete surprise to Alyosha. "I shall be at the Hohlakovs' to-morrow," answered Alyosha, "I may be at Katerina Ivanovna's, too, if I don't find her now." "But you're going to her now, anyway? For that 'compliments and farewell,' " said Ivan smiling. Alyosha was disconcerted. "I think I quite understand his exclamations just now, and part of what went before. Dmitri has asked you to go to her and say that he--well, in fact--takes his leave of her?" "Brother, how will all this horror end between father and Dmitri?" exclaimed Alyosha. "One can't tell for certain. Perhaps in nothing: it may all fizzle out. That woman is a beast. In any case we must keep the old man indoors and not let Dmitri in the house." "Brother, let me ask one thing more: has any man a right to look at other men and decide which is worthy to live?" "Why bring in the question of worth? The matter is most often decided in men's hearts on other grounds much more natural. And as for rights--who has not the right to wish?" "Not for another man's death?" "What even if for another man's death? Why lie to oneself since all men live so and perhaps cannot help living so. Are you referring to what I said just now--that one reptile will devour the other? In that case let me ask you, do you think me like Dmitri capable of shedding AEsop's blood, murdering him, eh?" "What are you saying, Ivan? Such an idea never crossed my mind. I don't think Dmitri is capable of it, either." "Thanks, if only for that," smiled Ivan. "Be sure, I should always defend him. But in my wishes I reserve myself full latitude in this case. Good-by till to-morrow. Don't condemn me, and don't look on me as a villain," he added with a smile. They shook hands warmly as they had never done before. Alyosha felt that his brother had taken the first step towards him, and that he had certainly done this with some definite motive. Chapter X. Both Together Alyosha left his father's house feeling even more exhausted and dejected in spirit than when he had entered it. His mind too seemed shattered and unhinged, while he felt that he was afraid to put together the disjointed fragments and form a general idea from all the agonizing and conflicting experiences of the day. He felt something bordering upon despair, which he had never known till then. Towering like a mountain above all the rest stood the fatal, insoluble question: How would things end between his father and his brother Dmitri with this terrible woman? Now he had himself been a witness of it, he had been present and seen them face to face. Yet only his brother Dmitri could be made unhappy, terribly, completely unhappy: there was trouble awaiting him. It appeared too that there were other people concerned, far more so than Alyosha could have supposed before. There was something positively mysterious in it, too. Ivan had made a step towards him, which was what Alyosha had been long desiring. Yet now he felt for some reason that he was frightened at it. And these women? Strange to say, that morning he had set out for Katerina Ivanovna's in the greatest embarrassment; now he felt nothing of the kind. On the contrary, he was hastening there as though expecting to find guidance from her. Yet to give her this message was obviously more difficult than before. The matter of the three thousand was decided irrevocably, and Dmitri, feeling himself dishonored and losing his last hope, might sink to any depth. He had, moreover, told him to describe to Katerina Ivanovna the scene which had just taken place with his father. It was by now seven o'clock, and it was getting dark as Alyosha entered the very spacious and convenient house in the High Street occupied by Katerina Ivanovna. Alyosha knew that she lived with two aunts. One of them, a woman of little education, was that aunt of her half-sister Agafya Ivanovna who had looked after her in her father's house when she came from boarding-school. The other aunt was a Moscow lady of style and consequence, though in straitened circumstances. It was said that they both gave way in everything to Katerina Ivanovna, and that she only kept them with her as chaperons. Katerina Ivanovna herself gave way to no one but her benefactress, the general's widow, who had been kept by illness in Moscow, and to whom she was obliged to write twice a week a full account of all her doings. When Alyosha entered the hall and asked the maid who opened the door to him to take his name up, it was evident that they were already aware of his arrival. Possibly he had been noticed from the window. At least, Alyosha heard a noise, caught the sound of flying footsteps and rustling skirts. Two or three women, perhaps, had run out of the room. Alyosha thought it strange that his arrival should cause such excitement. He was conducted however to the drawing-room at once. It was a large room, elegantly and amply furnished, not at all in provincial style. There were many sofas, lounges, settees, big and little tables. There were pictures on the walls, vases and lamps on the tables, masses of flowers, and even an aquarium in the window. It was twilight and rather dark. Alyosha made out a silk mantle thrown down on the sofa, where people had evidently just been sitting; and on a table in front of the sofa were two unfinished cups of chocolate, cakes, a glass saucer with blue raisins, and another with sweetmeats. Alyosha saw that he had interrupted visitors, and frowned. But at that instant the portiere was raised, and with rapid, hurrying footsteps Katerina Ivanovna came in, holding out both hands to Alyosha with a radiant smile of delight. At the same instant a servant brought in two lighted candles and set them on the table. "Thank God! At last you have come too! I've been simply praying for you all day! Sit down." Alyosha had been struck by Katerina Ivanovna's beauty when, three weeks before, Dmitri had first brought him, at Katerina Ivanovna's special request, to be introduced to her. There had been no conversation between them at that interview, however. Supposing Alyosha to be very shy, Katerina Ivanovna had talked all the time to Dmitri to spare him. Alyosha had been silent, but he had seen a great deal very clearly. He was struck by the imperiousness, proud ease, and self-confidence of the haughty girl. And all that was certain, Alyosha felt that he was not exaggerating it. He thought her great glowing black eyes were very fine, especially with her pale, even rather sallow, longish face. But in those eyes and in the lines of her exquisite lips there was something with which his brother might well be passionately in love, but which perhaps could not be loved for long. He expressed this thought almost plainly to Dmitri when, after the visit, his brother besought and insisted that he should not conceal his impressions on seeing his betrothed. "You'll be happy with her, but perhaps--not tranquilly happy." "Quite so, brother. Such people remain always the same. They don't yield to fate. So you think I shan't love her for ever." "No; perhaps you will love her for ever. But perhaps you won't always be happy with her." Alyosha had given his opinion at the time, blushing, and angry with himself for having yielded to his brother's entreaties and put such "foolish" ideas into words. For his opinion had struck him as awfully foolish immediately after he had uttered it. He felt ashamed too of having given so confident an opinion about a woman. It was with the more amazement that he felt now, at the first glance at Katerina Ivanovna as she ran in to him, that he had perhaps been utterly mistaken. This time her face was beaming with spontaneous good-natured kindliness, and direct warm-hearted sincerity. The "pride and haughtiness," which had struck Alyosha so much before, was only betrayed now in a frank, generous energy and a sort of bright, strong faith in herself. Alyosha realized at the first glance, at the first word, that all the tragedy of her position in relation to the man she loved so dearly was no secret to her; that she perhaps already knew everything, positively everything. And yet, in spite of that, there was such brightness in her face, such faith in the future. Alyosha felt at once that he had gravely wronged her in his thoughts. He was conquered and captivated immediately. Besides all this, he noticed at her first words that she was in great excitement, an excitement perhaps quite exceptional and almost approaching ecstasy. "I was so eager to see you, because I can learn from you the whole truth--from you and no one else." "I have come," muttered Alyosha confusedly, "I--he sent me." "Ah, he sent you! I foresaw that. Now I know everything--everything!" cried Katerina Ivanovna, her eyes flashing. "Wait a moment, Alexey Fyodorovitch, I'll tell you why I've been so longing to see you. You see, I know perhaps far more than you do yourself, and there's no need for you to tell me anything. I'll tell you what I want from you. I want to know your own last impression of him. I want you to tell me most directly, plainly, coarsely even (oh, as coarsely as you like!), what you thought of him just now and of his position after your meeting with him to-day. That will perhaps be better than if I had a personal explanation with him, as he does not want to come to me. Do you understand what I want from you? Now, tell me simply, tell me every word of the message he sent you with (I knew he would send you)." "He told me to give you his compliments--and to say that he would never come again--but to give you his compliments." "His compliments? Was that what he said--his own expression?" "Yes." "Accidentally perhaps he made a mistake in the word, perhaps he did not use the right word?" "No; he told me precisely to repeat that word. He begged me two or three times not to forget to say so." Katerina Ivanovna flushed hotly. "Help me now, Alexey Fyodorovitch. Now I really need your help. I'll tell you what I think, and you must simply say whether it's right or not. Listen! If he had sent me his compliments in passing, without insisting on your repeating the words, without emphasizing them, that would be the end of everything! But if he particularly insisted on those words, if he particularly told you not to forget to repeat them to me, then perhaps he was in excitement, beside himself. He had made his decision and was frightened at it. He wasn't walking away from me with a resolute step, but leaping headlong. The emphasis on that phrase may have been simply bravado." "Yes, yes!" cried Alyosha warmly. "I believe that is it." "And, if so, he's not altogether lost. I can still save him. Stay! Did he not tell you anything about money--about three thousand roubles?" "He did speak about it, and it's that more than anything that's crushing him. He said he had lost his honor and that nothing matters now," Alyosha answered warmly, feeling a rush of hope in his heart and believing that there really might be a way of escape and salvation for his brother. "But do you know about the money?" he added, and suddenly broke off. "I've known of it a long time; I telegraphed to Moscow to inquire, and heard long ago that the money had not arrived. He hadn't sent the money, but I said nothing. Last week I learnt that he was still in need of money. My only object in all this was that he should know to whom to turn, and who was his true friend. No, he won't recognize that I am his truest friend; he won't know me, and looks on me merely as a woman. I've been tormented all the week, trying to think how to prevent him from being ashamed to face me because he spent that three thousand. Let him feel ashamed of himself, let him be ashamed of other people's knowing, but not of my knowing. He can tell God everything without shame. Why is it he still does not understand how much I am ready to bear for his sake? Why, why doesn't he know me? How dare he not know me after all that has happened? I want to save him for ever. Let him forget me as his betrothed. And here he fears that he is dishonored in my eyes. Why, he wasn't afraid to be open with you, Alexey Fyodorovitch. How is it that I don't deserve the same?" The last words she uttered in tears. Tears gushed from her eyes. "I must tell you," Alyosha began, his voice trembling too, "what happened just now between him and my father." And he described the whole scene, how Dmitri had sent him to get the money, how he had broken in, knocked his father down, and after that had again specially and emphatically begged him to take his compliments and farewell. "He went to that woman," Alyosha added softly. "And do you suppose that I can't put up with that woman? Does he think I can't? But he won't marry her," she suddenly laughed nervously. "Could such a passion last for ever in a Karamazov? It's passion, not love. He won't marry her because she won't marry him." Again Katerina Ivanovna laughed strangely. "He may marry her," said Alyosha mournfully, looking down. "He won't marry her, I tell you. That girl is an angel. Do you know that? Do you know that?" Katerina Ivanovna exclaimed suddenly with extraordinary warmth. "She is one of the most fantastic of fantastic creatures. I know how bewitching she is, but I know too that she is kind, firm and noble. Why do you look at me like that, Alexey Fyodorovitch? Perhaps you are wondering at my words, perhaps you don't believe me? Agrafena Alexandrovna, my angel!" she cried suddenly to some one, peeping into the next room, "come in to us. This is a friend. This is Alyosha. He knows all about our affairs. Show yourself to him." "I've only been waiting behind the curtain for you to call me," said a soft, one might even say sugary, feminine voice. The portiere was raised and Grushenka herself, smiling and beaming, came up to the table. A violent revulsion passed over Alyosha. He fixed his eyes on her and could not take them off. Here she was, that awful woman, the "beast," as Ivan had called her half an hour before. And yet one would have thought the creature standing before him most simple and ordinary, a good-natured, kind woman, handsome certainly, but so like other handsome ordinary women! It is true she was very, very good-looking with that Russian beauty so passionately loved by many men. She was a rather tall woman, though a little shorter than Katerina Ivanovna, who was exceptionally tall. She had a full figure, with soft, as it were, noiseless, movements, softened to a peculiar over-sweetness, like her voice. She moved, not like Katerina Ivanovna, with a vigorous, bold step, but noiselessly. Her feet made absolutely no sound on the floor. She sank softly into a low chair, softly rustling her sumptuous black silk dress, and delicately nestling her milk-white neck and broad shoulders in a costly cashmere shawl. She was twenty-two years old, and her face looked exactly that age. She was very white in the face, with a pale pink tint on her cheeks. The modeling of her face might be said to be too broad, and the lower jaw was set a trifle forward. Her upper lip was thin, but the slightly prominent lower lip was at least twice as full, and looked pouting. But her magnificent, abundant dark brown hair, her sable-colored eyebrows and charming gray-blue eyes with their long lashes would have made the most indifferent person, meeting her casually in a crowd in the street, stop at the sight of her face and remember it long after. What struck Alyosha most in that face was its expression of childlike good nature. There was a childlike look in her eyes, a look of childish delight. She came up to the table, beaming with delight and seeming to expect something with childish, impatient, and confiding curiosity. The light in her eyes gladdened the soul--Alyosha felt that. There was something else in her which he could not understand, or would not have been able to define, and which yet perhaps unconsciously affected him. It was that softness, that voluptuousness of her bodily movements, that catlike noiselessness. Yet it was a vigorous, ample body. Under the shawl could be seen full broad shoulders, a high, still quite girlish bosom. Her figure suggested the lines of the Venus of Milo, though already in somewhat exaggerated proportions. That could be divined. Connoisseurs of Russian beauty could have foretold with certainty that this fresh, still youthful beauty would lose its harmony by the age of thirty, would "spread"; that the face would become puffy, and that wrinkles would very soon appear upon her forehead and round the eyes; the complexion would grow coarse and red perhaps--in fact, that it was the beauty of the moment, the fleeting beauty which is so often met with in Russian women. Alyosha, of course, did not think of this; but though he was fascinated, yet he wondered with an unpleasant sensation, and as it were regretfully, why she drawled in that way and could not speak naturally. She did so evidently feeling there was a charm in the exaggerated, honeyed modulation of the syllables. It was, of course, only a bad, underbred habit that showed bad education and a false idea of good manners. And yet this intonation and manner of speaking impressed Alyosha as almost incredibly incongruous with the childishly simple and happy expression of her face, the soft, babyish joy in her eyes. Katerina Ivanovna at once made her sit down in an arm- chair facing Alyosha, and ecstatically kissed her several times on her smiling lips. She seemed quite in love with her. "This is the first time we've met, Alexey Fyodorovitch," she said rapturously. "I wanted to know her, to see her. I wanted to go to her, but I'd no sooner expressed the wish than she came to me. I knew we should settle everything together--everything. My heart told me so--I was begged not to take the step, but I foresaw it would be a way out of the difficulty, and I was not mistaken. Grushenka has explained everything to me, told me all she means to do. She flew here like an angel of goodness and brought us peace and joy." "You did not disdain me, sweet, excellent young lady," drawled Grushenka in her sing-song voice, still with the same charming smile of delight. "Don't dare to speak to me like that, you sorceress, you witch! Disdain you! Here, I must kiss your lower lip once more. It looks as though it were swollen, and now it will be more so, and more and more. Look how she laughs, Alexey Fyodorovitch! It does one's heart good to see the angel." Alyosha flushed, and faint, imperceptible shivers kept running down him. "You make so much of me, dear young lady, and perhaps I am not at all worthy of your kindness." "Not worthy! She's not worthy of it!" Katerina Ivanovna cried again with the same warmth. "You know, Alexey Fyodorovitch, we're fanciful, we're self-willed, but proudest of the proud in our little heart. We're noble, we're generous, Alexey Fyodorovitch, let me tell you. We have only been unfortunate. We were too ready to make every sacrifice for an unworthy, perhaps, or fickle man. There was one man--one, an officer too, we loved him, we sacrificed everything to him. That was long ago, five years ago, and he has forgotten us, he has married. Now he is a widower, he has written, he is coming here, and, do you know, we've loved him, none but him, all this time, and we've loved him all our life! He will come, and Grushenka will be happy again. For the last five years she's been wretched. But who can reproach her, who can boast of her favor? Only that bedridden old merchant, but he is more like her father, her friend, her protector. He found her then in despair, in agony, deserted by the man she loved. She was ready to drown herself then, but the old merchant saved her--saved her!" "You defend me very kindly, dear young lady. You are in a great hurry about everything," Grushenka drawled again. "Defend you! Is it for me to defend you? Should I dare to defend you? Grushenka, angel, give me your hand. Look at that charming soft little hand, Alexey Fyodorovitch! Look at it! It has brought me happiness and has lifted me up, and I'm going to kiss it, outside and inside, here, here, here!" And three times she kissed the certainly charming, though rather fat, hand of Grushenka in a sort of rapture. She held out her hand with a charming musical, nervous little laugh, watched the "sweet young lady," and obviously liked having her hand kissed. "Perhaps there's rather too much rapture," thought Alyosha. He blushed. He felt a peculiar uneasiness at heart the whole time. "You won't make me blush, dear young lady, kissing my hand like this before Alexey Fyodorovitch." "Do you think I meant to make you blush?" said Katerina Ivanovna, somewhat surprised. "Ah, my dear, how little you understand me!" "Yes, and you too perhaps quite misunderstand me, dear young lady. Maybe I'm not so good as I seem to you. I've a bad heart; I will have my own way. I fascinated poor Dmitri Fyodorovitch that day simply for fun." "But now you'll save him. You've given me your word. You'll explain it all to him. You'll break to him that you have long loved another man, who is now offering you his hand." "Oh, no! I didn't give you my word to do that. It was you kept talking about that. I didn't give you my word." "Then I didn't quite understand you," said Katerina Ivanovna slowly, turning a little pale. "You promised--" "Oh, no, angel lady, I've promised nothing," Grushenka interrupted softly and evenly, still with the same gay and simple expression. "You see at once, dear young lady, what a willful wretch I am compared with you. If I want to do a thing I do it. I may have made you some promise just now. But now again I'm thinking: I may take to Mitya again. I liked him very much once--liked him for almost a whole hour. Now maybe I shall go and tell him to stay with me from this day forward. You see, I'm so changeable." "Just now you said--something quite different," Katerina Ivanovna whispered faintly. "Ah, just now! But, you know. I'm such a soft-hearted, silly creature. Only think what he's gone through on my account! What if when I go home I feel sorry for him? What then?" "I never expected--" "Ah, young lady, how good and generous you are compared with me! Now perhaps you won't care for a silly creature like me, now you know my character. Give me your sweet little hand, angelic lady," she said tenderly, and with a sort of reverence took Katerina Ivanovna's hand. "Here, dear young lady, I'll take your hand and kiss it as you did mine. You kissed mine three times, but I ought to kiss yours three hundred times to be even with you. Well, but let that pass. And then it shall be as God wills. Perhaps I shall be your slave entirely and want to do your bidding like a slave. Let it be as God wills, without any agreements and promises. What a sweet hand--what a sweet hand you have! You sweet young lady, you incredible beauty!" She slowly raised the hands to her lips, with the strange object indeed of "being even" with her in kisses. Katerina Ivanovna did not take her hand away. She listened with timid hope to the last words, though Grushenka's promise to do her bidding like a slave was very strangely expressed. She looked intently into her eyes; she still saw in those eyes the same simple-hearted, confiding expression, the same bright gayety. "She's perhaps too naive," thought Katerina Ivanovna, with a gleam of hope. Grushenka meanwhile seemed enthusiastic over the "sweet hand." She raised it deliberately to her lips. But she held it for two or three minutes near her lips, as though reconsidering something. "Do you know, angel lady," she suddenly drawled in an even more soft and sugary voice, "do you know, after all, I think I won't kiss your hand?" And she laughed a little merry laugh. "As you please. What's the matter with you?" said Katerina Ivanovna, starting suddenly. "So that you may be left to remember that you kissed my hand, but I didn't kiss yours." There was a sudden gleam in her eyes. She looked with awful intentness at Katerina Ivanovna. "Insolent creature!" cried Katerina Ivanovna, as though suddenly grasping something. She flushed all over and leapt up from her seat. Grushenka too got up, but without haste. "So I shall tell Mitya how you kissed my hand, but I didn't kiss yours at all. And how he will laugh!" "Vile slut! Go away!" "Ah, for shame, young lady! Ah, for shame! That's unbecoming for you, dear young lady, a word like that." "Go away! You're a creature for sale!" screamed Katerina Ivanovna. Every feature was working in her utterly distorted face. "For sale indeed! You used to visit gentlemen in the dusk for money once; you brought your beauty for sale. You see, I know." Katerina Ivanovna shrieked, and would have rushed at her, but Alyosha held her with all his strength. "Not a step, not a word! Don't speak, don't answer her. She'll go away--she'll go at once." At that instant Katerina Ivanovna's two aunts ran in at her cry, and with them a maid-servant. All hurried to her. "I will go away," said Grushenka, taking up her mantle from the sofa. "Alyosha, darling, see me home!" "Go away--go away, make haste!" cried Alyosha, clasping his hands imploringly. "Dear little Alyosha, see me home! I've got a pretty little story to tell you on the way. I got up this scene for your benefit, Alyosha. See me home, dear, you'll be glad of it afterwards." Alyosha turned away, wringing his hands. Grushenka ran out of the house, laughing musically. Katerina Ivanovna went into a fit of hysterics. She sobbed, and was shaken with convulsions. Every one fussed round her. "I warned you," said the elder of her aunts. "I tried to prevent your doing this. You're too impulsive. How could you do such a thing? You don't know these creatures, and they say she's worse than any of them. You are too self-willed." "She's a tigress!" yelled Katerina Ivanovna. "Why did you hold me, Alexey Fyodorovitch? I'd have beaten her--beaten her!" She could not control herself before Alyosha; perhaps she did not care to, indeed. "She ought to be flogged in public on a scaffold!" Alyosha withdrew towards the door. "But, my God!" cried Katerina Ivanovna, clasping her hands. "He! He! He could be so dishonorable, so inhuman! Why, he told that creature what happened on that fatal, accursed day! 'You brought your beauty for sale, dear young lady.' She knows it! Your brother's a scoundrel, Alexey Fyodorovitch." Alyosha wanted to say something, but he couldn't find a word. His heart ached. "Go away, Alexey Fyodorovitch! It's shameful, it's awful for me! To- morrow, I beg you on my knees, come to-morrow. Don't condemn me. Forgive me. I don't know what I shall do with myself now!" Alyosha walked out into the street reeling. He could have wept as she did. Suddenly he was overtaken by the maid. "The young lady forgot to give you this letter from Madame Hohlakov; it's been left with us since dinner-time." Alyosha took the little pink envelope mechanically and put it, almost unconsciously, into his pocket. Chapter XI. Another Reputation Ruined It was not much more than three-quarters of a mile from the town to the monastery. Alyosha walked quickly along the road, at that hour deserted. It was almost night, and too dark to see anything clearly at thirty paces ahead. There were cross-roads half-way. A figure came into sight under a solitary willow at the cross-roads. As soon as Alyosha reached the cross- roads the figure moved out and rushed at him, shouting savagely: "Your money or your life!" "So it's you, Mitya," cried Alyosha, in surprise, violently startled however. "Ha ha ha! You didn't expect me? I wondered where to wait for you. By her house? There are three ways from it, and I might have missed you. At last I thought of waiting here, for you had to pass here, there's no other way to the monastery. Come, tell me the truth. Crush me like a beetle. But what's the matter?" "Nothing, brother--it's the fright you gave me. Oh, Dmitri! Father's blood just now." (Alyosha began to cry, he had been on the verge of tears for a long time, and now something seemed to snap in his soul.) "You almost killed him--cursed him--and now--here--you're making jokes--'Your money or your life!' " "Well, what of that? It's not seemly--is that it? Not suitable in my position?" "No--I only--" "Stay. Look at the night. You see what a dark night, what clouds, what a wind has risen. I hid here under the willow waiting for you. And as God's above, I suddenly thought, why go on in misery any longer, what is there to wait for? Here I have a willow, a handkerchief, a shirt, I can twist them into a rope in a minute, and braces besides, and why go on burdening the earth, dishonoring it with my vile presence? And then I heard you coming--Heavens, it was as though something flew down to me suddenly. So there is a man, then, whom I love. Here he is, that man, my dear little brother, whom I love more than any one in the world, the only one I love in the world. And I loved you so much, so much at that moment that I thought, 'I'll fall on his neck at once.' Then a stupid idea struck me, to have a joke with you and scare you. I shouted, like a fool, 'Your money!' Forgive my foolery--it was only nonsense, and there's nothing unseemly in my soul.... Damn it all, tell me what's happened. What did she say? Strike me, crush me, don't spare me! Was she furious?" "No, not that.... There was nothing like that, Mitya. There--I found them both there." "Both? Whom?" "Grushenka at Katerina Ivanovna's." Dmitri was struck dumb. "Impossible!" he cried. "You're raving! Grushenka with her?" Alyosha described all that had happened from the moment he went in to Katerina Ivanovna's. He was ten minutes telling his story. He can't be said to have told it fluently and consecutively, but he seemed to make it clear, not omitting any word or action of significance, and vividly describing, often in one word, his own sensations. Dmitri listened in silence, gazing at him with a terrible fixed stare, but it was clear to Alyosha that he understood it all, and had grasped every point. But as the story went on, his face became not merely gloomy, but menacing. He scowled, he clenched his teeth, and his fixed stare became still more rigid, more concentrated, more terrible, when suddenly, with incredible rapidity, his wrathful, savage face changed, his tightly compressed lips parted, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch broke into uncontrolled, spontaneous laughter. He literally shook with laughter. For a long time he could not speak. "So she wouldn't kiss her hand! So she didn't kiss it; so she ran away!" he kept exclaiming with hysterical delight; insolent delight it might have been called, if it had not been so spontaneous. "So the other one called her tigress! And a tigress she is! So she ought to be flogged on a scaffold? Yes, yes, so she ought. That's just what I think; she ought to have been long ago. It's like this, brother, let her be punished, but I must get better first. I understand the queen of impudence. That's her all over! You saw her all over in that hand-kissing, the she-devil! She's magnificent in her own line! So she ran home? I'll go--ah--I'll run to her! Alyosha, don't blame me, I agree that hanging is too good for her." "But Katerina Ivanovna!" exclaimed Alyosha sorrowfully. "I see her, too! I see right through her, as I've never done before! It's a regular discovery of the four continents of the world, that is, of the five! What a thing to do! That's just like Katya, who was not afraid to face a coarse, unmannerly officer and risk a deadly insult on a generous impulse to save her father! But the pride, the recklessness, the defiance of fate, the unbounded defiance! You say that aunt tried to stop her? That aunt, you know, is overbearing, herself. She's the sister of the general's widow in Moscow, and even more stuck-up than she. But her husband was caught stealing government money. He lost everything, his estate and all, and the proud wife had to lower her colors, and hasn't raised them since. So she tried to prevent Katya, but she wouldn't listen to her! She thinks she can overcome everything, that everything will give way to her. She thought she could bewitch Grushenka if she liked, and she believed it herself: she plays a part to herself, and whose fault is it? Do you think she kissed Grushenka's hand first, on purpose, with a motive? No, she really was fascinated by Grushenka, that's to say, not by Grushenka, but by her own dream, her own delusion--because it was _her_ dream, _her_ delusion! Alyosha, darling, how did you escape from them, those women? Did you pick up your cassock and run? Ha ha ha!" "Brother, you don't seem to have noticed how you've insulted Katerina Ivanovna by telling Grushenka about that day. And she flung it in her face just now that she had gone to gentlemen in secret to sell her beauty! Brother, what could be worse than that insult?" What worried Alyosha more than anything was that, incredible as it seemed, his brother appeared pleased at Katerina Ivanovna's humiliation. "Bah!" Dmitri frowned fiercely, and struck his forehead with his hand. He only now realized it, though Alyosha had just told him of the insult, and Katerina Ivanovna's cry: "Your brother is a scoundrel!" "Yes, perhaps, I really did tell Grushenka about that 'fatal day,' as Katya calls it. Yes, I did tell her, I remember! It was that time at Mokroe. I was drunk, the gypsies were singing.... But I was sobbing. I was sobbing then, kneeling and praying to Katya's image, and Grushenka understood it. She understood it all then. I remember, she cried herself.... Damn it all! But it's bound to be so now.... Then she cried, but now 'the dagger in the heart'! That's how women are." He looked down and sank into thought. "Yes, I am a scoundrel, a thorough scoundrel!" he said suddenly, in a gloomy voice. "It doesn't matter whether I cried or not, I'm a scoundrel! Tell her I accept the name, if that's any comfort. Come, that's enough. Good-by. It's no use talking! It's not amusing. You go your way and I mine. And I don't want to see you again except as a last resource. Good- by, Alexey!" He warmly pressed Alyosha's hand, and still looking down, without raising his head, as though tearing himself away, turned rapidly towards the town. Alyosha looked after him, unable to believe he would go away so abruptly. "Stay, Alexey, one more confession to you alone!" cried Dmitri, suddenly turning back. "Look at me. Look at me well. You see here, here--there's terrible disgrace in store for me." (As he said "here," Dmitri struck his chest with his fist with a strange air, as though the dishonor lay precisely on his chest, in some spot, in a pocket, perhaps, or hanging round his neck.) "You know me now, a scoundrel, an avowed scoundrel, but let me tell you that I've never done anything before and never shall again, anything that can compare in baseness with the dishonor which I bear now at this very minute on my breast, here, here, which will come to pass, though I'm perfectly free to stop it. I can stop it or carry it through, note that. Well, let me tell you, I shall carry it through. I shan't stop it. I told you everything just now, but I didn't tell you this, because even I had not brass enough for it. I can still pull up; if I do, I can give back the full half of my lost honor to-morrow. But I shan't pull up. I shall carry out my base plan, and you can bear witness that I told you so beforehand. Darkness and destruction! No need to explain. You'll find out in due time. The filthy back-alley and the she- devil. Good-by. Don't pray for me, I'm not worth it. And there's no need, no need at all.... I don't need it! Away!" And he suddenly retreated, this time finally. Alyosha went towards the monastery. "What? I shall never see him again! What is he saying?" he wondered wildly. "Why, I shall certainly see him to-morrow. I shall look him up. I shall make a point of it. What does he mean?" ------------------------------------- He went round the monastery, and crossed the pine-wood to the hermitage. The door was opened to him, though no one was admitted at that hour. There was a tremor in his heart as he went into Father Zossima's cell. "Why, why, had he gone forth? Why had he sent him into the world? Here was peace. Here was holiness. But there was confusion, there was darkness in which one lost one's way and went astray at once...." In the cell he found the novice Porfiry and Father Paissy, who came every hour to inquire after Father Zossima. Alyosha learnt with alarm that he was getting worse and worse. Even his usual discourse with the brothers could not take place that day. As a rule every evening after service the monks flocked into Father Zossima's cell, and all confessed aloud their sins of the day, their sinful thoughts and temptations; even their disputes, if there had been any. Some confessed kneeling. The elder absolved, reconciled, exhorted, imposed penance, blessed, and dismissed them. It was against this general "confession" that the opponents of "elders" protested, maintaining that it was a profanation of the sacrament of confession, almost a sacrilege, though this was quite a different thing. They even represented to the diocesan authorities that such confessions attained no good object, but actually to a large extent led to sin and temptation. Many of the brothers disliked going to the elder, and went against their own will because every one went, and for fear they should be accused of pride and rebellious ideas. People said that some of the monks agreed beforehand, saying, "I'll confess I lost my temper with you this morning, and you confirm it," simply in order to have something to say. Alyosha knew that this actually happened sometimes. He knew, too, that there were among the monks some who deeply resented the fact that letters from relations were habitually taken to the elder, to be opened and read by him before those to whom they were addressed. It was assumed, of course, that all this was done freely, and in good faith, by way of voluntary submission and salutary guidance. But, in fact, there was sometimes no little insincerity, and much that was false and strained in this practice. Yet the older and more experienced of the monks adhered to their opinion, arguing that "for those who have come within these walls sincerely seeking salvation, such obedience and sacrifice will certainly be salutary and of great benefit; those, on the other hand, who find it irksome, and repine, are no true monks, and have made a mistake in entering the monastery--their proper place is in the world. Even in the temple one cannot be safe from sin and the devil. So it was no good taking it too much into account." "He is weaker, a drowsiness has come over him," Father Paissy whispered to Alyosha, as he blessed him. "It's difficult to rouse him. And he must not be roused. He waked up for five minutes, sent his blessing to the brothers, and begged their prayers for him at night. He intends to take the sacrament again in the morning. He remembered you, Alexey. He asked whether you had gone away, and was told that you were in the town. 'I blessed him for that work,' he said, 'his place is there, not here, for awhile.' Those were his words about you. He remembered you lovingly, with anxiety; do you understand how he honored you? But how is it that he has decided that you shall spend some time in the world? He must have foreseen something in your destiny! Understand, Alexey, that if you return to the world, it must be to do the duty laid upon you by your elder, and not for frivolous vanity and worldly pleasures." Father Paissy went out. Alyosha had no doubt that Father Zossima was dying, though he might live another day or two. Alyosha firmly and ardently resolved that in spite of his promises to his father, the Hohlakovs, and Katerina Ivanovna, he would not leave the monastery next day, but would remain with his elder to the end. His heart glowed with love, and he reproached himself bitterly for having been able for one instant to forget him whom he had left in the monastery on his deathbed, and whom he honored above every one in the world. He went into Father Zossima's bedroom, knelt down, and bowed to the ground before the elder, who slept quietly without stirring, with regular, hardly audible breathing and a peaceful face. Alyosha returned to the other room, where Father Zossima had received his guests in the morning. Taking off his boots, he lay down on the hard, narrow, leathern sofa, which he had long used as a bed, bringing nothing but a pillow. The mattress, about which his father had shouted to him that morning, he had long forgotten to lie on. He took off his cassock, which he used as a covering. But before going to bed, he fell on his knees and prayed a long time. In his fervent prayer he did not beseech God to lighten his darkness but only thirsted for the joyous emotion, which always visited his soul after the praise and adoration, of which his evening prayer usually consisted. That joy always brought him light untroubled sleep. As he was praying, he suddenly felt in his pocket the little pink note the servant had handed him as he left Katerina Ivanovna's. He was disturbed, but finished his prayer. Then, after some hesitation, he opened the envelope. In it was a letter to him, signed by Lise, the young daughter of Madame Hohlakov, who had laughed at him before the elder in the morning. "Alexey Fyodorovitch," she wrote, "I am writing to you without any one's knowledge, even mamma's, and I know how wrong it is. But I cannot live without telling you the feeling that has sprung up in my heart, and this no one but us two must know for a time. But how am I to say what I want so much to tell you? Paper, they say, does not blush, but I assure you it's not true and that it's blushing just as I am now, all over. Dear Alyosha, I love you, I've loved you from my childhood, since our Moscow days, when you were very different from what you are now, and I shall love you all my life. My heart has chosen you, to unite our lives, and pass them together till our old age. Of course, on condition that you will leave the monastery. As for our age we will wait for the time fixed by the law. By that time I shall certainly be quite strong, I shall be walking and dancing. There can be no doubt of that. "You see how I've thought of everything. There's only one thing I can't imagine: what you'll think of me when you read this. I'm always laughing and being naughty. I made you angry this morning, but I assure you before I took up my pen, I prayed before the Image of the Mother of God, and now I'm praying, and almost crying. "My secret is in your hands. When you come to-morrow, I don't know how I shall look at you. Ah, Alexey Fyodorovitch, what if I can't restrain myself like a silly and laugh when I look at you as I did to-day. You'll think I'm a nasty girl making fun of you, and you won't believe my letter. And so I beg you, dear one, if you've any pity for me, when you come to- morrow, don't look me straight in the face, for if I meet your eyes, it will be sure to make me laugh, especially as you'll be in that long gown. I feel cold all over when I think of it, so when you come, don't look at me at all for a time, look at mamma or at the window.... "Here I've written you a love-letter. Oh, dear, what have I done? Alyosha, don't despise me, and if I've done something very horrid and wounded you, forgive me. Now the secret of my reputation, ruined perhaps for ever, is in your hands. "I shall certainly cry to-day. Good-by till our meeting, our _awful_ meeting.--LISE. "P.S.--Alyosha! You must, must, must come!--LISE." Alyosha read the note in amazement, read it through twice, thought a little, and suddenly laughed a soft, sweet laugh. He started. That laugh seemed to him sinful. But a minute later he laughed again just as softly and happily. He slowly replaced the note in the envelope, crossed himself and lay down. The agitation in his heart passed at once. "God, have mercy upon all of them, have all these unhappy and turbulent souls in Thy keeping, and set them in the right path. All ways are Thine. Save them according to Thy wisdom. Thou art love. Thou wilt send joy to all!" Alyosha murmured, crossing himself, and falling into peaceful sleep.

Book 3

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Book Three begins with an introduction to Fyodor's servants, Grigory and Marfa. Grigory has been Fyodor's servant for years. He is "stubborn ... honest ... incorruptible." For instance, his loyalty to Fyodor is inextinguishable. When the serfs were emancipated in 1861, Grigory was free to do as he pleased. His wife Marfa asked to leave Fyodor, but Grigory would not hear of it. He decided that they would not leave old Karamazov. Years ago, Grigory and Marfa had a child. The poor boy had six fingers and died after only two weeks, devastating his parents. While Grigory was burying the child, he heard a baby crying. Puzzled and thinking he was hallucinating, Grigory followed the sound. He found a dying woman lying on the ground. Next to the woman he saw a baby boy. The woman was known as "Stinking Lizaveta," the town idiot. She was abnormally short, unable to speak, and the daughter of a violent, drunken man. Everyone liked her; she was like an orphan whom the town collectively cared for. The citizens in the town would give her food and clothes, and when they realized that she was pregnant, they were furious. Rumors flew that the only person depraved enough to take advantage of one so innocent and helpless was Fyodor Karamazov. After Grigory and Marfa found the baby, Lizaveta died. They adopted the little boy and Fyodor named it Smerdyakov, "the stinking one." Alyosha leaves the monastery and is worried about his meeting with Katerina. Though he believes that she has noble intentions toward Dmitri, Alyosha cannot put his finger on the vague sense of dread he feels about the meeting. Coincidentally, Alyosha runs into Dmitri on the way to see Katerina, and Dmitri wants to talk. He has been drinking. He wants to tell Alyosha all his troubles and thinks that only Alyosha will understand. Dmitri proceeds to confess to Alyosha, intermittently quoting Schiller's Hymn to Joy. He tells Alyosha his history of seducing women, spending money with abandon, and generally acting with "insect sensualism." Then he tells Alyosha the story of how he met Katerina. The daughter of a commanding officer of the camp, Katerina was a haughty and gorgeous girl who had always ignored Dmitri's advances. One day, Dmitri found out that the commanding officer had lent 4,500 rubles to a man who would not pay him back. Dmitri told Katerina's older sister that the military would come asking for the money, and if her father did not want to be court-martialed or jailed, he should send Katerina to visit Dmitri's room. Dmitri planned on having his way with the girl, but when Katerina visited him, Dmitri did not try to sleep with her or do anything wayward. Instead, he gave her the money with no strings attached. He found her "noble and generous" while he was just a "bedbug." He gave her the money with reverence, and she left without another word. Later, Katerina's father dies. When she comes into a large inheritance from a relative, she visits Dmitri again, deeply grateful for his generosity toward her father. She offers him the money he had lent her father and offers him her hand in marriage. He accepts. When Dmitri returns to Fyodor's town, however, he becomes obsessed with a girl named Grushenka. Katerina remains faithful to him even though she has heard rumors of his relationship with Grushenka. She gives him 3,000 rubles and asks him to give the money to her half-sister, but he spends it on a bacchanal with Grushenka instead. Dmitri's financial and moral indebtedness to Katerina makes him unable to bear Katerina's love, so he asks Alyosha to break off his engagement with Katerina. Then he tells Alyosha he wants him to go to Fyodor and ask for 3,000 rubles for him. He knows that Fyodor has an envelope with 3,000 rubles for Grushenka, but he feels that Fyodor is morally indebted to him for his ill treatment of Dmitri's mother. Dmitri wants to repay Katerina and never ask for money again. We now meet Grigory's and Marfa's adopted son Smerdyakov. He has grown up to be an angry, epileptic cook of Fyodor, and he has a penchant for debate and intellectual discussion. He is talking to Fyodor and his foster father Grigory about his views about God. He says that it is hardly a sin to renounce God, for man can always repent and come back to God if he feels the urge. After he and Grigory leave, the Karamazovs continue to talk about their views of God. Ivan says that God does not exist--and neither does immortality. Alyosha disagrees. Fyodor, who has been sitting through this lofty conversation for too long, decides to talk about "wenches." When his tirade turns on Alyosha's mother, however, Alyosha faints and has a seizure. Ivan is angry at his father for hurting his brother and verbally attacking his mother. Dmitri runs into the room at this instant looking for Grushenka, who is not to be found. When Fyodor begins chastising Dmitri for stealing money from him, Dmitri, already in a fit of rage, attacks the old man and kicks him in the temple. As he leaves, he threatens his father once more. As Ivan and Alyosha are looking after their wounded father, Ivan's hostility toward his brother decreases. Alyosha visits Katerina, who thinks that Dmitri will get over Grushenka. To Alyosha's surprise, Grushenka comes out from behind a curtain; she has been there all along. Grushenka admits that she is going back to a former lover, and Katerina is ecstatic at the news. She compliments Grushenka profusely, but Grushenka does not return her affection. In fact, she says that she may not reunite with her old lover and may pursue Dmitri instead. Katerina becomes furious and screams at Grushenka as she leaves. As Alyosha is returning from Katerina's, he receives a letter from Lise. He sees Dmitri again, and the two talk about Alyosha's visit with Katerina. Dmitri becomes sad about how cowardly he has been in his relationships toward the two women. Alyosha returns to the monastery to find that Father Zossima's health is declining, and that Zossima will not live for much longer. Alyosha resolves to stay by the side of the man who has acted more like a father to him than Fyodor has. He reads the letter from Lise, which says that she is in love with him and that she wants to marry him one day. She apologizes for her earlier jokes at his expense, and she asks him to visit her. Exhausted from his day, Alyosha falls into a deep sleep.

Grigory and Marfa are less complex than the characters who have already been established. They do not have the verve of Dmitri or Fyodor, the high-minded intellectualism of Ivan, or the depth of purpose of Alyosha or Father Zossima. They lead simple lives with a singular purpose, staying faithful to their master. They are good, dependable people. They care for all of Fyodor's children, and when their desire for their own child is thwarted by fate, they are rewarded with Lizaveta's orphan. They both are very caring and compassionate. Grigory acts as a third father figure in the novel. In addition to the biological paternity of Fyodor and the spiritual guidance of Father Zossima, Grigory acts as a father to the Karamazov boys and Smerdyakov in purely logistical ways. He spends time with them, feeds them, and cares for them. It is unclear whose method of paternity has the largest effect on a boy's growth, or if they all have an equal effect. Interestingly, Smerdyakov, the one boy Grigory and Marfa raise as their own, is resentful and bitter. Their compassion does not turn him into a loving person. Perhaps it is Fyodor's influence that makes him like he is. Alyosha, on the other hand, seems unaffected by his biological lineage. This suggests that a person is responsible for his own personality. His reactions to the influences in his life depend on his own strengths, weaknesses, and proclivities. This book also sheds more light on Dmitri's character. He is quite likeable despite his foibles, since he is clearly well-intentioned but deeply fallible. His actions with the captain and Katerina are very complicated. He shows a manipulative streak, uncovering a depravity that is similar to Fyodor's. Then he undergoes a complete change, acting nobly toward Katerina, feeling guilty about his former actions. But instead of learning from his mistakes, Dmitri does not continue to treat Katerina with respect. He spends her money and takes up with another woman after they get engaged. He becomes guilty about this, too, and feels that repaying Katerina is the only honorable course of action. Dmitri is perpetually caught between his desire to do good and his appetite for gratification. He seems unable to break the cycle of guilt and longing for redemption. He is too cowardly to ask his father for money again or to break off his engagement with Katerina in person. Nevertheless, he was re-promoted during his time in the army for "gallantry." Dmitri is full of contradictions. He embodies many of the arguments in the novel, showing how one man can contain multitudes. Grushenka is very much what the reader expects her to be, capricious and mischievous. Katerina is less transparent. It is unclear if Katerina loves Dmitri or if she is obsessed by the idea of being a martyr. Dmitri has shunned her, but she remains faithful to him. She does not even expect his love in return, though. She feels relatively complacent about the idea that Dmitri may never return her love. Perhaps she relishes suffering. Indeed, yearning for suffering is a motif in the novel. Dostoevsky himself wrote most of his important works after spending years of hard labor in Siberia. He felt that suffering changed him, and many of his characters are either changed by their suffering or desire suffering. The value of this suffering is not based on the justice done, however. Katerina does not want to suffer because she deserves retribution for some sin. Instead, she wants to suffer for suffering's sake. Katerina is not the only one who yearns for pain. Later in the novel, Dmitri and Lise express similar feelings. Aside from this, Katerina seems honorable. She has quite a temper, but she seems to be motivated mostly by love and the desire to do right. Alyosha continues to get along well with his brother Dmitri, who clearly returns his affection. Alyosha has earned Dmitri's trust, and Alyosha does what he can to help him out. It seems that everyone needs Alyosha's help, and Alyosha is very willing to offer his services. Ivan, however, has not warmed up to Alyosha yet. They represent two theological extremes. Simply put, Alyosha is a believer while Ivan is not. They very plainly disagree about faith, but not hostilely. They are civil as they discuss immortality and the existence of God. Since Alyosha has been proving time and again that he is thoughtful, helpful, and loving, Ivan is taking the position of a villain by disagreeing with his brother. The only way Ivan has revealed his character thus far, however, has been through his opinions about intellectual matters; his emotions and motivations are still veiled. It is curious that he is becoming a foil to Alyosha given that they both have the same mother. The only two characters who have the same parents have the widest disparity in their opinions about God. Ivan does respect Alyosha, though at first he was suspicious that Alyosha's opinions were the opinions of a thoughtless religious fanatic. The brothers have learned to understand each other, and they all are starting to be able to tolerate each other. The same cannot be said for Fyodor's and Dmitri's relationship. As expected, the first conversation they had since the meeting with Father Zossima turned violent. Their situation has worsened, and a resolution for them is nowhere in sight.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/37.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Sense and Sensibility/section_3_part_7.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 37

chapter 37

{"name": "Chapter 37", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-31-40", "summary": "Mrs. Jennings returns home one day, to inform Elinor that Miss Steele told Fanny of Lucy and Edward's engagement. The Ferrars family are in an uproar, and Fanny in particular, who went into hysterics at the news, and forced the two girls from the house. Elinor is concerned about how this whole uproar will effect Edward, and tells her sister of it; Marianne is much grieved to hear of it, and cannot believe that Elinor has also kept her knowledge of it a secret for so long. John Dashwood visits, and tells them that Edward is to be disinherited if he chooses to marry Lucy; John laments that Edward has given up an estate and his fortune for this match, although Elinor and Marianne are even more grieved that Edward will have to marry a woman he no longer loves.", "analysis": "Fanny and her mother's goodwill toward the Miss Steeles proves as short-lived as it was ill-founded; this incident displays Fanny's true ugliness, and shows her hypocrisy in accepting someone as a friend and guest whom she would despise as a sister-in-law. Indeed, hypocrisy seems to be a theme of this entire section of the novel, as there is a great divide between what people say and what they think, and since friendships can be so quickly cast aside as Fanny demonstrates. Elinor, however, is a paragon of the opposite of hypocrisy, which is civility; although she does not speak her mind, she does not profess to feelings which are not hers, nor does she flatter as indiscriminately as the Miss Steeles. Marianne's reaction upon hearing of Edward's engagement once again shows progress for her; she forgets about her own troubles and wishes to console Elinor, and show her thankfulness at being taken care of by Elinor during the past weeks. Marianne again loses part of her selfishness, as she sees that her sister has suffered a disappointment equal to her own. Marianne also makes progress toward being as discreet as her sister, in concealing her feelings about the whole affair from anyone besides Elinor. In this situation, Marianne seems to express all the grief that Elinor has concealed; Marianne seems like a kind of surrogate for her sister, in allowing herself to show emotion while Elinor tries to suppress all her feelings"}

Mrs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and, contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from that period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she found the Miss Dashwoods very ready to resume their former share. About the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in Berkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to Mrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by herself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to hear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea, began directly to justify it, by saying, "Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?" "No, ma'am. What is it?" "Something so strange! But you shall hear it all.-- When I got to Mr. Palmer's, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was sure it was very ill--it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples. So I looked at it directly, and, 'Lord! my dear,' says I, 'it is nothing in the world, but the red gum--' and nurse said just the same. But Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for; and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon as ever Mama, he said just as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and then Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was going away again, it came into my head, I am sure I do not know how I happened to think of it, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news. So upon that, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know something or other, and at last he said in a whisper, 'For fear any unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to their sister's indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that I believe there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will do very well.'" "What! is Fanny ill?" "That is exactly what I said, my dear. 'Lord!' says I, 'is Mrs. Dashwood ill?' So then it all came out; and the long and the short of the matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this. Mr. Edward Ferrars, the very young man I used to joke with you about (but however, as it turns out, I am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), Mr. Edward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my cousin Lucy!--There's for you, my dear!--And not a creature knowing a syllable of the matter, except Nancy!--Could you have believed such a thing possible?-- There is no great wonder in their liking one another; but that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody suspect it!--THAT is strange!--I never happened to see them together, or I am sure I should have found it out directly. Well, and so this was kept a great secret, for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor your brother or sister suspected a word of the matter;--till this very morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no conjurer, popt it all out. 'Lord!' thinks she to herself, 'they are all so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about it;' and so, away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone at her carpet-work, little suspecting what was to come--for she had just been saying to your brother, only five minutes before, that she thought to make a match between Edward and some Lord's daughter or other, I forget who. So you may think what a blow it was to all her vanity and pride. She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with such screams as reached your brother's ears, as he was sitting in his own dressing-room down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his steward in the country. So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for Lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on. Poor soul! I pity HER. And I must say, I think she was used very hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and soon drove her into a fainting fit. Nancy, she fell upon her knees, and cried bitterly; and your brother, he walked about the room, and said he did not know what to do. Mrs. Dashwood declared they should not stay a minute longer in the house, and your brother was forced to go down upon HIS knees too, to persuade her to let them stay till they had packed up their clothes. THEN she fell into hysterics again, and he was so frightened that he would send for Mr. Donavan, and Mr. Donavan found the house in all this uproar. The carriage was at the door ready to take my poor cousins away, and they were just stepping in as he came off; poor Lucy in such a condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and Nancy, she was almost as bad. I declare, I have no patience with your sister; and I hope, with all my heart, it will be a match in spite of her. Lord! what a taking poor Mr. Edward will be in when he hears of it! To have his love used so scornfully! for they say he is monstrous fond of her, as well he may. I should not wonder, if he was to be in the greatest passion!--and Mr. Donavan thinks just the same. He and I had a great deal of talk about it; and the best of all is, that he is gone back again to Harley Street, that he may be within call when Mrs. Ferrars is told of it, for she was sent for as soon as ever my cousins left the house, for your sister was sure SHE would be in hysterics too; and so she may, for what I care. I have no pity for either of them. I have no notion of people's making such a to-do about money and greatness. There is no reason on earth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should not marry; for I am sure Mrs. Ferrars may afford to do very well by her son, and though Lucy has next to nothing herself, she knows better than any body how to make the most of every thing; I dare say, if Mrs. Ferrars would only allow him five hundred a-year, she would make as good an appearance with it as any body else would with eight. Lord! how snug they might live in such another cottage as yours--or a little bigger--with two maids, and two men; and I believe I could help them to a housemaid, for my Betty has a sister out of place, that would fit them exactly." Here Mrs. Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had had time enough to collect her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make such observations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to produce. Happy to find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary interest in it; that Mrs. Jennings (as she had of late often hoped might be the case) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to Edward; and happy above all the rest, in the absence of Marianne, she felt very well able to speak of the affair without embarrassment, and to give her judgment, as she believed, with impartiality on the conduct of every one concerned in it. She could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event really was; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being possible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of Edward and Lucy. What Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there could not be a doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still more anxious to know how Edward would conduct himself. For HIM she felt much compassion;--for Lucy very little--and it cost her some pains to procure that little;--for the rest of the party none at all. As Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon saw the necessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion. No time was to be lost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth, and in endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others, without betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any resentment against Edward. Elinor's office was a painful one.--She was going to remove what she really believed to be her sister's chief consolation,--to give such particulars of Edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in her good opinion,-and to make Marianne, by a resemblance in their situations, which to HER fancy would seem strong, feel all her own disappointment over again. But unwelcome as such a task must be, it was necessary to be done, and Elinor therefore hastened to perform it. She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to represent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the self-command she had practised since her first knowledge of Edward's engagement, might suggest a hint of what was practicable to Marianne. Her narration was clear and simple; and though it could not be given without emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation, nor impetuous grief.--THAT belonged rather to the hearer, for Marianne listened with horror, and cried excessively. Elinor was to be the comforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and all the comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure of mind, and a very earnest vindication of Edward from every charge but of imprudence, was readily offered. But Marianne for some time would give credit to neither. Edward seemed a second Willoughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that she HAD loved him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself! As for Lucy Steele, she considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely incapable of attaching a sensible man, that she could not be persuaded at first to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection of Edward for her. She would not even admit it to have been natural; and Elinor left her to be convinced that it was so, by that which only could convince her, a better knowledge of mankind. Her first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact of the engagement, and the length of time it had existed.--Marianne's feelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of detail; and for some time all that could be done was to soothe her distress, lessen her alarms, and combat her resentment. The first question on her side, which led to farther particulars, was,-- "How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he written to you?" "I have known it these four months. When Lucy first came to Barton Park last November, she told me in confidence of her engagement." At these words, Marianne's eyes expressed the astonishment which her lips could not utter. After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed-- "Four months!--Have you known of this four months?" Elinor confirmed it. "What!--while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your heart?--And I have reproached you for being happy!"-- "It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the reverse!" "Four months!"--cried Marianne again.--"So calm!--so cheerful!--how have you been supported?"-- "By feeling that I was doing my duty.--My promise to Lucy, obliged me to be secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of the truth; and I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in them a solicitude about me, which it could not be in my power to satisfy." Marianne seemed much struck. "I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother," added Elinor; "and once or twice I have attempted it;--but without betraying my trust, I never could have convinced you." "Four months!--and yet you loved him!"-- "Yes. But I did not love only him;--and while the comfort of others was dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt. Now, I can think and speak of it with little emotion. I would not have you suffer on my account; for I assure you I no longer suffer materially myself. I have many things to support me. I am not conscious of having provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of my own, I have borne it as much as possible without spreading it farther. I acquit Edward of essential misconduct. I wish him very happy; and I am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though now he may harbour some regret, in the end he must become so. Lucy does not want sense, and that is the foundation on which every thing good may be built.--And after all, Marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single and constant attachment, and all that can be said of one's happiness depending entirely on any particular person, it is not meant--it is not fit--it is not possible that it should be so.-- Edward will marry Lucy; he will marry a woman superior in person and understanding to half her sex; and time and habit will teach him to forget that he ever thought another superior to HER."-- "If such is your way of thinking," said Marianne, "if the loss of what is most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your resolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be wondered at.--They are brought more within my comprehension." "I understand you.--You do not suppose that I have ever felt much.--For four months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it would make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least.-- It was told me,--it was in a manner forced on me by the very person herself, whose prior engagement ruined all my prospects; and told me, as I thought, with triumph.-- This person's suspicions, therefore, I have had to oppose, by endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most deeply interested;--and it has not been only once;--I have had her hopes and exultation to listen to again and again.-- I have known myself to be divided from Edward for ever, without hearing one circumstance that could make me less desire the connection.--Nothing has proved him unworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent to me.-- I have had to contend against the unkindness of his sister, and the insolence of his mother; and have suffered the punishment of an attachment, without enjoying its advantages.-- And all this has been going on at a time, when, as you know too well, it has not been my only unhappiness.-- If you can think me capable of ever feeling--surely you may suppose that I have suffered NOW. The composure of mind with which I have brought myself at present to consider the matter, the consolation that I have been willing to admit, have been the effect of constant and painful exertion;--they did not spring up of themselves;--they did not occur to relieve my spirits at first.-- No, Marianne.--THEN, if I had not been bound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely--not even what I owed to my dearest friends--from openly shewing that I was VERY unhappy."-- Marianne was quite subdued.-- "Oh! Elinor," she cried, "you have made me hate myself for ever.--How barbarous have I been to you!--you, who have been my only comfort, who have borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only suffering for me!--Is this my gratitude?--Is this the only return I can make you?--Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have been trying to do it away." The tenderest caresses followed this confession. In such a frame of mind as she was now in, Elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her whatever promise she required; and at her request, Marianne engaged never to speak of the affair to any one with the least appearance of bitterness;--to meet Lucy without betraying the smallest increase of dislike to her;--and even to see Edward himself, if chance should bring them together, without any diminution of her usual cordiality.-- These were great concessions;--but where Marianne felt that she had injured, no reparation could be too much for her to make. She performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration.--She attended to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject, with an unchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard three times to say, "Yes, ma'am."--She listened to her praise of Lucy with only moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings talked of Edward's affection, it cost her only a spasm in her throat.--Such advances towards heroism in her sister, made Elinor feel equal to any thing herself. The next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful affair, and bring them news of his wife. "You have heard, I suppose," said he with great solemnity, as soon as he was seated, "of the very shocking discovery that took place under our roof yesterday." They all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech. "Your sister," he continued, "has suffered dreadfully. Mrs. Ferrars too--in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress--but I will hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any of us quite overcome. Poor Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday. But I would not alarm you too much. Donavan says there is nothing materially to be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her resolution equal to any thing. She has borne it all, with the fortitude of an angel! She says she never shall think well of anybody again; and one cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived!--meeting with such ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shewn, so much confidence had been placed! It was quite out of the benevolence of her heart, that she had asked these young women to her house; merely because she thought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved girls, and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise we both wished very much to have invited you and Marianne to be with us, while your kind friend there, was attending her daughter. And now to be so rewarded! 'I wish, with all my heart,' says poor Fanny in her affectionate way, 'that we had asked your sisters instead of them.'" Here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on. "What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny broke it to her, is not to be described. While she with the truest affection had been planning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that he could be all the time secretly engaged to another person!--such a suspicion could never have entered her head! If she suspected ANY prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in THAT quarter. 'THERE, to be sure,' said she, 'I might have thought myself safe.' She was quite in an agony. We consulted together, however, as to what should be done, and at last she determined to send for Edward. He came. But I am sorry to relate what ensued. All that Mrs. Ferrars could say to make him put an end to the engagement, assisted too as you may well suppose by my arguments, and Fanny's entreaties, was of no avail. Duty, affection, every thing was disregarded. I never thought Edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before. His mother explained to him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying Miss Morton; told him she would settle on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax, brings in a good thousand a-year; offered even, when matters grew desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he still persisted in this low connection, represented to him the certain penury that must attend the match. His own two thousand pounds she protested should be his all; she would never see him again; and so far would she be from affording him the smallest assistance, that if he were to enter into any profession with a view of better support, she would do all in her power to prevent him advancing in it." Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands together, and cried, "Gracious God! can this be possible!" "Well may you wonder, Marianne," replied her brother, "at the obstinacy which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation is very natural." Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and forbore. "All this, however," he continued, "was urged in vain. Edward said very little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner. Nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would stand to it, cost him what it might." "Then," cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be silent, "he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr. Dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a rascal. I have some little concern in the business, as well as yourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a better kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good husband." John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not open to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially anybody of good fortune. He therefore replied, without any resentment, "I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours, madam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman, but in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible. And to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under her uncle's care, the son of a woman especially of such very large fortune as Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little extraordinary. In short, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person whom you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish her extremely happy; and Mrs. Ferrars's conduct throughout the whole, has been such as every conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt. It has been dignified and liberal. Edward has drawn his own lot, and I fear it will be a bad one." Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor's heart wrung for the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother's threats, for a woman who could not reward him. "Well, sir," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did it end?" "I am sorry to say, ma'am, in a most unhappy rupture:-- Edward is dismissed for ever from his mother's notice. He left her house yesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do not know; for WE of course can make no inquiry." "Poor young man!--and what is to become of him?" "What, indeed, ma'am! It is a melancholy consideration. Born to the prospect of such affluence! I cannot conceive a situation more deplorable. The interest of two thousand pounds--how can a man live on it?--and when to that is added the recollection, that he might, but for his own folly, within three months have been in the receipt of two thousand, five hundred a-year (for Miss Morton has thirty thousand pounds,) I cannot picture to myself a more wretched condition. We must all feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out of our power to assist him." "Poor young man!" cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure he should be very welcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him if I could see him. It is not fit that he should be living about at his own charge now, at lodgings and taverns." Elinor's heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though she could not forbear smiling at the form of it. "If he would only have done as well by himself," said John Dashwood, "as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have been in his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing. But as it is, it must be out of anybody's power to assist him. And there is one thing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all--his mother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle THAT estate upon Robert immediately, which might have been Edward's, on proper conditions. I left her this morning with her lawyer, talking over the business." "Well!" said Mrs. Jennings, "that is HER revenge. Everybody has a way of their own. But I don't think mine would be, to make one son independent, because another had plagued me." Marianne got up and walked about the room. "Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man," continued John, "than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which might have been his own? Poor Edward! I feel for him sincerely." A few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his visit; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really believed there was no material danger in Fanny's indisposition, and that they need not therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away; leaving the three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present occasion, as far at least as it regarded Mrs. Ferrars's conduct, the Dashwoods', and Edward's. Marianne's indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room; and as her vehemence made reserve impossible in Elinor, and unnecessary in Mrs. Jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the party.

Chapter 37

https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-31-40

Mrs. Jennings returns home one day, to inform Elinor that Miss Steele told Fanny of Lucy and Edward's engagement. The Ferrars family are in an uproar, and Fanny in particular, who went into hysterics at the news, and forced the two girls from the house. Elinor is concerned about how this whole uproar will effect Edward, and tells her sister of it; Marianne is much grieved to hear of it, and cannot believe that Elinor has also kept her knowledge of it a secret for so long. John Dashwood visits, and tells them that Edward is to be disinherited if he chooses to marry Lucy; John laments that Edward has given up an estate and his fortune for this match, although Elinor and Marianne are even more grieved that Edward will have to marry a woman he no longer loves.

Fanny and her mother's goodwill toward the Miss Steeles proves as short-lived as it was ill-founded; this incident displays Fanny's true ugliness, and shows her hypocrisy in accepting someone as a friend and guest whom she would despise as a sister-in-law. Indeed, hypocrisy seems to be a theme of this entire section of the novel, as there is a great divide between what people say and what they think, and since friendships can be so quickly cast aside as Fanny demonstrates. Elinor, however, is a paragon of the opposite of hypocrisy, which is civility; although she does not speak her mind, she does not profess to feelings which are not hers, nor does she flatter as indiscriminately as the Miss Steeles. Marianne's reaction upon hearing of Edward's engagement once again shows progress for her; she forgets about her own troubles and wishes to console Elinor, and show her thankfulness at being taken care of by Elinor during the past weeks. Marianne again loses part of her selfishness, as she sees that her sister has suffered a disappointment equal to her own. Marianne also makes progress toward being as discreet as her sister, in concealing her feelings about the whole affair from anyone besides Elinor. In this situation, Marianne seems to express all the grief that Elinor has concealed; Marianne seems like a kind of surrogate for her sister, in allowing herself to show emotion while Elinor tries to suppress all her feelings

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/05.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_4_part_0.txt

Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 5

chapter 5

{"name": "Chapter 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-5", "summary": "\"The more emphatic the renunciation, the less absolute its character.\" This Gabriel learned when he heard that Bathsheba had gone to Weatherbury. Why or for how long she had gone, he did not know. His affection mounted, but he maintained his even temper. The lambing phase of the sheepfarming over, he returned home for the luxury of sleeping in a real bed. He called the dogs, but only George responded. The younger dog, George's son, completely unlike his sire, was probably still eating a lamb carcass, a rare treat. George was competent and imbued with a sense of his responsibilities. The younger dog still lacked comprehension of what was expected of him. Gabriel was roused from a sound sleep by the violent ringing of sheep bells. He rushed out, following the sound until he came to a broken rail at the edge of a chalk pit. Young George, evidently inspired by his meal, had zealously chased the sheep, driving them over the brink. Gabriel looked into the deep chasm. There, dead and dying, lay two hundred ewes, all heavy with an equal number of prospective young. There also lay all his hopes for a farm of his own. Gabriel's \"first feeling . . . was one of pity for the untimely fate of these gentle ewes and their unborn lambs.\" Later, without rancor, he did his duty: He destroyed the dog. Gabriel calculated that selling all his belongings and utensils would just cover the claims of the dealer who had staked him to his first independent venture. The debt was paid, \"leaving himself a free man with the clothes he stood up in, and nothing more.\"", "analysis": "Similar to Hardy's use of color to portray external appearance is his philosophy as to the sensitivity of men and animals. Each creature has a sense of its purpose in life, to a greater or lesser degree. Thus, George's son must be destroyed to prevent further destruction, since he lacks all instinct for his trusted, position."}

DEPARTURE OF BATHSHEBA--A PASTORAL TRAGEDY The news which one day reached Gabriel, that Bathsheba Everdene had left the neighbourhood, had an influence upon him which might have surprised any who never suspected that the more emphatic the renunciation the less absolute its character. It may have been observed that there is no regular path for getting out of love as there is for getting in. Some people look upon marriage as a short cut that way, but it has been known to fail. Separation, which was the means that chance offered to Gabriel Oak by Bathsheba's disappearance, though effectual with people of certain humours, is apt to idealize the removed object with others--notably those whose affection, placid and regular as it may be, flows deep and long. Oak belonged to the even-tempered order of humanity, and felt the secret fusion of himself in Bathsheba to be burning with a finer flame now that she was gone--that was all. His incipient friendship with her aunt had been nipped by the failure of his suit, and all that Oak learnt of Bathsheba's movements was done indirectly. It appeared that she had gone to a place called Weatherbury, more than twenty miles off, but in what capacity--whether as a visitor, or permanently, he could not discover. Gabriel had two dogs. George, the elder, exhibited an ebony-tipped nose, surrounded by a narrow margin of pink flesh, and a coat marked in random splotches approximating in colour to white and slaty grey; but the grey, after years of sun and rain, had been scorched and washed out of the more prominent locks, leaving them of a reddish-brown, as if the blue component of the grey had faded, like the indigo from the same kind of colour in Turner's pictures. In substance it had originally been hair, but long contact with sheep seemed to be turning it by degrees into wool of a poor quality and staple. This dog had originally belonged to a shepherd of inferior morals and dreadful temper, and the result was that George knew the exact degrees of condemnation signified by cursing and swearing of all descriptions better than the wickedest old man in the neighbourhood. Long experience had so precisely taught the animal the difference between such exclamations as "Come in!" and "D---- ye, come in!" that he knew to a hair's breadth the rate of trotting back from the ewes' tails that each call involved, if a staggerer with the sheep crook was to be escaped. Though old, he was clever and trustworthy still. The young dog, George's son, might possibly have been the image of his mother, for there was not much resemblance between him and George. He was learning the sheep-keeping business, so as to follow on at the flock when the other should die, but had got no further than the rudiments as yet--still finding an insuperable difficulty in distinguishing between doing a thing well enough and doing it too well. So earnest and yet so wrong-headed was this young dog (he had no name in particular, and answered with perfect readiness to any pleasant interjection), that if sent behind the flock to help them on, he did it so thoroughly that he would have chased them across the whole county with the greatest pleasure if not called off or reminded when to stop by the example of old George. Thus much for the dogs. On the further side of Norcombe Hill was a chalk-pit, from which chalk had been drawn for generations, and spread over adjacent farms. Two hedges converged upon it in the form of a V, but without quite meeting. The narrow opening left, which was immediately over the brow of the pit, was protected by a rough railing. One night, when Farmer Oak had returned to his house, believing there would be no further necessity for his attendance on the down, he called as usual to the dogs, previously to shutting them up in the outhouse till next morning. Only one responded--old George; the other could not be found, either in the house, lane, or garden. Gabriel then remembered that he had left the two dogs on the hill eating a dead lamb (a kind of meat he usually kept from them, except when other food ran short), and concluding that the young one had not finished his meal, he went indoors to the luxury of a bed, which latterly he had only enjoyed on Sundays. It was a still, moist night. Just before dawn he was assisted in waking by the abnormal reverberation of familiar music. To the shepherd, the note of the sheep-bell, like the ticking of the clock to other people, is a chronic sound that only makes itself noticed by ceasing or altering in some unusual manner from the well-known idle twinkle which signifies to the accustomed ear, however distant, that all is well in the fold. In the solemn calm of the awakening morn that note was heard by Gabriel, beating with unusual violence and rapidity. This exceptional ringing may be caused in two ways--by the rapid feeding of the sheep bearing the bell, as when the flock breaks into new pasture, which gives it an intermittent rapidity, or by the sheep starting off in a run, when the sound has a regular palpitation. The experienced ear of Oak knew the sound he now heard to be caused by the running of the flock with great velocity. He jumped out of bed, dressed, tore down the lane through a foggy dawn, and ascended the hill. The forward ewes were kept apart from those among which the fall of lambs would be later, there being two hundred of the latter class in Gabriel's flock. These two hundred seemed to have absolutely vanished from the hill. There were the fifty with their lambs, enclosed at the other end as he had left them, but the rest, forming the bulk of the flock, were nowhere. Gabriel called at the top of his voice the shepherd's call: "Ovey, ovey, ovey!" Not a single bleat. He went to the hedge; a gap had been broken through it, and in the gap were the footprints of the sheep. Rather surprised to find them break fence at this season, yet putting it down instantly to their great fondness for ivy in winter-time, of which a great deal grew in the plantation, he followed through the hedge. They were not in the plantation. He called again: the valleys and farthest hills resounded as when the sailors invoked the lost Hylas on the Mysian shore; but no sheep. He passed through the trees and along the ridge of the hill. On the extreme summit, where the ends of the two converging hedges of which we have spoken were stopped short by meeting the brow of the chalk-pit, he saw the younger dog standing against the sky--dark and motionless as Napoleon at St. Helena. A horrible conviction darted through Oak. With a sensation of bodily faintness he advanced: at one point the rails were broken through, and there he saw the footprints of his ewes. The dog came up, licked his hand, and made signs implying that he expected some great reward for signal services rendered. Oak looked over the precipice. The ewes lay dead and dying at its foot--a heap of two hundred mangled carcasses, representing in their condition just now at least two hundred more. Oak was an intensely humane man: indeed, his humanity often tore in pieces any politic intentions of his which bordered on strategy, and carried him on as by gravitation. A shadow in his life had always been that his flock ended in mutton--that a day came and found every shepherd an arrant traitor to his defenseless sheep. His first feeling now was one of pity for the untimely fate of these gentle ewes and their unborn lambs. It was a second to remember another phase of the matter. The sheep were not insured. All the savings of a frugal life had been dispersed at a blow; his hopes of being an independent farmer were laid low--possibly for ever. Gabriel's energies, patience, and industry had been so severely taxed during the years of his life between eighteen and eight-and-twenty, to reach his present stage of progress that no more seemed to be left in him. He leant down upon a rail, and covered his face with his hands. Stupors, however, do not last for ever, and Farmer Oak recovered from his. It was as remarkable as it was characteristic that the one sentence he uttered was in thankfulness:-- "Thank God I am not married: what would SHE have done in the poverty now coming upon me!" Oak raised his head, and wondering what he could do, listlessly surveyed the scene. By the outer margin of the Pit was an oval pond, and over it hung the attenuated skeleton of a chrome-yellow moon which had only a few days to last--the morning star dogging her on the left hand. The pool glittered like a dead man's eye, and as the world awoke a breeze blew, shaking and elongating the reflection of the moon without breaking it, and turning the image of the star to a phosphoric streak upon the water. All this Oak saw and remembered. As far as could be learnt it appeared that the poor young dog, still under the impression that since he was kept for running after sheep, the more he ran after them the better, had at the end of his meal off the dead lamb, which may have given him additional energy and spirits, collected all the ewes into a corner, driven the timid creatures through the hedge, across the upper field, and by main force of worrying had given them momentum enough to break down a portion of the rotten railing, and so hurled them over the edge. George's son had done his work so thoroughly that he was considered too good a workman to live, and was, in fact, taken and tragically shot at twelve o'clock that same day--another instance of the untoward fate which so often attends dogs and other philosophers who follow out a train of reasoning to its logical conclusion, and attempt perfectly consistent conduct in a world made up so largely of compromise. Gabriel's farm had been stocked by a dealer--on the strength of Oak's promising look and character--who was receiving a percentage from the farmer till such time as the advance should be cleared off. Oak found that the value of stock, plant, and implements which were really his own would be about sufficient to pay his debts, leaving himself a free man with the clothes he stood up in, and nothing more.

Chapter 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-5

"The more emphatic the renunciation, the less absolute its character." This Gabriel learned when he heard that Bathsheba had gone to Weatherbury. Why or for how long she had gone, he did not know. His affection mounted, but he maintained his even temper. The lambing phase of the sheepfarming over, he returned home for the luxury of sleeping in a real bed. He called the dogs, but only George responded. The younger dog, George's son, completely unlike his sire, was probably still eating a lamb carcass, a rare treat. George was competent and imbued with a sense of his responsibilities. The younger dog still lacked comprehension of what was expected of him. Gabriel was roused from a sound sleep by the violent ringing of sheep bells. He rushed out, following the sound until he came to a broken rail at the edge of a chalk pit. Young George, evidently inspired by his meal, had zealously chased the sheep, driving them over the brink. Gabriel looked into the deep chasm. There, dead and dying, lay two hundred ewes, all heavy with an equal number of prospective young. There also lay all his hopes for a farm of his own. Gabriel's "first feeling . . . was one of pity for the untimely fate of these gentle ewes and their unborn lambs." Later, without rancor, he did his duty: He destroyed the dog. Gabriel calculated that selling all his belongings and utensils would just cover the claims of the dealer who had staked him to his first independent venture. The debt was paid, "leaving himself a free man with the clothes he stood up in, and nothing more."

Similar to Hardy's use of color to portray external appearance is his philosophy as to the sensitivity of men and animals. Each creature has a sense of its purpose in life, to a greater or lesser degree. Thus, George's son must be destroyed to prevent further destruction, since he lacks all instinct for his trusted, position.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Prince/section_16_part_0.txt

The Prince.chapter 16

chapter 16

{"name": "Chapter 16", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210420060055/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/prince-machiavelli/summary/chapter-16", "summary": "Machiavelli's rule number 670,979,843,101: Don't be generous. It's not worth it. We know you want to seem awesome and have everyone think that you're the best ruler ever, but seriously, don't. You will waste all of your money and your people will hate you because you have to raise taxes. Funnily enough, you can seem generous by not spending any money because everyone will be happy that you didn't tax them. Old Niccolo likes to back up his claims with examples, if you haven't noticed already. This time, he says it worked out for Pope Julius II, The King of France, and the King of Spain, so it can work for you! Anyway, if people are upset with you for not giving them presents, ignore them. Oh, unless it's other people's stuff. If it's other people's stuff then feel free to throw money everywhere. Actually you have to. Otherwise, everyone will hate you, and that means that they might rebel against you.", "analysis": ""}

Commencing then with the first of the above-named characteristics, I say that it would be well to be reputed liberal. Nevertheless, liberality exercised in a way that does not bring you the reputation for it, injures you; for if one exercises it honestly and as it should be exercised, it may not become known, and you will not avoid the reproach of its opposite. Therefore, any one wishing to maintain among men the name of liberal is obliged to avoid no attribute of magnificence; so that a prince thus inclined will consume in such acts all his property, and will be compelled in the end, if he wish to maintain the name of liberal, to unduly weigh down his people, and tax them, and do everything he can to get money. This will soon make him odious to his subjects, and becoming poor he will be little valued by any one; thus, with his liberality, having offended many and rewarded few, he is affected by the very first trouble and imperilled by whatever may be the first danger; recognizing this himself, and wishing to draw back from it, he runs at once into the reproach of being miserly. Therefore, a prince, not being able to exercise this virtue of liberality in such a way that it is recognized, except to his cost, if he is wise he ought not to fear the reputation of being mean, for in time he will come to be more considered than if liberal, seeing that with his economy his revenues are enough, that he can defend himself against all attacks, and is able to engage in enterprises without burdening his people; thus it comes to pass that he exercises liberality towards all from whom he does not take, who are numberless, and meanness towards those to whom he does not give, who are few. We have not seen great things done in our time except by those who have been considered mean; the rest have failed. Pope Julius the Second was assisted in reaching the papacy by a reputation for liberality, yet he did not strive afterwards to keep it up, when he made war on the King of France; and he made many wars without imposing any extraordinary tax on his subjects, for he supplied his additional expenses out of his long thriftiness. The present King of Spain would not have undertaken or conquered in so many enterprises if he had been reputed liberal. A prince, therefore, provided that he has not to rob his subjects, that he can defend himself, that he does not become poor and abject, that he is not forced to become rapacious, ought to hold of little account a reputation for being mean, for it is one of those vices which will enable him to govern. And if any one should say: Caesar obtained empire by liberality, and many others have reached the highest positions by having been liberal, and by being considered so, I answer: Either you are a prince in fact, or in a way to become one. In the first case this liberality is dangerous, in the second it is very necessary to be considered liberal; and Caesar was one of those who wished to become pre-eminent in Rome; but if he had survived after becoming so, and had not moderated his expenses, he would have destroyed his government. And if any one should reply: Many have been princes, and have done great things with armies, who have been considered very liberal, I reply: Either a prince spends that which is his own or his subjects' or else that of others. In the first case he ought to be sparing, in the second he ought not to neglect any opportunity for liberality. And to the prince who goes forth with his army, supporting it by pillage, sack, and extortion, handling that which belongs to others, this liberality is necessary, otherwise he would not be followed by soldiers. And of that which is neither yours nor your subjects' you can be a ready giver, as were Cyrus, Caesar, and Alexander; because it does not take away your reputation if you squander that of others, but adds to it; it is only squandering your own that injures you. And there is nothing wastes so rapidly as liberality, for even whilst you exercise it you lose the power to do so, and so become either poor or despised, or else, in avoiding poverty, rapacious and hated. And a prince should guard himself, above all things, against being despised and hated; and liberality leads you to both. Therefore it is wiser to have a reputation for meanness which brings reproach without hatred, than to be compelled through seeking a reputation for liberality to incur a name for rapacity which begets reproach with hatred.

Chapter 16

https://web.archive.org/web/20210420060055/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/prince-machiavelli/summary/chapter-16

Machiavelli's rule number 670,979,843,101: Don't be generous. It's not worth it. We know you want to seem awesome and have everyone think that you're the best ruler ever, but seriously, don't. You will waste all of your money and your people will hate you because you have to raise taxes. Funnily enough, you can seem generous by not spending any money because everyone will be happy that you didn't tax them. Old Niccolo likes to back up his claims with examples, if you haven't noticed already. This time, he says it worked out for Pope Julius II, The King of France, and the King of Spain, so it can work for you! Anyway, if people are upset with you for not giving them presents, ignore them. Oh, unless it's other people's stuff. If it's other people's stuff then feel free to throw money everywhere. Actually you have to. Otherwise, everyone will hate you, and that means that they might rebel against you.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/39.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Lord Jim/section_37_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 39

chapter 39

{"name": "Chapter 39", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim48.asp", "summary": "The arrival of Brown and his men in Patusan create a stir amongst the natives, who try to overcome the invaders. Unfortunately, Jim is away in the interior, and Dain Waris has to mastermind the attack. Though they love and respect him, the Bugis do not believe that he has supernatural powers like Jim. They think that Dain Waris will be defeated; therefore, they refuse to fight and wait for Jim to return, crowding into the fort that he has built. They send messengers out to look for Jim. Jewel, who has the key to the supply room, takes command at the fort. She urges Dain Waris to attack, but Doramin goes against her. He is afraid for his son. Doramin tells Dain Waris to go down the river and cut off the robbers' retreat. Kassim, Raja Tungku Allang's spokesman, has a desire to become the ruler of Patusan. To gain his end, he thinks it may be wise to side with Brown. He seeks out the villain and opens communication with him by using Cornelius as an interpreter. Cornelius tells Brown that he can become lord of Patusan if he kills Jim. Kassim is trying to manipulate Brown to murder Jim and clear a path for himself. He has no intention of allowing Brown to become the lord of the island.", "analysis": "Notes The novelist has set the stage for the final catastrophe. The intrigues and counter-intrigues between different groups of people in Patusan are realistic and graphic, for Conrad had full knowledge about the intrigues and double-dealings of Malay communities. Tungku Allang, Doramin, Kassim, and Cornelius are all depicted as scoundrels with their own agendas. Tungku Allan wants to seize power once again on the island; Doramin wants to protect his son, Dain Waris, so he can rule the island; and Kassim wants to become ruler of Patusan himself. Cornelius just wants to rid himself of Jim. It is important to note that the Bugis will not fight against Brown and his men because Jim is not present. It is ironic that they trust him so fully that they will not protect themselves if he is not there to give the order. Even though Dain Waris and Jewel urge them to battle, they ignore their pleas and simply send out messengers to search for Jim. There is even greater irony in the fact that when Jim returns he does not order the death of Brown, a fact that leads to several deaths, including his own."}

'All the events of that night have a great importance, since they brought about a situation which remained unchanged till Jim's return. Jim had been away in the interior for more than a week, and it was Dain Waris who had directed the first repulse. That brave and intelligent youth ("who knew how to fight after the manner of white men") wished to settle the business off-hand, but his people were too much for him. He had not Jim's racial prestige and the reputation of invincible, supernatural power. He was not the visible, tangible incarnation of unfailing truth and of unfailing victory. Beloved, trusted, and admired as he was, he was still one of _them_, while Jim was one of us. Moreover, the white man, a tower of strength in himself, was invulnerable, while Dain Waris could be killed. Those unexpressed thoughts guided the opinions of the chief men of the town, who elected to assemble in Jim's fort for deliberation upon the emergency, as if expecting to find wisdom and courage in the dwelling of the absent white man. The shooting of Brown's ruffians was so far good, or lucky, that there had been half-a-dozen casualties amongst the defenders. The wounded were lying on the verandah tended by their women-folk. The women and children from the lower part of the town had been sent into the fort at the first alarm. There Jewel was in command, very efficient and high-spirited, obeyed by Jim's "own people," who, quitting in a body their little settlement under the stockade, had gone in to form the garrison. The refugees crowded round her; and through the whole affair, to the very disastrous last, she showed an extraordinary martial ardour. It was to her that Dain Waris had gone at once at the first intelligence of danger, for you must know that Jim was the only one in Patusan who possessed a store of gunpowder. Stein, with whom he had kept up intimate relations by letters, had obtained from the Dutch Government a special authorisation to export five hundred kegs of it to Patusan. The powder-magazine was a small hut of rough logs covered entirely with earth, and in Jim's absence the girl had the key. In the council, held at eleven o'clock in the evening in Jim's dining-room, she backed up Waris's advice for immediate and vigorous action. I am told that she stood up by the side of Jim's empty chair at the head of the long table and made a warlike impassioned speech, which for the moment extorted murmurs of approbation from the assembled headmen. Old Doramin, who had not showed himself outside his own gate for more than a year, had been brought across with great difficulty. He was, of course, the chief man there. The temper of the council was very unforgiving, and the old man's word would have been decisive; but it is my opinion that, well aware of his son's fiery courage, he dared not pronounce the word. More dilatory counsels prevailed. A certain Haji Saman pointed out at great length that "these tyrannical and ferocious men had delivered themselves to a certain death in any case. They would stand fast on their hill and starve, or they would try to regain their boat and be shot from ambushes across the creek, or they would break and fly into the forest and perish singly there." He argued that by the use of proper stratagems these evil-minded strangers could be destroyed without the risk of a battle, and his words had a great weight, especially with the Patusan men proper. What unsettled the minds of the townsfolk was the failure of the Rajah's boats to act at the decisive moment. It was the diplomatic Kassim who represented the Rajah at the council. He spoke very little, listened smilingly, very friendly and impenetrable. During the sitting messengers kept arriving every few minutes almost, with reports of the invaders' proceedings. Wild and exaggerated rumours were flying: there was a large ship at the mouth of the river with big guns and many more men--some white, others with black skins and of bloodthirsty appearance. They were coming with many more boats to exterminate every living thing. A sense of near, incomprehensible danger affected the common people. At one moment there was a panic in the courtyard amongst the women; shrieking; a rush; children crying--Haji Sunan went out to quiet them. Then a fort sentry fired at something moving on the river, and nearly killed a villager bringing in his women-folk in a canoe together with the best of his domestic utensils and a dozen fowls. This caused more confusion. Meantime the palaver inside Jim's house went on in the presence of the girl. Doramin sat fierce-faced, heavy, looking at the speakers in turn, and breathing slow like a bull. He didn't speak till the last, after Kassim had declared that the Rajah's boats would be called in because the men were required to defend his master's stockade. Dain Waris in his father's presence would offer no opinion, though the girl entreated him in Jim's name to speak out. She offered him Jim's own men in her anxiety to have these intruders driven out at once. He only shook his head, after a glance or two at Doramin. Finally, when the council broke up it had been decided that the houses nearest the creek should be strongly occupied to obtain the command of the enemy's boat. The boat itself was not to be interfered with openly, so that the robbers on the hill should be tempted to embark, when a well-directed fire would kill most of them, no doubt. To cut off the escape of those who might survive, and to prevent more of them coming up, Dain Waris was ordered by Doramin to take an armed party of Bugis down the river to a certain spot ten miles below Patusan, and there form a camp on the shore and blockade the stream with the canoes. I don't believe for a moment that Doramin feared the arrival of fresh forces. My opinion is that his conduct was guided solely by his wish to keep his son out of harm's way. To prevent a rush being made into the town the construction of a stockade was to be commenced at daylight at the end of the street on the left bank. The old nakhoda declared his intention to command there himself. A distribution of powder, bullets, and percussion-caps was made immediately under the girl's supervision. Several messengers were to be dispatched in different directions after Jim, whose exact whereabouts were unknown. These men started at dawn, but before that time Kassim had managed to open communications with the besieged Brown. 'That accomplished diplomatist and confidant of the Rajah, on leaving the fort to go back to his master, took into his boat Cornelius, whom he found slinking mutely amongst the people in the courtyard. Kassim had a little plan of his own and wanted him for an interpreter. Thus it came about that towards morning Brown, reflecting upon the desperate nature of his position, heard from the marshy overgrown hollow an amicable, quavering, strained voice crying--in English--for permission to come up, under a promise of personal safety and on a very important errand. He was overjoyed. If he was spoken to he was no longer a hunted wild beast. These friendly sounds took off at once the awful stress of vigilant watchfulness as of so many blind men not knowing whence the deathblow might come. He pretended a great reluctance. The voice declared itself "a white man--a poor, ruined, old man who had been living here for years." A mist, wet and chilly, lay on the slopes of the hill, and after some more shouting from one to the other, Brown called out, "Come on, then, but alone, mind!" As a matter of fact--he told me, writhing with rage at the recollection of his helplessness--it made no difference. They couldn't see more than a few yards before them, and no treachery could make their position worse. By-and-by Cornelius, in his week-day attire of a ragged dirty shirt and pants, barefooted, with a broken-rimmed pith hat on his head, was made out vaguely, sidling up to the defences, hesitating, stopping to listen in a peering posture. "Come along! You are safe," yelled Brown, while his men stared. All their hopes of life became suddenly centered in that dilapidated, mean newcomer, who in profound silence clambered clumsily over a felled tree-trunk, and shivering, with his sour, mistrustful face, looked about at the knot of bearded, anxious, sleepless desperadoes. 'Half an hour's confidential talk with Cornelius opened Brown's eyes as to the home affairs of Patusan. He was on the alert at once. There were possibilities, immense possibilities; but before he would talk over Cornelius's proposals he demanded that some food should be sent up as a guarantee of good faith. Cornelius went off, creeping sluggishly down the hill on the side of the Rajah's palace, and after some delay a few of Tunku Allang's men came up, bringing a scanty supply of rice, chillies, and dried fish. This was immeasurably better than nothing. Later on Cornelius returned accompanying Kassim, who stepped out with an air of perfect good-humoured trustfulness, in sandals, and muffled up from neck to ankles in dark-blue sheeting. He shook hands with Brown discreetly, and the three drew aside for a conference. Brown's men, recovering their confidence, were slapping each other on the back, and cast knowing glances at their captain while they busied themselves with preparations for cooking. 'Kassim disliked Doramin and his Bugis very much, but he hated the new order of things still more. It had occurred to him that these whites, together with the Rajah's followers, could attack and defeat the Bugis before Jim's return. Then, he reasoned, general defection of the townsfolk was sure to follow, and the reign of the white man who protected poor people would be over. Afterwards the new allies could be dealt with. They would have no friends. The fellow was perfectly able to perceive the difference of character, and had seen enough of white men to know that these newcomers were outcasts, men without country. Brown preserved a stern and inscrutable demeanour. When he first heard Cornelius's voice demanding admittance, it brought merely the hope of a loophole for escape. In less than an hour other thoughts were seething in his head. Urged by an extreme necessity, he had come there to steal food, a few tons of rubber or gum may be, perhaps a handful of dollars, and had found himself enmeshed by deadly dangers. Now in consequence of these overtures from Kassim he began to think of stealing the whole country. Some confounded fellow had apparently accomplished something of the kind--single-handed at that. Couldn't have done it very well though. Perhaps they could work together--squeeze everything dry and then go out quietly. In the course of his negotiations with Kassim he became aware that he was supposed to have a big ship with plenty of men outside. Kassim begged him earnestly to have this big ship with his many guns and men brought up the river without delay for the Rajah's service. Brown professed himself willing, and on this basis the negotiation was carried on with mutual distrust. Three times in the course of the morning the courteous and active Kassim went down to consult the Rajah and came up busily with his long stride. Brown, while bargaining, had a sort of grim enjoyment in thinking of his wretched schooner, with nothing but a heap of dirt in her hold, that stood for an armed ship, and a Chinaman and a lame ex-beachcomber of Levuka on board, who represented all his many men. In the afternoon he obtained further doles of food, a promise of some money, and a supply of mats for his men to make shelters for themselves. They lay down and snored, protected from the burning sunshine; but Brown, sitting fully exposed on one of the felled trees, feasted his eyes upon the view of the town and the river. There was much loot there. Cornelius, who had made himself at home in the camp, talked at his elbow, pointing out the localities, imparting advice, giving his own version of Jim's character, and commenting in his own fashion upon the events of the last three years. Brown, who, apparently indifferent and gazing away, listened with attention to every word, could not make out clearly what sort of man this Jim could be. "What's his name? Jim! Jim! That's not enough for a man's name." "They call him," said Cornelius scornfully, "Tuan Jim here. As you may say Lord Jim." "What is he? Where does he come from?" inquired Brown. "What sort of man is he? Is he an Englishman?" "Yes, yes, he's an Englishman. I am an Englishman too. From Malacca. He is a fool. All you have to do is to kill him and then you are king here. Everything belongs to him," explained Cornelius. "It strikes me he may be made to share with somebody before very long," commented Brown half aloud. "No, no. The proper way is to kill him the first chance you get, and then you can do what you like," Cornelius would insist earnestly. "I have lived for many years here, and I am giving you a friend's advice." 'In such converse and in gloating over the view of Patusan, which he had determined in his mind should become his prey, Brown whiled away most of the afternoon, his men, meantime, resting. On that day Dain Waris's fleet of canoes stole one by one under the shore farthest from the creek, and went down to close the river against his retreat. Of this Brown was not aware, and Kassim, who came up the knoll an hour before sunset, took good care not to enlighten him. He wanted the white man's ship to come up the river, and this news, he feared, would be discouraging. He was very pressing with Brown to send the "order," offering at the same time a trusty messenger, who for greater secrecy (as he explained) would make his way by land to the mouth of the river and deliver the "order" on board. After some reflection Brown judged it expedient to tear a page out of his pocket-book, on which he simply wrote, "We are getting on. Big job. Detain the man." The stolid youth selected by Kassim for that service performed it faithfully, and was rewarded by being suddenly tipped, head first, into the schooner's empty hold by the ex-beachcomber and the Chinaman, who thereupon hastened to put on the hatches. What became of him afterwards Brown did not say.'

Chapter 39

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim48.asp

The arrival of Brown and his men in Patusan create a stir amongst the natives, who try to overcome the invaders. Unfortunately, Jim is away in the interior, and Dain Waris has to mastermind the attack. Though they love and respect him, the Bugis do not believe that he has supernatural powers like Jim. They think that Dain Waris will be defeated; therefore, they refuse to fight and wait for Jim to return, crowding into the fort that he has built. They send messengers out to look for Jim. Jewel, who has the key to the supply room, takes command at the fort. She urges Dain Waris to attack, but Doramin goes against her. He is afraid for his son. Doramin tells Dain Waris to go down the river and cut off the robbers' retreat. Kassim, Raja Tungku Allang's spokesman, has a desire to become the ruler of Patusan. To gain his end, he thinks it may be wise to side with Brown. He seeks out the villain and opens communication with him by using Cornelius as an interpreter. Cornelius tells Brown that he can become lord of Patusan if he kills Jim. Kassim is trying to manipulate Brown to murder Jim and clear a path for himself. He has no intention of allowing Brown to become the lord of the island.

Notes The novelist has set the stage for the final catastrophe. The intrigues and counter-intrigues between different groups of people in Patusan are realistic and graphic, for Conrad had full knowledge about the intrigues and double-dealings of Malay communities. Tungku Allang, Doramin, Kassim, and Cornelius are all depicted as scoundrels with their own agendas. Tungku Allan wants to seize power once again on the island; Doramin wants to protect his son, Dain Waris, so he can rule the island; and Kassim wants to become ruler of Patusan himself. Cornelius just wants to rid himself of Jim. It is important to note that the Bugis will not fight against Brown and his men because Jim is not present. It is ironic that they trust him so fully that they will not protect themselves if he is not there to give the order. Even though Dain Waris and Jewel urge them to battle, they ignore their pleas and simply send out messengers to search for Jim. There is even greater irony in the fact that when Jim returns he does not order the death of Brown, a fact that leads to several deaths, including his own.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/chapters_39_to_42.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_7_part_0.txt

Far from the Madding Crowd.chapters 39-42

chapters 39-42

{"name": "", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210225000853/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/maddingcrowd/section8/", "summary": "The narrative jumps ahead two months to a Saturday evening in October. Bathsheba and Troy are traveling up the steep Yarbury Hill, coming from Casterbridge to Weatherbury. They have been at the markets. Bathsheba rides in the gig, while Troy walks alongside her. This is the first glimpse we have of the two of them alone together, and the marriage does not seem to be going well. Bathsheba complains about all the money Troy has lost at the horse races. Troy has bought his discharge from the army and is dressed as a fashionable farmer. As they argue, Bathsheba begins to cry, and Troy tells her, \"You have lost all the pluck and sauciness you formerly had,\" implying that he regrets having married her. As they proceed, they pass a woman who asks Troy the way to Casterbridge. When he replies, she utters a cry and falls down, recognizing his voice: The woman is Fanny. Bathsheba is alarmed, but Troy makes the horse carry her on up the hill while he stays and talks to Fanny. We learn that he has had no idea where to reach her, and that she was afraid to write to him. He realizes that she needs money, and agrees to meet her two days from then at Casterbridge. When he catches up with Bathsheba she is suspicious, accusing him of knowing the woman's name and not telling her. Troy denies all acquaintance with the woman. Chapter 40 tells the extraordinary story of Fanny's difficult walk to Casterbridge that night. We know it is Fanny, but the narrator identifies her only as \"the woman.\" Stumbling weakly, she comes to a haystack and falls asleep beneath it. Upon waking, she thinks she may be dead by the time she is to meet Troy. She persuades herself to go on by counting the milestones, frequently pausing. She takes two sticks to use as crutches but falls. A dog appears, and she leans on him the rest of the way. Finally, near morning, she reaches Casterbridge. In the meantime, Bathsheba and Troy have been sullenly avoiding all conversation. On Sunday evening, Troy asks her for 20 pounds, saying that he needs it badly. He eventually admits that it is not for horse racing, but he will not tell her what it is for. As they argue she notices a curl of yellow hair in his watch and asks him about it. He explains that it belongs to \"a young woman I was going to marry before I knew you.\" After she demands that he burn it and he refuses, Bathsheba bursts into great sobs, hating herself for being so weak as to fall for Troy. The next day as she rides around the farm, she sees the laborer Joseph Poorgrass talking to Gabriel and Boldwood. Poorgrass then approaches her with the news that Fanny Robin is dead from an unknown cause. As the chapter continues, Bathsheba begins to suspect that Fanny Robin is the woman Troy had loved and that she has died giving birth to a child. She questions Poorgrass and Liddy to test her suspicions. She offers to bury Fanny, as Fanny worked for Bathsheba's uncle, and sends Poorgrass to collect the body. Chapter 42 describes Joseph Poorgrass's journey from Casterbridge with the body. As he carts the coffin back, a fog descends, and Poorgrass begins to fear the dead body. He stops at Buck's Head to have drinks with his friends Mark Clark and Jan Coggan, and gradually these men persuade him to stay later and later, drinking. As the men converse, Poorgrass keeps announcing he will continue on, but his friends persuade him not to. After some hours have passed Gabriel finds them there, chastises them for their carelessness, and brings the coffin to the farm himself. Gabriel is eager to keep the truth from Bathsheba, but by the time he reaches the farm, the parson has postponed the funeral to the following morning and asks Gabriel to leave the coffin in the farm for the night; Gabriel reluctantly brings it to a sitting room for the night. Before he leaves, he partially rubs off the chalk marks on the coffin, which read \"Fanny Robin and child,\" leaving only the name \"Fanny Robin.\"", "analysis": "Commentary Hardy waits until this section to give his readers any insight into the workings of Troy and Bathsheba's marriage. He leaves us to imagine for ourselves the quality of their life together, based on a few conversations. Through Troy's harsh words to her, we see how weak she has become after maintaining such independence for so long. Chapter 42 is notably slower in pace than other chapters in this novel, and Hardy's description of Fanny's intense exhaustion painstakingly depicts every step that Fanny has to take, as well as the heaviness of her body, making us feel them with her. Throughout the novel, the sections dealing with Fanny together constitute a study of the type of person who slips through the cracks in society; what kind of person is this, neglected by others, forced to live a transient and impoverished life? Hardy uses an anonymous, distanced tone to describe Fanny, thus, conveying the lack of attention that others pay her. Much of this section centers around Bathsheba's attempt to solve the mystery of Fanny Robin's relationship to Troy, and Hardy carefully structures the narrative to keep his readers in suspense, as well. We do not know of Fanny's death until Bathsheba does: The narrative leaves Fanny in Casterbridge, and on Monday morning, Troy leaves, presumably to meet Fanny, but we hear nothing more of him even once we know that Fanny is dead. Hardy's most powerful tension-building device is his plodding description of Poorgrass' trip with the coffin: He gives us detailed accounts of the men's conversation at Buck's Head, which does nothing to advance the plot, while the whole time the reader must wait, waiting to hear how Fanny died, wondering if something might happen to her untended coffin outside, wondering where Troy is, whether he yet knows of Fanny's death, and anticipating Bathsheba's imminent discovery of Fanny and Troy's previous relations. In addition to building tension, Poorgrass' comic drinking scene offers insight into the leisure time of the laborers. On a more profound level, this episode analyzes the effect of chance and circumstance on human lives. Had Poorgrass gone straight home, the funeral would have occurred that day, the coffin would never have lay waiting in the sitting room, and Bathsheba might never have suffered under the knowledge she is about to attain: that Fanny died giving birth to Troy's child."}

COMING HOME--A CRY On the turnpike road, between Casterbridge and Weatherbury, and about three miles from the former place, is Yalbury Hill, one of those steep long ascents which pervade the highways of this undulating part of South Wessex. In returning from market it is usual for the farmers and other gig-gentry to alight at the bottom and walk up. One Saturday evening in the month of October Bathsheba's vehicle was duly creeping up this incline. She was sitting listlessly in the second seat of the gig, whilst walking beside her in a farmer's marketing suit of unusually fashionable cut was an erect, well-made young man. Though on foot, he held the reins and whip, and occasionally aimed light cuts at the horse's ear with the end of the lash, as a recreation. This man was her husband, formerly Sergeant Troy, who, having bought his discharge with Bathsheba's money, was gradually transforming himself into a farmer of a spirited and very modern school. People of unalterable ideas still insisted upon calling him "Sergeant" when they met him, which was in some degree owing to his having still retained the well-shaped moustache of his military days, and the soldierly bearing inseparable from his form and training. "Yes, if it hadn't been for that wretched rain I should have cleared two hundred as easy as looking, my love," he was saying. "Don't you see, it altered all the chances? To speak like a book I once read, wet weather is the narrative, and fine days are the episodes, of our country's history; now, isn't that true?" "But the time of year is come for changeable weather." "Well, yes. The fact is, these autumn races are the ruin of everybody. Never did I see such a day as 'twas! 'Tis a wild open place, just out of Budmouth, and a drab sea rolled in towards us like liquid misery. Wind and rain--good Lord! Dark? Why, 'twas as black as my hat before the last race was run. 'Twas five o'clock, and you couldn't see the horses till they were almost in, leave alone colours. The ground was as heavy as lead, and all judgment from a fellow's experience went for nothing. Horses, riders, people, were all blown about like ships at sea. Three booths were blown over, and the wretched folk inside crawled out upon their hands and knees; and in the next field were as many as a dozen hats at one time. Ay, Pimpernel regularly stuck fast, when about sixty yards off, and when I saw Policy stepping on, it did knock my heart against the lining of my ribs, I assure you, my love!" "And you mean, Frank," said Bathsheba, sadly--her voice was painfully lowered from the fulness and vivacity of the previous summer--"that you have lost more than a hundred pounds in a month by this dreadful horse-racing? O, Frank, it is cruel; it is foolish of you to take away my money so. We shall have to leave the farm; that will be the end of it!" "Humbug about cruel. Now, there 'tis again--turn on the waterworks; that's just like you." "But you'll promise me not to go to Budmouth second meeting, won't you?" she implored. Bathsheba was at the full depth for tears, but she maintained a dry eye. "I don't see why I should; in fact, if it turns out to be a fine day, I was thinking of taking you." "Never, never! I'll go a hundred miles the other way first. I hate the sound of the very word!" "But the question of going to see the race or staying at home has very little to do with the matter. Bets are all booked safely enough before the race begins, you may depend. Whether it is a bad race for me or a good one, will have very little to do with our going there next Monday." "But you don't mean to say that you have risked anything on this one too!" she exclaimed, with an agonized look. "There now, don't you be a little fool. Wait till you are told. Why, Bathsheba, you have lost all the pluck and sauciness you formerly had, and upon my life if I had known what a chicken-hearted creature you were under all your boldness, I'd never have--I know what." A flash of indignation might have been seen in Bathsheba's dark eyes as she looked resolutely ahead after this reply. They moved on without further speech, some early-withered leaves from the trees which hooded the road at this spot occasionally spinning downward across their path to the earth. A woman appeared on the brow of the hill. The ridge was in a cutting, so that she was very near the husband and wife before she became visible. Troy had turned towards the gig to remount, and whilst putting his foot on the step the woman passed behind him. Though the overshadowing trees and the approach of eventide enveloped them in gloom, Bathsheba could see plainly enough to discern the extreme poverty of the woman's garb, and the sadness of her face. "Please, sir, do you know at what time Casterbridge Union-house closes at night?" The woman said these words to Troy over his shoulder. Troy started visibly at the sound of the voice; yet he seemed to recover presence of mind sufficient to prevent himself from giving way to his impulse to suddenly turn and face her. He said, slowly-- "I don't know." The woman, on hearing him speak, quickly looked up, examined the side of his face, and recognized the soldier under the yeoman's garb. Her face was drawn into an expression which had gladness and agony both among its elements. She uttered an hysterical cry, and fell down. "Oh, poor thing!" exclaimed Bathsheba, instantly preparing to alight. "Stay where you are, and attend to the horse!" said Troy, peremptorily throwing her the reins and the whip. "Walk the horse to the top: I'll see to the woman." "But I--" "Do you hear? Clk--Poppet!" The horse, gig, and Bathsheba moved on. "How on earth did you come here? I thought you were miles away, or dead! Why didn't you write to me?" said Troy to the woman, in a strangely gentle, yet hurried voice, as he lifted her up. "I feared to." "Have you any money?" "None." "Good Heaven--I wish I had more to give you! Here's--wretched--the merest trifle. It is every farthing I have left. I have none but what my wife gives me, you know, and I can't ask her now." The woman made no answer. "I have only another moment," continued Troy; "and now listen. Where are you going to-night? Casterbridge Union?" "Yes; I thought to go there." "You shan't go there; yet, wait. Yes, perhaps for to-night; I can do nothing better--worse luck! Sleep there to-night, and stay there to-morrow. Monday is the first free day I have; and on Monday morning, at ten exactly, meet me on Grey's Bridge just out of the town. I'll bring all the money I can muster. You shan't want--I'll see that, Fanny; then I'll get you a lodging somewhere. Good-bye till then. I am a brute--but good-bye!" After advancing the distance which completed the ascent of the hill, Bathsheba turned her head. The woman was upon her feet, and Bathsheba saw her withdrawing from Troy, and going feebly down the hill by the third milestone from Casterbridge. Troy then came on towards his wife, stepped into the gig, took the reins from her hand, and without making any observation whipped the horse into a trot. He was rather agitated. "Do you know who that woman was?" said Bathsheba, looking searchingly into his face. "I do," he said, looking boldly back into hers. "I thought you did," said she, with angry hauteur, and still regarding him. "Who is she?" He suddenly seemed to think that frankness would benefit neither of the women. "Nothing to either of us," he said. "I know her by sight." "What is her name?" "How should I know her name?" "I think you do." "Think if you will, and be--" The sentence was completed by a smart cut of the whip round Poppet's flank, which caused the animal to start forward at a wild pace. No more was said. ON CASTERBRIDGE HIGHWAY For a considerable time the woman walked on. Her steps became feebler, and she strained her eyes to look afar upon the naked road, now indistinct amid the penumbrae of night. At length her onward walk dwindled to the merest totter, and she opened a gate within which was a haystack. Underneath this she sat down and presently slept. When the woman awoke it was to find herself in the depths of a moonless and starless night. A heavy unbroken crust of cloud stretched across the sky, shutting out every speck of heaven; and a distant halo which hung over the town of Casterbridge was visible against the black concave, the luminosity appearing the brighter by its great contrast with the circumscribing darkness. Towards this weak, soft glow the woman turned her eyes. "If I could only get there!" she said. "Meet him the day after to-morrow: God help me! Perhaps I shall be in my grave before then." A manor-house clock from the far depths of shadow struck the hour, one, in a small, attenuated tone. After midnight the voice of a clock seems to lose in breadth as much as in length, and to diminish its sonorousness to a thin falsetto. Afterwards a light--two lights--arose from the remote shade, and grew larger. A carriage rolled along the road, and passed the gate. It probably contained some late diners-out. The beams from one lamp shone for a moment upon the crouching woman, and threw her face into vivid relief. The face was young in the groundwork, old in the finish; the general contours were flexuous and childlike, but the finer lineaments had begun to be sharp and thin. The pedestrian stood up, apparently with revived determination, and looked around. The road appeared to be familiar to her, and she carefully scanned the fence as she slowly walked along. Presently there became visible a dim white shape; it was another milestone. She drew her fingers across its face to feel the marks. "Two more!" she said. She leant against the stone as a means of rest for a short interval, then bestirred herself, and again pursued her way. For a slight distance she bore up bravely, afterwards flagging as before. This was beside a lone copsewood, wherein heaps of white chips strewn upon the leafy ground showed that woodmen had been faggoting and making hurdles during the day. Now there was not a rustle, not a breeze, not the faintest clash of twigs to keep her company. The woman looked over the gate, opened it, and went in. Close to the entrance stood a row of faggots, bound and un-bound, together with stakes of all sizes. For a few seconds the wayfarer stood with that tense stillness which signifies itself to be not the end, but merely the suspension, of a previous motion. Her attitude was that of a person who listens, either to the external world of sound, or to the imagined discourse of thought. A close criticism might have detected signs proving that she was intent on the latter alternative. Moreover, as was shown by what followed, she was oddly exercising the faculty of invention upon the speciality of the clever Jacquet Droz, the designer of automatic substitutes for human limbs. By the aid of the Casterbridge aurora, and by feeling with her hands, the woman selected two sticks from the heaps. These sticks were nearly straight to the height of three or four feet, where each branched into a fork like the letter Y. She sat down, snapped off the small upper twigs, and carried the remainder with her into the road. She placed one of these forks under each arm as a crutch, tested them, timidly threw her whole weight upon them--so little that it was--and swung herself forward. The girl had made for herself a material aid. The crutches answered well. The pat of her feet, and the tap of her sticks upon the highway, were all the sounds that came from the traveller now. She had passed the last milestone by a good long distance, and began to look wistfully towards the bank as if calculating upon another milestone soon. The crutches, though so very useful, had their limits of power. Mechanism only transfers labour, being powerless to supersede it, and the original amount of exertion was not cleared away; it was thrown into the body and arms. She was exhausted, and each swing forward became fainter. At last she swayed sideways, and fell. Here she lay, a shapeless heap, for ten minutes and more. The morning wind began to boom dully over the flats, and to move afresh dead leaves which had lain still since yesterday. The woman desperately turned round upon her knees, and next rose to her feet. Steadying herself by the help of one crutch, she essayed a step, then another, then a third, using the crutches now as walking-sticks only. Thus she progressed till descending Mellstock Hill another milestone appeared, and soon the beginning of an iron-railed fence came into view. She staggered across to the first post, clung to it, and looked around. The Casterbridge lights were now individually visible. It was getting towards morning, and vehicles might be hoped for, if not expected soon. She listened. There was not a sound of life save that acme and sublimation of all dismal sounds, the bark of a fox, its three hollow notes being rendered at intervals of a minute with the precision of a funeral bell. "Less than a mile!" the woman murmured. "No; more," she added, after a pause. "The mile is to the county hall, and my resting-place is on the other side Casterbridge. A little over a mile, and there I am!" After an interval she again spoke. "Five or six steps to a yard--six perhaps. I have to go seventeen hundred yards. A hundred times six, six hundred. Seventeen times that. O pity me, Lord!" Holding to the rails, she advanced, thrusting one hand forward upon the rail, then the other, then leaning over it whilst she dragged her feet on beneath. This woman was not given to soliloquy; but extremity of feeling lessens the individuality of the weak, as it increases that of the strong. She said again in the same tone, "I'll believe that the end lies five posts forward, and no further, and so get strength to pass them." This was a practical application of the principle that a half-feigned and fictitious faith is better than no faith at all. She passed five posts and held on to the fifth. "I'll pass five more by believing my longed-for spot is at the next fifth. I can do it." She passed five more. "It lies only five further." She passed five more. "But it is five further." She passed them. "That stone bridge is the end of my journey," she said, when the bridge over the Froom was in view. She crawled to the bridge. During the effort each breath of the woman went into the air as if never to return again. "Now for the truth of the matter," she said, sitting down. "The truth is, that I have less than half a mile." Self-beguilement with what she had known all the time to be false had given her strength to come over half a mile that she would have been powerless to face in the lump. The artifice showed that the woman, by some mysterious intuition, had grasped the paradoxical truth that blindness may operate more vigorously than prescience, and the short-sighted effect more than the far-seeing; that limitation, and not comprehensiveness, is needed for striking a blow. The half-mile stood now before the sick and weary woman like a stolid Juggernaut. It was an impassive King of her world. The road here ran across Durnover Moor, open to the road on either side. She surveyed the wide space, the lights, herself, sighed, and lay down against a guard-stone of the bridge. Never was ingenuity exercised so sorely as the traveller here exercised hers. Every conceivable aid, method, stratagem, mechanism, by which these last desperate eight hundred yards could be overpassed by a human being unperceived, was revolved in her busy brain, and dismissed as impracticable. She thought of sticks, wheels, crawling--she even thought of rolling. But the exertion demanded by either of these latter two was greater than to walk erect. The faculty of contrivance was worn out. Hopelessness had come at last. "No further!" she whispered, and closed her eyes. From the stripe of shadow on the opposite side of the bridge a portion of shade seemed to detach itself and move into isolation upon the pale white of the road. It glided noiselessly towards the recumbent woman. She became conscious of something touching her hand; it was softness and it was warmth. She opened her eyes, and the substance touched her face. A dog was licking her cheek. He was a huge, heavy, and quiet creature, standing darkly against the low horizon, and at least two feet higher than the present position of her eyes. Whether Newfoundland, mastiff, bloodhound, or what not, it was impossible to say. He seemed to be of too strange and mysterious a nature to belong to any variety among those of popular nomenclature. Being thus assignable to no breed, he was the ideal embodiment of canine greatness--a generalization from what was common to all. Night, in its sad, solemn, and benevolent aspect, apart from its stealthy and cruel side, was personified in this form. Darkness endows the small and ordinary ones among mankind with poetical power, and even the suffering woman threw her idea into figure. In her reclining position she looked up to him just as in earlier times she had, when standing, looked up to a man. The animal, who was as homeless as she, respectfully withdrew a step or two when the woman moved, and, seeing that she did not repulse him, he licked her hand again. A thought moved within her like lightning. "Perhaps I can make use of him--I might do it then!" She pointed in the direction of Casterbridge, and the dog seemed to misunderstand: he trotted on. Then, finding she could not follow, he came back and whined. The ultimate and saddest singularity of woman's effort and invention was reached when, with a quickened breathing, she rose to a stooping posture, and, resting her two little arms upon the shoulders of the dog, leant firmly thereon, and murmured stimulating words. Whilst she sorrowed in her heart she cheered with her voice, and what was stranger than that the strong should need encouragement from the weak was that cheerfulness should be so well stimulated by such utter dejection. Her friend moved forward slowly, and she with small mincing steps moved forward beside him, half her weight being thrown upon the animal. Sometimes she sank as she had sunk from walking erect, from the crutches, from the rails. The dog, who now thoroughly understood her desire and her incapacity, was frantic in his distress on these occasions; he would tug at her dress and run forward. She always called him back, and it was now to be observed that the woman listened for human sounds only to avoid them. It was evident that she had an object in keeping her presence on the road and her forlorn state unknown. Their progress was necessarily very slow. They reached the bottom of the town, and the Casterbridge lamps lay before them like fallen Pleiads as they turned to the left into the dense shade of a deserted avenue of chestnuts, and so skirted the borough. Thus the town was passed, and the goal was reached. On this much-desired spot outside the town rose a picturesque building. Originally it had been a mere case to hold people. The shell had been so thin, so devoid of excrescence, and so closely drawn over the accommodation granted, that the grim character of what was beneath showed through it, as the shape of a body is visible under a winding-sheet. Then Nature, as if offended, lent a hand. Masses of ivy grew up, completely covering the walls, till the place looked like an abbey; and it was discovered that the view from the front, over the Casterbridge chimneys, was one of the most magnificent in the county. A neighbouring earl once said that he would give up a year's rental to have at his own door the view enjoyed by the inmates from theirs--and very probably the inmates would have given up the view for his year's rental. This stone edifice consisted of a central mass and two wings, whereon stood as sentinels a few slim chimneys, now gurgling sorrowfully to the slow wind. In the wall was a gate, and by the gate a bellpull formed of a hanging wire. The woman raised herself as high as possible upon her knees, and could just reach the handle. She moved it and fell forwards in a bowed attitude, her face upon her bosom. It was getting on towards six o'clock, and sounds of movement were to be heard inside the building which was the haven of rest to this wearied soul. A little door by the large one was opened, and a man appeared inside. He discerned the panting heap of clothes, went back for a light, and came again. He entered a second time, and returned with two women. These lifted the prostrate figure and assisted her in through the doorway. The man then closed the door. "How did she get here?" said one of the women. "The Lord knows," said the other. "There is a dog outside," murmured the overcome traveller. "Where is he gone? He helped me." "I stoned him away," said the man. The little procession then moved forward--the man in front bearing the light, the two bony women next, supporting between them the small and supple one. Thus they entered the house and disappeared. SUSPICION--FANNY IS SENT FOR Bathsheba said very little to her husband all that evening of their return from market, and he was not disposed to say much to her. He exhibited the unpleasant combination of a restless condition with a silent tongue. The next day, which was Sunday, passed nearly in the same manner as regarded their taciturnity, Bathsheba going to church both morning and afternoon. This was the day before the Budmouth races. In the evening Troy said, suddenly-- "Bathsheba, could you let me have twenty pounds?" Her countenance instantly sank. "Twenty pounds?" she said. "The fact is, I want it badly." The anxiety upon Troy's face was unusual and very marked. It was a culmination of the mood he had been in all the day. "Ah! for those races to-morrow." Troy for the moment made no reply. Her mistake had its advantages to a man who shrank from having his mind inspected as he did now. "Well, suppose I do want it for races?" he said, at last. "Oh, Frank!" Bathsheba replied, and there was such a volume of entreaty in the words. "Only such a few weeks ago you said that I was far sweeter than all your other pleasures put together, and that you would give them all up for me; and now, won't you give up this one, which is more a worry than a pleasure? Do, Frank. Come, let me fascinate you by all I can do--by pretty words and pretty looks, and everything I can think of--to stay at home. Say yes to your wife--say yes!" The tenderest and softest phases of Bathsheba's nature were prominent now--advanced impulsively for his acceptance, without any of the disguises and defences which the wariness of her character when she was cool too frequently threw over them. Few men could have resisted the arch yet dignified entreaty of the beautiful face, thrown a little back and sideways in the well known attitude that expresses more than the words it accompanies, and which seems to have been designed for these special occasions. Had the woman not been his wife, Troy would have succumbed instantly; as it was, he thought he would not deceive her longer. "The money is not wanted for racing debts at all," he said. "What is it for?" she asked. "You worry me a great deal by these mysterious responsibilities, Frank." Troy hesitated. He did not now love her enough to allow himself to be carried too far by her ways. Yet it was necessary to be civil. "You wrong me by such a suspicious manner," he said. "Such strait-waistcoating as you treat me to is not becoming in you at so early a date." "I think that I have a right to grumble a little if I pay," she said, with features between a smile and a pout. "Exactly; and, the former being done, suppose we proceed to the latter. Bathsheba, fun is all very well, but don't go too far, or you may have cause to regret something." She reddened. "I do that already," she said, quickly. "What do you regret?" "That my romance has come to an end." "All romances end at marriage." "I wish you wouldn't talk like that. You grieve me to my soul by being smart at my expense." "You are dull enough at mine. I believe you hate me." "Not you--only your faults. I do hate them." "'Twould be much more becoming if you set yourself to cure them. Come, let's strike a balance with the twenty pounds, and be friends." She gave a sigh of resignation. "I have about that sum here for household expenses. If you must have it, take it." "Very good. Thank you. I expect I shall have gone away before you are in to breakfast to-morrow." "And must you go? Ah! there was a time, Frank, when it would have taken a good many promises to other people to drag you away from me. You used to call me darling, then. But it doesn't matter to you how my days are passed now." "I must go, in spite of sentiment." Troy, as he spoke, looked at his watch, and, apparently actuated by _non lucendo_ principles, opened the case at the back, revealing, snugly stowed within it, a small coil of hair. Bathsheba's eyes had been accidentally lifted at that moment, and she saw the action and saw the hair. She flushed in pain and surprise, and some words escaped her before she had thought whether or not it was wise to utter them. "A woman's curl of hair!" she said. "Oh, Frank, whose is that?" Troy had instantly closed his watch. He carelessly replied, as one who cloaked some feelings that the sight had stirred. "Why, yours, of course. Whose should it be? I had quite forgotten that I had it." "What a dreadful fib, Frank!" "I tell you I had forgotten it!" he said, loudly. "I don't mean that--it was yellow hair." "Nonsense." "That's insulting me. I know it was yellow. Now whose was it? I want to know." "Very well--I'll tell you, so make no more ado. It is the hair of a young woman I was going to marry before I knew you." "You ought to tell me her name, then." "I cannot do that." "Is she married yet?" "No." "Is she alive?" "Yes." "Is she pretty?" "Yes." "It is wonderful how she can be, poor thing, under such an awful affliction!" "Affliction--what affliction?" he inquired, quickly. "Having hair of that dreadful colour." "Oh--ho--I like that!" said Troy, recovering himself. "Why, her hair has been admired by everybody who has seen her since she has worn it loose, which has not been long. It is beautiful hair. People used to turn their heads to look at it, poor girl!" "Pooh! that's nothing--that's nothing!" she exclaimed, in incipient accents of pique. "If I cared for your love as much as I used to I could say people had turned to look at mine." "Bathsheba, don't be so fitful and jealous. You knew what married life would be like, and shouldn't have entered it if you feared these contingencies." Troy had by this time driven her to bitterness: her heart was big in her throat, and the ducts to her eyes were painfully full. Ashamed as she was to show emotion, at last she burst out:-- "This is all I get for loving you so well! Ah! when I married you your life was dearer to me than my own. I would have died for you--how truly I can say that I would have died for you! And now you sneer at my foolishness in marrying you. O! is it kind to me to throw my mistake in my face? Whatever opinion you may have of my wisdom, you should not tell me of it so mercilessly, now that I am in your power." "I can't help how things fall out," said Troy; "upon my heart, women will be the death of me!" "Well you shouldn't keep people's hair. You'll burn it, won't you, Frank?" Frank went on as if he had not heard her. "There are considerations even before my consideration for you; reparations to be made--ties you know nothing of. If you repent of marrying, so do I." Trembling now, she put her hand upon his arm, saying, in mingled tones of wretchedness and coaxing, "I only repent it if you don't love me better than any woman in the world! I don't otherwise, Frank. You don't repent because you already love somebody better than you love me, do you?" "I don't know. Why do you say that?" "You won't burn that curl. You like the woman who owns that pretty hair--yes; it is pretty--more beautiful than my miserable black mane! Well, it is no use; I can't help being ugly. You must like her best, if you will!" "Until to-day, when I took it from a drawer, I have never looked upon that bit of hair for several months--that I am ready to swear." "But just now you said 'ties'; and then--that woman we met?" "'Twas the meeting with her that reminded me of the hair." "Is it hers, then?" "Yes. There, now that you have wormed it out of me, I hope you are content." "And what are the ties?" "Oh! that meant nothing--a mere jest." "A mere jest!" she said, in mournful astonishment. "Can you jest when I am so wretchedly in earnest? Tell me the truth, Frank. I am not a fool, you know, although I am a woman, and have my woman's moments. Come! treat me fairly," she said, looking honestly and fearlessly into his face. "I don't want much; bare justice--that's all! Ah! once I felt I could be content with nothing less than the highest homage from the husband I should choose. Now, anything short of cruelty will content me. Yes! the independent and spirited Bathsheba is come to this!" "For Heaven's sake don't be so desperate!" Troy said, snappishly, rising as he did so, and leaving the room. Directly he had gone, Bathsheba burst into great sobs--dry-eyed sobs, which cut as they came, without any softening by tears. But she determined to repress all evidences of feeling. She was conquered; but she would never own it as long as she lived. Her pride was indeed brought low by despairing discoveries of her spoliation by marriage with a less pure nature than her own. She chafed to and fro in rebelliousness, like a caged leopard; her whole soul was in arms, and the blood fired her face. Until she had met Troy, Bathsheba had been proud of her position as a woman; it had been a glory to her to know that her lips had been touched by no man's on earth--that her waist had never been encircled by a lover's arm. She hated herself now. In those earlier days she had always nourished a secret contempt for girls who were the slaves of the first good-looking young fellow who should choose to salute them. She had never taken kindly to the idea of marriage in the abstract as did the majority of women she saw about her. In the turmoil of her anxiety for her lover she had agreed to marry him; but the perception that had accompanied her happiest hours on this account was rather that of self-sacrifice than of promotion and honour. Although she scarcely knew the divinity's name, Diana was the goddess whom Bathsheba instinctively adored. That she had never, by look, word, or sign, encouraged a man to approach her--that she had felt herself sufficient to herself, and had in the independence of her girlish heart fancied there was a certain degradation in renouncing the simplicity of a maiden existence to become the humbler half of an indifferent matrimonial whole--were facts now bitterly remembered. Oh, if she had never stooped to folly of this kind, respectable as it was, and could only stand again, as she had stood on the hill at Norcombe, and dare Troy or any other man to pollute a hair of her head by his interference! The next morning she rose earlier than usual, and had the horse saddled for her ride round the farm in the customary way. When she came in at half-past eight--their usual hour for breakfasting--she was informed that her husband had risen, taken his breakfast, and driven off to Casterbridge with the gig and Poppet. After breakfast she was cool and collected--quite herself in fact--and she rambled to the gate, intending to walk to another quarter of the farm, which she still personally superintended as well as her duties in the house would permit, continually, however, finding herself preceded in forethought by Gabriel Oak, for whom she began to entertain the genuine friendship of a sister. Of course, she sometimes thought of him in the light of an old lover, and had momentary imaginings of what life with him as a husband would have been like; also of life with Boldwood under the same conditions. But Bathsheba, though she could feel, was not much given to futile dreaming, and her musings under this head were short and entirely confined to the times when Troy's neglect was more than ordinarily evident. She saw coming up the road a man like Mr. Boldwood. It was Mr. Boldwood. Bathsheba blushed painfully, and watched. The farmer stopped when still a long way off, and held up his hand to Gabriel Oak, who was in a footpath across the field. The two men then approached each other and seemed to engage in earnest conversation. Thus they continued for a long time. Joseph Poorgrass now passed near them, wheeling a barrow of apples up the hill to Bathsheba's residence. Boldwood and Gabriel called to him, spoke to him for a few minutes, and then all three parted, Joseph immediately coming up the hill with his barrow. Bathsheba, who had seen this pantomime with some surprise, experienced great relief when Boldwood turned back again. "Well, what's the message, Joseph?" she said. He set down his barrow, and, putting upon himself the refined aspect that a conversation with a lady required, spoke to Bathsheba over the gate. "You'll never see Fanny Robin no more--use nor principal--ma'am." "Why?" "Because she's dead in the Union." "Fanny dead--never!" "Yes, ma'am." "What did she die from?" "I don't know for certain; but I should be inclined to think it was from general neshness of constitution. She was such a limber maid that 'a could stand no hardship, even when I knowed her, and 'a went like a candle-snoff, so 'tis said. She was took bad in the morning, and, being quite feeble and worn out, she died in the evening. She belongs by law to our parish; and Mr. Boldwood is going to send a waggon at three this afternoon to fetch her home here and bury her." "Indeed I shall not let Mr. Boldwood do any such thing--I shall do it! Fanny was my uncle's servant, and, although I only knew her for a couple of days, she belongs to me. How very, very sad this is!--the idea of Fanny being in a workhouse." Bathsheba had begun to know what suffering was, and she spoke with real feeling.... "Send across to Mr. Boldwood's, and say that Mrs. Troy will take upon herself the duty of fetching an old servant of the family.... We ought not to put her in a waggon; we'll get a hearse." "There will hardly be time, ma'am, will there?" "Perhaps not," she said, musingly. "When did you say we must be at the door--three o'clock?" "Three o'clock this afternoon, ma'am, so to speak it." "Very well--you go with it. A pretty waggon is better than an ugly hearse, after all. Joseph, have the new spring waggon with the blue body and red wheels, and wash it very clean. And, Joseph--" "Yes, ma'am." "Carry with you some evergreens and flowers to put upon her coffin--indeed, gather a great many, and completely bury her in them. Get some boughs of laurustinus, and variegated box, and yew, and boy's-love; ay, and some bunches of chrysanthemum. And let old Pleasant draw her, because she knew him so well." "I will, ma'am. I ought to have said that the Union, in the form of four labouring men, will meet me when I gets to our churchyard gate, and take her and bury her according to the rites of the Board of Guardians, as by law ordained." "Dear me--Casterbridge Union--and is Fanny come to this?" said Bathsheba, musing. "I wish I had known of it sooner. I thought she was far away. How long has she lived there?" "On'y been there a day or two." "Oh!--then she has not been staying there as a regular inmate?" "No. She first went to live in a garrison-town t'other side o' Wessex, and since then she's been picking up a living at seampstering in Melchester for several months, at the house of a very respectable widow-woman who takes in work of that sort. She only got handy the Union-house on Sunday morning 'a b'lieve, and 'tis supposed here and there that she had traipsed every step of the way from Melchester. Why she left her place, I can't say, for I don't know; and as to a lie, why, I wouldn't tell it. That's the short of the story, ma'am." "Ah-h!" No gem ever flashed from a rosy ray to a white one more rapidly than changed the young wife's countenance whilst this word came from her in a long-drawn breath. "Did she walk along our turnpike-road?" she said, in a suddenly restless and eager voice. "I believe she did.... Ma'am, shall I call Liddy? You bain't well, ma'am, surely? You look like a lily--so pale and fainty!" "No; don't call her; it is nothing. When did she pass Weatherbury?" "Last Saturday night." "That will do, Joseph; now you may go." "Certainly, ma'am." "Joseph, come hither a moment. What was the colour of Fanny Robin's hair?" "Really, mistress, now that 'tis put to me so judge-and-jury like, I can't call to mind, if ye'll believe me!" "Never mind; go on and do what I told you. Stop--well no, go on." She turned herself away from him, that he might no longer notice the mood which had set its sign so visibly upon her, and went indoors with a distressing sense of faintness and a beating brow. About an hour after, she heard the noise of the waggon and went out, still with a painful consciousness of her bewildered and troubled look. Joseph, dressed in his best suit of clothes, was putting in the horse to start. The shrubs and flowers were all piled in the waggon, as she had directed; Bathsheba hardly saw them now. "Died of what? did you say, Joseph?" "I don't know, ma'am." "Are you quite sure?" "Yes, ma'am, quite sure." "Sure of what?" "I'm sure that all I know is that she arrived in the morning and died in the evening without further parley. What Oak and Mr. Boldwood told me was only these few words. 'Little Fanny Robin is dead, Joseph,' Gabriel said, looking in my face in his steady old way. I was very sorry, and I said, 'Ah!--and how did she come to die?' 'Well, she's dead in Casterbridge Union,' he said, 'and perhaps 'tisn't much matter about how she came to die. She reached the Union early Sunday morning, and died in the afternoon--that's clear enough.' Then I asked what she'd been doing lately, and Mr. Boldwood turned round to me then, and left off spitting a thistle with the end of his stick. He told me about her having lived by seampstering in Melchester, as I mentioned to you, and that she walked therefrom at the end of last week, passing near here Saturday night in the dusk. They then said I had better just name a hint of her death to you, and away they went. Her death might have been brought on by biding in the night wind, you know, ma'am; for people used to say she'd go off in a decline: she used to cough a good deal in winter time. However, 'tisn't much odds to us about that now, for 'tis all over." "Have you heard a different story at all?" She looked at him so intently that Joseph's eyes quailed. "Not a word, mistress, I assure 'ee!" he said. "Hardly anybody in the parish knows the news yet." "I wonder why Gabriel didn't bring the message to me himself. He mostly makes a point of seeing me upon the most trifling errand." These words were merely murmured, and she was looking upon the ground. "Perhaps he was busy, ma'am," Joseph suggested. "And sometimes he seems to suffer from things upon his mind, connected with the time when he was better off than 'a is now. 'A's rather a curious item, but a very understanding shepherd, and learned in books." "Did anything seem upon his mind whilst he was speaking to you about this?" "I cannot but say that there did, ma'am. He was terrible down, and so was Farmer Boldwood." "Thank you, Joseph. That will do. Go on now, or you'll be late." Bathsheba, still unhappy, went indoors again. In the course of the afternoon she said to Liddy, who had been informed of the occurrence, "What was the colour of poor Fanny Robin's hair? Do you know? I cannot recollect--I only saw her for a day or two." "It was light, ma'am; but she wore it rather short, and packed away under her cap, so that you would hardly notice it. But I have seen her let it down when she was going to bed, and it looked beautiful then. Real golden hair." "Her young man was a soldier, was he not?" "Yes. In the same regiment as Mr. Troy. He says he knew him very well." "What, Mr. Troy says so? How came he to say that?" "One day I just named it to him, and asked him if he knew Fanny's young man. He said, 'Oh yes, he knew the young man as well as he knew himself, and that there wasn't a man in the regiment he liked better.'" "Ah! Said that, did he?" "Yes; and he said there was a strong likeness between himself and the other young man, so that sometimes people mistook them--" "Liddy, for Heaven's sake stop your talking!" said Bathsheba, with the nervous petulance that comes from worrying perceptions. JOSEPH AND HIS BURDEN--BUCK'S HEAD A wall bounded the site of Casterbridge Union-house, except along a portion of the end. Here a high gable stood prominent, and it was covered like the front with a mat of ivy. In this gable was no window, chimney, ornament, or protuberance of any kind. The single feature appertaining to it, beyond the expanse of dark green leaves, was a small door. The situation of the door was peculiar. The sill was three or four feet above the ground, and for a moment one was at a loss for an explanation of this exceptional altitude, till ruts immediately beneath suggested that the door was used solely for the passage of articles and persons to and from the level of a vehicle standing on the outside. Upon the whole, the door seemed to advertise itself as a species of Traitor's Gate translated to another sphere. That entry and exit hereby was only at rare intervals became apparent on noting that tufts of grass were allowed to flourish undisturbed in the chinks of the sill. As the clock over the South-street Alms-house pointed to five minutes to three, a blue spring waggon, picked out with red, and containing boughs and flowers, passed the end of the street, and up towards this side of the building. Whilst the chimes were yet stammering out a shattered form of "Malbrook," Joseph Poorgrass rang the bell, and received directions to back his waggon against the high door under the gable. The door then opened, and a plain elm coffin was slowly thrust forth, and laid by two men in fustian along the middle of the vehicle. One of the men then stepped up beside it, took from his pocket a lump of chalk, and wrote upon the cover the name and a few other words in a large scrawling hand. (We believe that they do these things more tenderly now, and provide a plate.) He covered the whole with a black cloth, threadbare, but decent, the tail-board of the waggon was returned to its place, one of the men handed a certificate of registry to Poorgrass, and both entered the door, closing it behind them. Their connection with her, short as it had been, was over for ever. Joseph then placed the flowers as enjoined, and the evergreens around the flowers, till it was difficult to divine what the waggon contained; he smacked his whip, and the rather pleasing funeral car crept down the hill, and along the road to Weatherbury. The afternoon drew on apace, and, looking to the right towards the sea as he walked beside the horse, Poorgrass saw strange clouds and scrolls of mist rolling over the long ridges which girt the landscape in that quarter. They came in yet greater volumes, and indolently crept across the intervening valleys, and around the withered papery flags of the moor and river brinks. Then their dank spongy forms closed in upon the sky. It was a sudden overgrowth of atmospheric fungi which had their roots in the neighbouring sea, and by the time that horse, man, and corpse entered Yalbury Great Wood, these silent workings of an invisible hand had reached them, and they were completely enveloped, this being the first arrival of the autumn fogs, and the first fog of the series. The air was as an eye suddenly struck blind. The waggon and its load rolled no longer on the horizontal division between clearness and opacity, but were imbedded in an elastic body of a monotonous pallor throughout. There was no perceptible motion in the air, not a visible drop of water fell upon a leaf of the beeches, birches, and firs composing the wood on either side. The trees stood in an attitude of intentness, as if they waited longingly for a wind to come and rock them. A startling quiet overhung all surrounding things--so completely, that the crunching of the waggon-wheels was as a great noise, and small rustles, which had never obtained a hearing except by night, were distinctly individualized. Joseph Poorgrass looked round upon his sad burden as it loomed faintly through the flowering laurustinus, then at the unfathomable gloom amid the high trees on each hand, indistinct, shadowless, and spectre-like in their monochrome of grey. He felt anything but cheerful, and wished he had the company even of a child or dog. Stopping the horse, he listened. Not a footstep or wheel was audible anywhere around, and the dead silence was broken only by a heavy particle falling from a tree through the evergreens and alighting with a smart rap upon the coffin of poor Fanny. The fog had by this time saturated the trees, and this was the first dropping of water from the overbrimming leaves. The hollow echo of its fall reminded the waggoner painfully of the grim Leveller. Then hard by came down another drop, then two or three. Presently there was a continual tapping of these heavy drops upon the dead leaves, the road, and the travellers. The nearer boughs were beaded with the mist to the greyness of aged men, and the rusty-red leaves of the beeches were hung with similar drops, like diamonds on auburn hair. At the roadside hamlet called Roy-Town, just beyond this wood, was the old inn Buck's Head. It was about a mile and a half from Weatherbury, and in the meridian times of stage-coach travelling had been the place where many coaches changed and kept their relays of horses. All the old stabling was now pulled down, and little remained besides the habitable inn itself, which, standing a little way back from the road, signified its existence to people far up and down the highway by a sign hanging from the horizontal bough of an elm on the opposite side of the way. Travellers--for the variety _tourist_ had hardly developed into a distinct species at this date--sometimes said in passing, when they cast their eyes up to the sign-bearing tree, that artists were fond of representing the signboard hanging thus, but that they themselves had never before noticed so perfect an instance in actual working order. It was near this tree that the waggon was standing into which Gabriel Oak crept on his first journey to Weatherbury; but, owing to the darkness, the sign and the inn had been unobserved. The manners of the inn were of the old-established type. Indeed, in the minds of its frequenters they existed as unalterable formulae: _e.g._-- Rap with the bottom of your pint for more liquor. For tobacco, shout. In calling for the girl in waiting, say, "Maid!" Ditto for the landlady, "Old Soul!" etc., etc. It was a relief to Joseph's heart when the friendly signboard came in view, and, stopping his horse immediately beneath it, he proceeded to fulfil an intention made a long time before. His spirits were oozing out of him quite. He turned the horse's head to the green bank, and entered the hostel for a mug of ale. Going down into the kitchen of the inn, the floor of which was a step below the passage, which in its turn was a step below the road outside, what should Joseph see to gladden his eyes but two copper-coloured discs, in the form of the countenances of Mr. Jan Coggan and Mr. Mark Clark. These owners of the two most appreciative throats in the neighbourhood, within the pale of respectability, were now sitting face to face over a three-legged circular table, having an iron rim to keep cups and pots from being accidentally elbowed off; they might have been said to resemble the setting sun and the full moon shining _vis-a-vis_ across the globe. "Why, 'tis neighbour Poorgrass!" said Mark Clark. "I'm sure your face don't praise your mistress's table, Joseph." "I've had a very pale companion for the last four miles," said Joseph, indulging in a shudder toned down by resignation. "And to speak the truth, 'twas beginning to tell upon me. I assure ye, I ha'n't seed the colour of victuals or drink since breakfast time this morning, and that was no more than a dew-bit afield." "Then drink, Joseph, and don't restrain yourself!" said Coggan, handing him a hooped mug three-quarters full. Joseph drank for a moderately long time, then for a longer time, saying, as he lowered the jug, "'Tis pretty drinking--very pretty drinking, and is more than cheerful on my melancholy errand, so to speak it." "True, drink is a pleasant delight," said Jan, as one who repeated a truism so familiar to his brain that he hardly noticed its passage over his tongue; and, lifting the cup, Coggan tilted his head gradually backwards, with closed eyes, that his expectant soul might not be diverted for one instant from its bliss by irrelevant surroundings. "Well, I must be on again," said Poorgrass. "Not but that I should like another nip with ye; but the parish might lose confidence in me if I was seed here." "Where be ye trading o't to to-day, then, Joseph?" "Back to Weatherbury. I've got poor little Fanny Robin in my waggon outside, and I must be at the churchyard gates at a quarter to five with her." "Ay--I've heard of it. And so she's nailed up in parish boards after all, and nobody to pay the bell shilling and the grave half-crown." "The parish pays the grave half-crown, but not the bell shilling, because the bell's a luxery: but 'a can hardly do without the grave, poor body. However, I expect our mistress will pay all." "A pretty maid as ever I see! But what's yer hurry, Joseph? The pore woman's dead, and you can't bring her to life, and you may as well sit down comfortable, and finish another with us." "I don't mind taking just the least thimbleful ye can dream of more with ye, sonnies. But only a few minutes, because 'tis as 'tis." "Of course, you'll have another drop. A man's twice the man afterwards. You feel so warm and glorious, and you whop and slap at your work without any trouble, and everything goes on like sticks a-breaking. Too much liquor is bad, and leads us to that horned man in the smoky house; but after all, many people haven't the gift of enjoying a wet, and since we be highly favoured with a power that way, we should make the most o't." "True," said Mark Clark. "'Tis a talent the Lord has mercifully bestowed upon us, and we ought not to neglect it. But, what with the parsons and clerks and school-people and serious tea-parties, the merry old ways of good life have gone to the dogs--upon my carcase, they have!" "Well, really, I must be onward again now," said Joseph. "Now, now, Joseph; nonsense! The poor woman is dead, isn't she, and what's your hurry?" "Well, I hope Providence won't be in a way with me for my doings," said Joseph, again sitting down. "I've been troubled with weak moments lately, 'tis true. I've been drinky once this month already, and I did not go to church a-Sunday, and I dropped a curse or two yesterday; so I don't want to go too far for my safety. Your next world is your next world, and not to be squandered offhand." "I believe ye to be a chapelmember, Joseph. That I do." "Oh, no, no! I don't go so far as that." "For my part," said Coggan, "I'm staunch Church of England." "Ay, and faith, so be I," said Mark Clark. "I won't say much for myself; I don't wish to," Coggan continued, with that tendency to talk on principles which is characteristic of the barley-corn. "But I've never changed a single doctrine: I've stuck like a plaster to the old faith I was born in. Yes; there's this to be said for the Church, a man can belong to the Church and bide in his cheerful old inn, and never trouble or worry his mind about doctrines at all. But to be a meetinger, you must go to chapel in all winds and weathers, and make yerself as frantic as a skit. Not but that chapel members be clever chaps enough in their way. They can lift up beautiful prayers out of their own heads, all about their families and shipwrecks in the newspaper." "They can--they can," said Mark Clark, with corroborative feeling; "but we Churchmen, you see, must have it all printed aforehand, or, dang it all, we should no more know what to say to a great gaffer like the Lord than babes unborn." "Chapelfolk be more hand-in-glove with them above than we," said Joseph, thoughtfully. "Yes," said Coggan. "We know very well that if anybody do go to heaven, they will. They've worked hard for it, and they deserve to have it, such as 'tis. I bain't such a fool as to pretend that we who stick to the Church have the same chance as they, because we know we have not. But I hate a feller who'll change his old ancient doctrines for the sake of getting to heaven. I'd as soon turn king's-evidence for the few pounds you get. Why, neighbours, when every one of my taties were frosted, our Parson Thirdly were the man who gave me a sack for seed, though he hardly had one for his own use, and no money to buy 'em. If it hadn't been for him, I shouldn't hae had a tatie to put in my garden. D'ye think I'd turn after that? No, I'll stick to my side; and if we be in the wrong, so be it: I'll fall with the fallen!" "Well said--very well said," observed Joseph.--"However, folks, I must be moving now: upon my life I must. Pa'son Thirdly will be waiting at the church gates, and there's the woman a-biding outside in the waggon." "Joseph Poorgrass, don't be so miserable! Pa'son Thirdly won't mind. He's a generous man; he's found me in tracts for years, and I've consumed a good many in the course of a long and shady life; but he's never been the man to cry out at the expense. Sit down." The longer Joseph Poorgrass remained, the less his spirit was troubled by the duties which devolved upon him this afternoon. The minutes glided by uncounted, until the evening shades began perceptibly to deepen, and the eyes of the three were but sparkling points on the surface of darkness. Coggan's repeater struck six from his pocket in the usual still small tones. At that moment hasty steps were heard in the entry, and the door opened to admit the figure of Gabriel Oak, followed by the maid of the inn bearing a candle. He stared sternly at the one lengthy and two round faces of the sitters, which confronted him with the expressions of a fiddle and a couple of warming-pans. Joseph Poorgrass blinked, and shrank several inches into the background. "Upon my soul, I'm ashamed of you; 'tis disgraceful, Joseph, disgraceful!" said Gabriel, indignantly. "Coggan, you call yourself a man, and don't know better than this." Coggan looked up indefinitely at Oak, one or other of his eyes occasionally opening and closing of its own accord, as if it were not a member, but a dozy individual with a distinct personality. "Don't take on so, shepherd!" said Mark Clark, looking reproachfully at the candle, which appeared to possess special features of interest for his eyes. "Nobody can hurt a dead woman," at length said Coggan, with the precision of a machine. "All that could be done for her is done--she's beyond us: and why should a man put himself in a tearing hurry for lifeless clay that can neither feel nor see, and don't know what you do with her at all? If she'd been alive, I would have been the first to help her. If she now wanted victuals and drink, I'd pay for it, money down. But she's dead, and no speed of ours will bring her to life. The woman's past us--time spent upon her is throwed away: why should we hurry to do what's not required? Drink, shepherd, and be friends, for to-morrow we may be like her." "We may," added Mark Clark, emphatically, at once drinking himself, to run no further risk of losing his chance by the event alluded to, Jan meanwhile merging his additional thoughts of to-morrow in a song:-- To-mor-row, to-mor-row! And while peace and plen-ty I find at my board, With a heart free from sick-ness and sor-row, With my friends will I share what to-day may af-ford, And let them spread the ta-ble to-mor-row. To-mor-row', to-mor-- "Do hold thy horning, Jan!" said Oak; and turning upon Poorgrass, "as for you, Joseph, who do your wicked deeds in such confoundedly holy ways, you are as drunk as you can stand." "No, Shepherd Oak, no! Listen to reason, shepherd. All that's the matter with me is the affliction called a multiplying eye, and that's how it is I look double to you--I mean, you look double to me." "A multiplying eye is a very bad thing," said Mark Clark. "It always comes on when I have been in a public-house a little time," said Joseph Poorgrass, meekly. "Yes; I see two of every sort, as if I were some holy man living in the times of King Noah and entering into the ark.... Y-y-y-yes," he added, becoming much affected by the picture of himself as a person thrown away, and shedding tears; "I feel too good for England: I ought to have lived in Genesis by rights, like the other men of sacrifice, and then I shouldn't have b-b-been called a d-d-drunkard in such a way!" "I wish you'd show yourself a man of spirit, and not sit whining there!" "Show myself a man of spirit? ... Ah, well! let me take the name of drunkard humbly--let me be a man of contrite knees--let it be! I know that I always do say 'Please God' afore I do anything, from my getting up to my going down of the same, and I be willing to take as much disgrace as there is in that holy act. Hah, yes! ... But not a man of spirit? Have I ever allowed the toe of pride to be lifted against my hinder parts without groaning manfully that I question the right to do so? I inquire that query boldly?" "We can't say that you have, Hero Poorgrass," admitted Jan. "Never have I allowed such treatment to pass unquestioned! Yet the shepherd says in the face of that rich testimony that I be not a man of spirit! Well, let it pass by, and death is a kind friend!" Gabriel, seeing that neither of the three was in a fit state to take charge of the waggon for the remainder of the journey, made no reply, but, closing the door again upon them, went across to where the vehicle stood, now getting indistinct in the fog and gloom of this mildewy time. He pulled the horse's head from the large patch of turf it had eaten bare, readjusted the boughs over the coffin, and drove along through the unwholesome night. It had gradually become rumoured in the village that the body to be brought and buried that day was all that was left of the unfortunate Fanny Robin who had followed the Eleventh from Casterbridge through Melchester and onwards. But, thanks to Boldwood's reticence and Oak's generosity, the lover she had followed had never been individualized as Troy. Gabriel hoped that the whole truth of the matter might not be published till at any rate the girl had been in her grave for a few days, when the interposing barriers of earth and time, and a sense that the events had been somewhat shut into oblivion, would deaden the sting that revelation and invidious remark would have for Bathsheba just now. By the time that Gabriel reached the old manor-house, her residence, which lay in his way to the church, it was quite dark. A man came from the gate and said through the fog, which hung between them like blown flour-- "Is that Poorgrass with the corpse?" Gabriel recognized the voice as that of the parson. "The corpse is here, sir," said Gabriel. "I have just been to inquire of Mrs. Troy if she could tell me the reason of the delay. I am afraid it is too late now for the funeral to be performed with proper decency. Have you the registrar's certificate?" "No," said Gabriel. "I expect Poorgrass has that; and he's at the Buck's Head. I forgot to ask him for it." "Then that settles the matter. We'll put off the funeral till to-morrow morning. The body may be brought on to the church, or it may be left here at the farm and fetched by the bearers in the morning. They waited more than an hour, and have now gone home." Gabriel had his reasons for thinking the latter a most objectionable plan, notwithstanding that Fanny had been an inmate of the farm-house for several years in the lifetime of Bathsheba's uncle. Visions of several unhappy contingencies which might arise from this delay flitted before him. But his will was not law, and he went indoors to inquire of his mistress what were her wishes on the subject. He found her in an unusual mood: her eyes as she looked up to him were suspicious and perplexed as with some antecedent thought. Troy had not yet returned. At first Bathsheba assented with a mien of indifference to his proposition that they should go on to the church at once with their burden; but immediately afterwards, following Gabriel to the gate, she swerved to the extreme of solicitousness on Fanny's account, and desired that the girl might be brought into the house. Oak argued upon the convenience of leaving her in the waggon, just as she lay now, with her flowers and green leaves about her, merely wheeling the vehicle into the coach-house till the morning, but to no purpose. "It is unkind and unchristian," she said, "to leave the poor thing in a coach-house all night." "Very well, then," said the parson. "And I will arrange that the funeral shall take place early to-morrow. Perhaps Mrs. Troy is right in feeling that we cannot treat a dead fellow-creature too thoughtfully. We must remember that though she may have erred grievously in leaving her home, she is still our sister: and it is to be believed that God's uncovenanted mercies are extended towards her, and that she is a member of the flock of Christ." The parson's words spread into the heavy air with a sad yet unperturbed cadence, and Gabriel shed an honest tear. Bathsheba seemed unmoved. Mr. Thirdly then left them, and Gabriel lighted a lantern. Fetching three other men to assist him, they bore the unconscious truant indoors, placing the coffin on two benches in the middle of a little sitting-room next the hall, as Bathsheba directed. Every one except Gabriel Oak then left the room. He still indecisively lingered beside the body. He was deeply troubled at the wretchedly ironical aspect that circumstances were putting on with regard to Troy's wife, and at his own powerlessness to counteract them. In spite of his careful manoeuvering all this day, the very worst event that could in any way have happened in connection with the burial had happened now. Oak imagined a terrible discovery resulting from this afternoon's work that might cast over Bathsheba's life a shade which the interposition of many lapsing years might but indifferently lighten, and which nothing at all might altogether remove. Suddenly, as in a last attempt to save Bathsheba from, at any rate, immediate anguish, he looked again, as he had looked before, at the chalk writing upon the coffin-lid. The scrawl was this simple one, "FANNY ROBIN AND CHILD." Gabriel took his handkerchief and carefully rubbed out the two latter words, leaving visible the inscription "FANNY ROBIN" only. He then left the room, and went out quietly by the front door.

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The narrative jumps ahead two months to a Saturday evening in October. Bathsheba and Troy are traveling up the steep Yarbury Hill, coming from Casterbridge to Weatherbury. They have been at the markets. Bathsheba rides in the gig, while Troy walks alongside her. This is the first glimpse we have of the two of them alone together, and the marriage does not seem to be going well. Bathsheba complains about all the money Troy has lost at the horse races. Troy has bought his discharge from the army and is dressed as a fashionable farmer. As they argue, Bathsheba begins to cry, and Troy tells her, "You have lost all the pluck and sauciness you formerly had," implying that he regrets having married her. As they proceed, they pass a woman who asks Troy the way to Casterbridge. When he replies, she utters a cry and falls down, recognizing his voice: The woman is Fanny. Bathsheba is alarmed, but Troy makes the horse carry her on up the hill while he stays and talks to Fanny. We learn that he has had no idea where to reach her, and that she was afraid to write to him. He realizes that she needs money, and agrees to meet her two days from then at Casterbridge. When he catches up with Bathsheba she is suspicious, accusing him of knowing the woman's name and not telling her. Troy denies all acquaintance with the woman. Chapter 40 tells the extraordinary story of Fanny's difficult walk to Casterbridge that night. We know it is Fanny, but the narrator identifies her only as "the woman." Stumbling weakly, she comes to a haystack and falls asleep beneath it. Upon waking, she thinks she may be dead by the time she is to meet Troy. She persuades herself to go on by counting the milestones, frequently pausing. She takes two sticks to use as crutches but falls. A dog appears, and she leans on him the rest of the way. Finally, near morning, she reaches Casterbridge. In the meantime, Bathsheba and Troy have been sullenly avoiding all conversation. On Sunday evening, Troy asks her for 20 pounds, saying that he needs it badly. He eventually admits that it is not for horse racing, but he will not tell her what it is for. As they argue she notices a curl of yellow hair in his watch and asks him about it. He explains that it belongs to "a young woman I was going to marry before I knew you." After she demands that he burn it and he refuses, Bathsheba bursts into great sobs, hating herself for being so weak as to fall for Troy. The next day as she rides around the farm, she sees the laborer Joseph Poorgrass talking to Gabriel and Boldwood. Poorgrass then approaches her with the news that Fanny Robin is dead from an unknown cause. As the chapter continues, Bathsheba begins to suspect that Fanny Robin is the woman Troy had loved and that she has died giving birth to a child. She questions Poorgrass and Liddy to test her suspicions. She offers to bury Fanny, as Fanny worked for Bathsheba's uncle, and sends Poorgrass to collect the body. Chapter 42 describes Joseph Poorgrass's journey from Casterbridge with the body. As he carts the coffin back, a fog descends, and Poorgrass begins to fear the dead body. He stops at Buck's Head to have drinks with his friends Mark Clark and Jan Coggan, and gradually these men persuade him to stay later and later, drinking. As the men converse, Poorgrass keeps announcing he will continue on, but his friends persuade him not to. After some hours have passed Gabriel finds them there, chastises them for their carelessness, and brings the coffin to the farm himself. Gabriel is eager to keep the truth from Bathsheba, but by the time he reaches the farm, the parson has postponed the funeral to the following morning and asks Gabriel to leave the coffin in the farm for the night; Gabriel reluctantly brings it to a sitting room for the night. Before he leaves, he partially rubs off the chalk marks on the coffin, which read "Fanny Robin and child," leaving only the name "Fanny Robin."

Commentary Hardy waits until this section to give his readers any insight into the workings of Troy and Bathsheba's marriage. He leaves us to imagine for ourselves the quality of their life together, based on a few conversations. Through Troy's harsh words to her, we see how weak she has become after maintaining such independence for so long. Chapter 42 is notably slower in pace than other chapters in this novel, and Hardy's description of Fanny's intense exhaustion painstakingly depicts every step that Fanny has to take, as well as the heaviness of her body, making us feel them with her. Throughout the novel, the sections dealing with Fanny together constitute a study of the type of person who slips through the cracks in society; what kind of person is this, neglected by others, forced to live a transient and impoverished life? Hardy uses an anonymous, distanced tone to describe Fanny, thus, conveying the lack of attention that others pay her. Much of this section centers around Bathsheba's attempt to solve the mystery of Fanny Robin's relationship to Troy, and Hardy carefully structures the narrative to keep his readers in suspense, as well. We do not know of Fanny's death until Bathsheba does: The narrative leaves Fanny in Casterbridge, and on Monday morning, Troy leaves, presumably to meet Fanny, but we hear nothing more of him even once we know that Fanny is dead. Hardy's most powerful tension-building device is his plodding description of Poorgrass' trip with the coffin: He gives us detailed accounts of the men's conversation at Buck's Head, which does nothing to advance the plot, while the whole time the reader must wait, waiting to hear how Fanny died, wondering if something might happen to her untended coffin outside, wondering where Troy is, whether he yet knows of Fanny's death, and anticipating Bathsheba's imminent discovery of Fanny and Troy's previous relations. In addition to building tension, Poorgrass' comic drinking scene offers insight into the leisure time of the laborers. On a more profound level, this episode analyzes the effect of chance and circumstance on human lives. Had Poorgrass gone straight home, the funeral would have occurred that day, the coffin would never have lay waiting in the sitting room, and Bathsheba might never have suffered under the knowledge she is about to attain: that Fanny died giving birth to Troy's child.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/47.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Sense and Sensibility/section_46_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 47

chapter 47

{"name": "Chapter 47", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820034609/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmSenseSensibility64.asp", "summary": "Mrs. Dashwood is happy to hear that Willoughby has good feelings toward Marianne. However, she agrees with her daughter that Marianne could not have been happily married to Willoughby. Meanwhile, Elinor is anxious to learn about Edward. One day her man-servant brings the information that Lucy is married to Mr. Ferrars; he met them in front of their carriage in Exeter. The Dashwood family is disturbed to hear this news.", "analysis": "Notes Marianne has finally overcome her infatuation for Willoughby. She analyzes the situation and arrives at the conclusion that she would have been miserable if she had married him. Elinor agrees with her sister. She still considers Willoughby to be selfish person, who is repenting his actions because his marriage has not turned out to be as blissful as he had expected. He has criticized Miss Grey for being heartless; had he married Marianne, he would have complained about her unfavorable financial situation. Elinor has philosophically accepted Edward's marriage to Lucy; nevertheless, she gets a shock when she is confronted with actual news of the event. Elinor is sensible, understanding and intelligent, but she is a normal girl who has feelings. Therefore, she is distraught after losing all hope of regaining Edward's affections. Austen's characterization of Elinor is more sophisticated than it at first appears. Elinor is not only the epitome of tolerance and \"sense;\" she is human, too. CHAPTER 48 Summary This short chapter brings happiness to the Dashwood family. The opening of the chapter shows Elinor depressed. All along she has nurtured the hope that Edward might come back to marry her one day, but after hearing about his marriage to Lucy, she loses all hope. Her nerves suffer a further setback with the sudden appearance of Edward at the cottage. The Dashwoods hide their emotions and welcome him. Elinor takes courage and inquires about Mrs. Edward Ferrars. But Edward only looks puzzled. Then he informs them that Lucy has actually gotten married to his brother, Robert. The Dashwoods are stunned to hear the news. Notes Jane Austen introduces an element of surprise in the chapter. Edward's sudden appearance at Barton Cottage creates ample suspense in the mind of the reader, since Edward arrives alone, and not with Lucy. The Dashwoods look bewildered. Elinor feels hurt, and she presumes that Edward has come to mock her. Marianne is angry at his audacity. Mrs. Dashwood looks dejected, while Margaret is confused. The family does not know how to handle the situation. They are curious about the reason for Edward's visit. The suspense ends when Edward informs them of Lucy's marriage to Robert. The news astounds them, but they are relieved. Elinor experiences a surge of emotion, and for once, she loses control. She runs out of the room and bursts into tears. Edward, shocked to see his beloved in distress, leaves the house abruptly. Both his entry and exit are quite dramatic. The Dashwoods are too dazed to react to the situation. CHAPTER 49 Summary Within a few hours of his arrival at the cottage, Edward proposes to Elinor and gets her consent. He is exhilarated and content. He relates the story of his encounter with Lucy and his secret engagement to her. He talks about having regretted his decision later. However, in order to keep up his commitment to her, he had agreed to marry her. A few days later she released him from his obligation by informing him of her marriage to Robert. Edward, relieved and absolutely overjoyed, had traveled to Barton to meet Elinor. Edward's revelation leaves the Dashwoods ecstatic. Colonel Brandon arrives and is told about the turn of events. He is glad that he will be helping Elinor by providing a position for Edward at Delaford. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Dashwood receives two letters, one from Mrs. Jennings and one from John Dashwood. In her letter Mrs. Jennings condemns Lucy's actions and sympathizes with the plight of Edward. John Dashwood writes about the repercussions of the marriage on Fanny and her mother. Mrs. Ferrars has severed all relations with Robert. He suggests to Edward that by writing a letter of apology to Mrs. Ferrars, he will be able to earn back her favor. After discussing the matter with Elinor, Edward decides to go in person to meet his sister and mother. Before undertaking the journey to Norland, he accompanies Colonel Brandon to Delaford to settle the matter of his position. Notes Edward comes back to Elinor like a penitent lover. He apologizes for his behavior and reveals his true feelings for her. Elinor forgives him easily and accepts him unconditionally. Both Edward's conduct and Elinor's acceptance of his proposal may seem unconvincing. It is not clear why Edward should keep in touch with Lucy if he had not been in love with her and why he should come to spend time with Elinor at Barton if he was committed to Lucy. Elinor's passive acceptance of Edward's explanations and proposal is somewhat out of character for her. Elinor's usual good sense and reasoning ability fail to examine Edward's conduct. Lucy's selfishness and cunning is exposed not only to Edward and the characters in the novel, but to the readers as well. She is a woman who is able to give her heart to any one who possesses wealth and respectability. Without an ounce of conscience, she transfers her affections from Edward to Robert. CHAPTER 50 Summary Mrs. Ferrars excuses Edward and becomes reconciled to his marrying Elinor. She accepts his taking orders and grants him ten thousand pounds. With a sufficient income and a living at Delaford, Edward and Elinor get married early in the autumn. All their relatives, including Mrs. Jennings, pay them a visit. They find the couple leading a happy and contented life. Lucy conquers the heart of Mrs. Ferrars through slyness and flattery. The old lady assists her and Robert liberally and also provides them with a home in town. Marianne is reconciled to the idea of marrying Colonel Brandon and soon becomes a devoted wife. Willoughby feels distressed to hear about Marianne's marriage to Colonel Brandon, as he still admires her. Mrs. Dashwood retains her cottage at Barton although she keeps making visits to Delaford. Margaret grows up into a charming girl and provides delightful company to the Middletons and Mrs. Jennings. Notes Jane Austen concludes the novel on a happy note. All the leading characters get settled in life after their problems have been sorted out. Edward acquires sufficient financial support and settles down with Elinor in Delaford. Marianne marries Colonel Brandon and becomes the mistress of Delaford mansion. Mrs. Dashwood is a contented mother, dividing her time between three daughters. Even minor characters get more than their due. Robert and Lucy settle down in the lap of luxury. The two of them, lacking intelligence and taste, resemble Shakespeare's Audrey and Touchstone in As You Like it. Jane Austen is generous in her treatment of Willoughby. He remembers Marianne with fondness and appears disappointed, but leads a comfortable life. The novel ends like a fairy tale, except for the fact that both good and bad characters are blessed."}

Mrs. Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former favourite. She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his imputed guilt;--she was sorry for him;--she wished him happy. But the feelings of the past could not be recalled.--Nothing could restore him with a faith unbroken--a character unblemished, to Marianne. Nothing could do away the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through his means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza. Nothing could replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the interests of Colonel Brandon. Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby's story from himself--had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence of his countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion would have been greater. But it was neither in Elinor's power, nor in her wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed explanation, as had at first been called forth in herself. Reflection had given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of Willoughby's deserts;--she wished, therefore, to declare only the simple truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his character, without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy astray. In the evening, when they were all three together, Marianne began voluntarily to speak of him again;--but that it was not without an effort, the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for some time previously sitting--her rising colour, as she spoke,--and her unsteady voice, plainly shewed. "I wish to assure you both," said she, "that I see every thing--as you can desire me to do." Mrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing tenderness, had not Elinor, who really wished to hear her sister's unbiased opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence. Marianne slowly continued-- "It is a great relief to me--what Elinor told me this morning--I have now heard exactly what I wished to hear."--For some moments her voice was lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness than before--"I am now perfectly satisfied, I wish for no change. I never could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or later I must have known, all this.--I should have had no confidence, no esteem. Nothing could have done it away to my feelings." "I know it--I know it," cried her mother. "Happy with a man of libertine practices!--With one who so injured the peace of the dearest of our friends, and the best of men!--No--my Marianne has not a heart to be made happy with such a man!--Her conscience, her sensitive conscience, would have felt all that the conscience of her husband ought to have felt." Marianne sighed, and repeated, "I wish for no change." "You consider the matter," said Elinor, "exactly as a good mind and a sound understanding must consider it; and I dare say you perceive, as well as myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances, reason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved you in many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would have been poorly supported by an affection, on his side, much less certain. Had you married, you must have been always poor. His expensiveness is acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct declares that self-denial is a word hardly understood by him. His demands and your inexperience together, on a small, very small income, must have brought on distresses which would not be the LESS grievous to you, from having been entirely unknown and unthought of before. YOUR sense of honour and honesty would have led you, I know, when aware of your situation, to attempt all the economy that would appear to you possible: and, perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched only on your own comfort, you might have been suffered to practice it, but beyond that--and how little could the utmost of your single management do to stop the ruin which had begun before your marriage?-- Beyond THAT, had you endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge HIS enjoyments, is it not to be feared, that instead of prevailing on feelings so selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened your own influence on his heart, and made him regret the connection which had involved him in such difficulties?" Marianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word "Selfish?" in a tone that implied--"do you really think him selfish?" "The whole of his behaviour," replied Elinor, "from the beginning to the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness. It was selfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which afterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession of it, and which finally carried him from Barton. His own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle." "It is very true. MY happiness never was his object." "At present," continued Elinor, "he regrets what he has done. And why does he regret it?--Because he finds it has not answered towards himself. It has not made him happy. His circumstances are now unembarrassed--he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks only that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself. But does it follow that had he married you, he would have been happy?--The inconveniences would have been different. He would then have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are removed, he now reckons as nothing. He would have had a wife of whose temper he could make no complaint, but he would have been always necessitous--always poor; and probably would soon have learned to rank the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far more importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a wife." "I have not a doubt of it," said Marianne; "and I have nothing to regret--nothing but my own folly." "Rather say your mother's imprudence, my child," said Mrs. Dashwood; "SHE must be answerable." Marianne would not let her proceed;--and Elinor, satisfied that each felt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might weaken her sister's spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first subject, immediately continued, "One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the story--that all Willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first offence against virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza Williams. That crime has been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present discontents." Marianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led by it to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon's injuries and merits, warm as friendship and design could unitedly dictate. Her daughter did not look, however, as if much of it were heard by her. Elinor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three following days, that Marianne did not continue to gain strength as she had done; but while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear cheerful and easy, her sister could safely trust to the effect of time upon her health. Margaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each other, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their usual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to Barton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future. Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward. She had heard nothing of him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans, nothing certain even of his present abode. Some letters had passed between her and her brother, in consequence of Marianne's illness; and in the first of John's, there had been this sentence:-- "We know nothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so prohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford;" which was all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence, for his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters. She was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures. Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his mistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary communication-- "I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married." Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood, whose eyes, as she answered the servant's inquiry, had intuitively taken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by Elinor's countenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards, alike distressed by Marianne's situation, knew not on which child to bestow her principal attention. The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense enough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood's assistance, supported her into the other room. By that time, Marianne was rather better, and her mother leaving her to the care of Margaret and the maid, returned to Elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so far recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just beginning an inquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his intelligence. Mrs. Dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself; and Elinor had the benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it. "Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?" "I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady too, Miss Steele as was. They was stopping in a chaise at the door of the New London Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the Park to her brother, who is one of the post-boys. I happened to look up as I went by the chaise, and so I see directly it was the youngest Miss Steele; so I took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me, and inquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies, especially Miss Marianne, and bid me I should give her compliments and Mr. Ferrars's, their best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had not time to come on and see you, but they was in a great hurry to go forwards, for they was going further down for a little while, but howsever, when they come back, they'd make sure to come and see you." "But did she tell you she was married, Thomas?" "Yes, ma'am. She smiled, and said how she had changed her name since she was in these parts. She was always a very affable and free-spoken young lady, and very civil behaved. So, I made free to wish her joy." "Was Mr. Ferrars in the carriage with her?" "Yes, ma'am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look up;--he never was a gentleman much for talking." Elinor's heart could easily account for his not putting himself forward; and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the same explanation. "Was there no one else in the carriage?" "No, ma'am, only they two." "Do you know where they came from?" "They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy--Mrs. Ferrars told me." "And are they going farther westward?" "Yes, ma'am--but not to bide long. They will soon be back again, and then they'd be sure and call here." Mrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but Elinor knew better than to expect them. She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message, and was very confident that Edward would never come near them. She observed in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going down to Mr. Pratt's, near Plymouth. Thomas's intelligence seemed over. Elinor looked as if she wished to hear more. "Did you see them off, before you came away?" "No, ma'am--the horses were just coming out, but I could not bide any longer; I was afraid of being late." "Did Mrs. Ferrars look well?" "Yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was always a very handsome young lady--and she seemed vastly contented." Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed. Marianne had already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more. Mrs. Dashwood's and Elinor's appetites were equally lost, and Margaret might think herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as both her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had often had to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to go without her dinner before. When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a similarity of thoughtfulness and silence. Mrs. Dashwood feared to hazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation. She now found that she had erred in relying on Elinor's representation of herself; and justly concluded that every thing had been expressly softened at the time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness, suffering as she then had suffered for Marianne. She found that she had been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her daughter, to think the attachment, which once she had so well understood, much slighter in reality, than she had been wont to believe, or than it was now proved to be. She feared that under this persuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her Elinor;--that Marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged, more immediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness, and led her away to forget that in Elinor she might have a daughter suffering almost as much, certainly with less self-provocation, and greater fortitude.

Chapter 47

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820034609/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmSenseSensibility64.asp

Mrs. Dashwood is happy to hear that Willoughby has good feelings toward Marianne. However, she agrees with her daughter that Marianne could not have been happily married to Willoughby. Meanwhile, Elinor is anxious to learn about Edward. One day her man-servant brings the information that Lucy is married to Mr. Ferrars; he met them in front of their carriage in Exeter. The Dashwood family is disturbed to hear this news.

Notes Marianne has finally overcome her infatuation for Willoughby. She analyzes the situation and arrives at the conclusion that she would have been miserable if she had married him. Elinor agrees with her sister. She still considers Willoughby to be selfish person, who is repenting his actions because his marriage has not turned out to be as blissful as he had expected. He has criticized Miss Grey for being heartless; had he married Marianne, he would have complained about her unfavorable financial situation. Elinor has philosophically accepted Edward's marriage to Lucy; nevertheless, she gets a shock when she is confronted with actual news of the event. Elinor is sensible, understanding and intelligent, but she is a normal girl who has feelings. Therefore, she is distraught after losing all hope of regaining Edward's affections. Austen's characterization of Elinor is more sophisticated than it at first appears. Elinor is not only the epitome of tolerance and "sense;" she is human, too. CHAPTER 48 Summary This short chapter brings happiness to the Dashwood family. The opening of the chapter shows Elinor depressed. All along she has nurtured the hope that Edward might come back to marry her one day, but after hearing about his marriage to Lucy, she loses all hope. Her nerves suffer a further setback with the sudden appearance of Edward at the cottage. The Dashwoods hide their emotions and welcome him. Elinor takes courage and inquires about Mrs. Edward Ferrars. But Edward only looks puzzled. Then he informs them that Lucy has actually gotten married to his brother, Robert. The Dashwoods are stunned to hear the news. Notes Jane Austen introduces an element of surprise in the chapter. Edward's sudden appearance at Barton Cottage creates ample suspense in the mind of the reader, since Edward arrives alone, and not with Lucy. The Dashwoods look bewildered. Elinor feels hurt, and she presumes that Edward has come to mock her. Marianne is angry at his audacity. Mrs. Dashwood looks dejected, while Margaret is confused. The family does not know how to handle the situation. They are curious about the reason for Edward's visit. The suspense ends when Edward informs them of Lucy's marriage to Robert. The news astounds them, but they are relieved. Elinor experiences a surge of emotion, and for once, she loses control. She runs out of the room and bursts into tears. Edward, shocked to see his beloved in distress, leaves the house abruptly. Both his entry and exit are quite dramatic. The Dashwoods are too dazed to react to the situation. CHAPTER 49 Summary Within a few hours of his arrival at the cottage, Edward proposes to Elinor and gets her consent. He is exhilarated and content. He relates the story of his encounter with Lucy and his secret engagement to her. He talks about having regretted his decision later. However, in order to keep up his commitment to her, he had agreed to marry her. A few days later she released him from his obligation by informing him of her marriage to Robert. Edward, relieved and absolutely overjoyed, had traveled to Barton to meet Elinor. Edward's revelation leaves the Dashwoods ecstatic. Colonel Brandon arrives and is told about the turn of events. He is glad that he will be helping Elinor by providing a position for Edward at Delaford. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Dashwood receives two letters, one from Mrs. Jennings and one from John Dashwood. In her letter Mrs. Jennings condemns Lucy's actions and sympathizes with the plight of Edward. John Dashwood writes about the repercussions of the marriage on Fanny and her mother. Mrs. Ferrars has severed all relations with Robert. He suggests to Edward that by writing a letter of apology to Mrs. Ferrars, he will be able to earn back her favor. After discussing the matter with Elinor, Edward decides to go in person to meet his sister and mother. Before undertaking the journey to Norland, he accompanies Colonel Brandon to Delaford to settle the matter of his position. Notes Edward comes back to Elinor like a penitent lover. He apologizes for his behavior and reveals his true feelings for her. Elinor forgives him easily and accepts him unconditionally. Both Edward's conduct and Elinor's acceptance of his proposal may seem unconvincing. It is not clear why Edward should keep in touch with Lucy if he had not been in love with her and why he should come to spend time with Elinor at Barton if he was committed to Lucy. Elinor's passive acceptance of Edward's explanations and proposal is somewhat out of character for her. Elinor's usual good sense and reasoning ability fail to examine Edward's conduct. Lucy's selfishness and cunning is exposed not only to Edward and the characters in the novel, but to the readers as well. She is a woman who is able to give her heart to any one who possesses wealth and respectability. Without an ounce of conscience, she transfers her affections from Edward to Robert. CHAPTER 50 Summary Mrs. Ferrars excuses Edward and becomes reconciled to his marrying Elinor. She accepts his taking orders and grants him ten thousand pounds. With a sufficient income and a living at Delaford, Edward and Elinor get married early in the autumn. All their relatives, including Mrs. Jennings, pay them a visit. They find the couple leading a happy and contented life. Lucy conquers the heart of Mrs. Ferrars through slyness and flattery. The old lady assists her and Robert liberally and also provides them with a home in town. Marianne is reconciled to the idea of marrying Colonel Brandon and soon becomes a devoted wife. Willoughby feels distressed to hear about Marianne's marriage to Colonel Brandon, as he still admires her. Mrs. Dashwood retains her cottage at Barton although she keeps making visits to Delaford. Margaret grows up into a charming girl and provides delightful company to the Middletons and Mrs. Jennings. Notes Jane Austen concludes the novel on a happy note. All the leading characters get settled in life after their problems have been sorted out. Edward acquires sufficient financial support and settles down with Elinor in Delaford. Marianne marries Colonel Brandon and becomes the mistress of Delaford mansion. Mrs. Dashwood is a contented mother, dividing her time between three daughters. Even minor characters get more than their due. Robert and Lucy settle down in the lap of luxury. The two of them, lacking intelligence and taste, resemble Shakespeare's Audrey and Touchstone in As You Like it. Jane Austen is generous in her treatment of Willoughby. He remembers Marianne with fondness and appears disappointed, but leads a comfortable life. The novel ends like a fairy tale, except for the fact that both good and bad characters are blessed.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/49.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_5_part_4.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 48

chapter 48

{"name": "Chapter 48", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-6-chapters-45-52", "summary": "Alec continues to visit Flintcomb-Ash to observe Tess. When he visits her again, he says that if he cannot legitimize their former relations, he can at least assist her. He says that although his religious mania is over, he retains a little good nature. He says that he will make her family comfortable if only she will show confidence in him. She tells him not to mention her siblings, and if he wants to help them, he should do so without telling her. After Alec leaves, Tess writes yet another letter to Angel, asking him to return to her. In this letter, she writes that she lives entirely for him and would be content to live with him as his servant if not as his wife.", "analysis": "Alec's offer to aid Tess is yet another example of his use of his financial resources to exert control over Tess, endearing himself to her by making himself essential for her survival. The significant difference in this offer to Tess is that it does not aid her, but rather her family. Hardy has established that the Durbeyfield family exerts a certain control over Tess, as when her parents goaded her into claiming kinship with the d'Urbervilles after Tess's mishap with the horse. While Tess can survive the physical hardship that she faces at Flintcomb-Ash, she finds it more difficult to allow her parents to suffer similar adversity. Tess's plea for Angel that he return to her is therefore her first sign of weakness with regard to Alec d'Urberville, who has found the one way to break down Tess's considerable defenses"}

In the afternoon the farmer made it known that the rick was to be finished that night, since there was a moon by which they could see to work, and the man with the engine was engaged for another farm on the morrow. Hence the twanging and humming and rustling proceeded with even less intermission than usual. It was not till "nammet"-time, about three o-clock, that Tess raised her eyes and gave a momentary glance round. She felt but little surprise at seeing that Alec d'Urberville had come back, and was standing under the hedge by the gate. He had seen her lift her eyes, and waved his hand urbanely to her, while he blew her a kiss. It meant that their quarrel was over. Tess looked down again, and carefully abstained from gazing in that direction. Thus the afternoon dragged on. The wheat-rick shrank lower, and the straw-rick grew higher, and the corn-sacks were carted away. At six o'clock the wheat-rick was about shoulder-high from the ground. But the unthreshed sheaves remaining untouched seemed countless still, notwithstanding the enormous numbers that had been gulped down by the insatiable swallower, fed by the man and Tess, through whose two young hands the greater part of them had passed. And the immense stack of straw where in the morning there had been nothing, appeared as the faeces of the same buzzing red glutton. From the west sky a wrathful shine--all that wild March could afford in the way of sunset--had burst forth after the cloudy day, flooding the tired and sticky faces of the threshers, and dyeing them with a coppery light, as also the flapping garments of the women, which clung to them like dull flames. A panting ache ran through the rick. The man who fed was weary, and Tess could see that the red nape of his neck was encrusted with dirt and husks. She still stood at her post, her flushed and perspiring face coated with the corndust, and her white bonnet embrowned by it. She was the only woman whose place was upon the machine so as to be shaken bodily by its spinning, and the decrease of the stack now separated her from Marian and Izz, and prevented their changing duties with her as they had done. The incessant quivering, in which every fibre of her frame participated, had thrown her into a stupefied reverie in which her arms worked on independently of her consciousness. She hardly knew where she was, and did not hear Izz Huett tell her from below that her hair was tumbling down. By degrees the freshest among them began to grow cadaverous and saucer-eyed. Whenever Tess lifted her head she beheld always the great upgrown straw-stack, with the men in shirt-sleeves upon it, against the gray north sky; in front of it the long red elevator like a Jacob's ladder, on which a perpetual stream of threshed straw ascended, a yellow river running uphill, and spouting out on the top of the rick. She knew that Alec d'Urberville was still on the scene, observing her from some point or other, though she could not say where. There was an excuse for his remaining, for when the threshed rick drew near its final sheaves a little ratting was always done, and men unconnected with the threshing sometimes dropped in for that performance--sporting characters of all descriptions, gents with terriers and facetious pipes, roughs with sticks and stones. But there was another hour's work before the layer of live rats at the base of the stack would be reached; and as the evening light in the direction of the Giant's Hill by Abbot's-Cernel dissolved away, the white-faced moon of the season arose from the horizon that lay towards Middleton Abbey and Shottsford on the other side. For the last hour or two Marian had felt uneasy about Tess, whom she could not get near enough to speak to, the other women having kept up their strength by drinking ale, and Tess having done without it through traditionary dread, owing to its results at her home in childhood. But Tess still kept going: if she could not fill her part she would have to leave; and this contingency, which she would have regarded with equanimity and even with relief a month or two earlier, had become a terror since d'Urberville had begun to hover round her. The sheaf-pitchers and feeders had now worked the rick so low that people on the ground could talk to them. To Tess's surprise Farmer Groby came up on the machine to her, and said that if she desired to join her friend he did not wish her to keep on any longer, and would send somebody else to take her place. The "friend" was d'Urberville, she knew, and also that this concession had been granted in obedience to the request of that friend, or enemy. She shook her head and toiled on. The time for the rat-catching arrived at last, and the hunt began. The creatures had crept downwards with the subsidence of the rick till they were all together at the bottom, and being now uncovered from their last refuge, they ran across the open ground in all directions, a loud shriek from the by-this-time half-tipsy Marian informing her companions that one of the rats had invaded her person--a terror which the rest of the women had guarded against by various schemes of skirt-tucking and self-elevation. The rat was at last dislodged, and, amid the barking of dogs, masculine shouts, feminine screams, oaths, stampings, and confusion as of Pandemonium, Tess untied her last sheaf; the drum slowed, the whizzing ceased, and she stepped from the machine to the ground. Her lover, who had only looked on at the rat-catching, was promptly at her side. "What--after all--my insulting slap, too!" said she in an underbreath. She was so utterly exhausted that she had not strength to speak louder. "I should indeed be foolish to feel offended at anything you say or do," he answered, in the seductive voice of the Trantridge time. "How the little limbs tremble! You are as weak as a bled calf, you know you are; and yet you need have done nothing since I arrived. How could you be so obstinate? However, I have told the farmer that he has no right to employ women at steam-threshing. It is not proper work for them; and on all the better class of farms it has been given up, as he knows very well. I will walk with you as far as your home." "O yes," she answered with a jaded gait. "Walk wi' me if you will! I do bear in mind that you came to marry me before you knew o' my state. Perhaps--perhaps you are a little better and kinder than I have been thinking you were. Whatever is meant as kindness I am grateful for; whatever is meant in any other way I am angered at. I cannot sense your meaning sometimes." "If I cannot legitimize our former relations at least I can assist you. And I will do it with much more regard for your feelings than I formerly showed. My religious mania, or whatever it was, is over. But I retain a little good nature; I hope I do. Now, Tess, by all that's tender and strong between man and woman, trust me! I have enough and more than enough to put you out of anxiety, both for yourself and your parents and sisters. I can make them all comfortable if you will only show confidence in me." "Have you seen 'em lately?" she quickly inquired. "Yes. They didn't know where you were. It was only by chance that I found you here." The cold moon looked aslant upon Tess's fagged face between the twigs of the garden-hedge as she paused outside the cottage which was her temporary home, d'Urberville pausing beside her. "Don't mention my little brothers and sisters--don't make me break down quite!" she said. "If you want to help them--God knows they need it--do it without telling me. But no, no!" she cried. "I will take nothing from you, either for them or for me!" He did not accompany her further, since, as she lived with the household, all was public indoors. No sooner had she herself entered, laved herself in a washing-tub, and shared supper with the family than she fell into thought, and withdrawing to the table under the wall, by the light of her own little lamp wrote in a passionate mood-- MY OWN HUSBAND,-- Let me call you so--I must--even if it makes you angry to think of such an unworthy wife as I. I must cry to you in my trouble--I have no one else! I am so exposed to temptation, Angel. I fear to say who it is, and I do not like to write about it at all. But I cling to you in a way you cannot think! Can you not come to me now, at once, before anything terrible happens? O, I know you cannot, because you are so far away! I think I must die if you do not come soon, or tell me to come to you. The punishment you have measured out to me is deserved--I do know that-- well deserved--and you are right and just to be angry with me. But, Angel, please, please, not to be just--only a little kind to me, even if I do not deserve it, and come to me! If you would come, I could die in your arms! I would be well content to do that if so be you had forgiven me! Angel, I live entirely for you. I love you too much to blame you for going away, and I know it was necessary you should find a farm. Do not think I shall say a word of sting or bitterness. Only come back to me. I am desolate without you, my darling, O, so desolate! I do not mind having to work: but if you will send me one little line, and say, "I am coming soon," I will bide on, Angel--O, so cheerfully! It has been so much my religion ever since we were married to be faithful to you in every thought and look, that even when a man speaks a compliment to me before I am aware, it seems wronging you. Have you never felt one little bit of what you used to feel when we were at the dairy? If you have, how can you keep away from me? I am the same women, Angel, as you fell in love with; yes, the very same!--not the one you disliked but never saw. What was the past to me as soon as I met you? It was a dead thing altogether. I became another woman, filled full of new life from you. How could I be the early one? Why do you not see this? Dear, if you would only be a little more conceited, and believe in yourself so far as to see that you were strong enough to work this change in me, you would perhaps be in a mind to come to me, your poor wife. How silly I was in my happiness when I thought I could trust you always to love me! I ought to have known that such as that was not for poor me. But I am sick at heart, not only for old times, but for the present. Think--think how it do hurt my heart not to see you ever--ever! Ah, if I could only make your dear heart ache one little minute of each day as mine does every day and all day long, it might lead you to show pity to your poor lonely one. People still say that I am rather pretty, Angel (handsome is the word they use, since I wish to be truthful). Perhaps I am what they say. But I do not value my good looks; I only like to have them because they belong to you, my dear, and that there may be at least one thing about me worth your having. So much have I felt this, that when I met with annoyance on account of the same, I tied up my face in a bandage as long as people would believe in it. O Angel, I tell you all this not from vanity--you will certainly know I do not--but only that you may come to me! If you really cannot come to me, will you let me come to you? I am, as I say, worried, pressed to do what I will not do. It cannot be that I shall yield one inch, yet I am in terror as to what an accident might lead to, and I so defenceless on account of my first error. I cannot say more about this--it makes me too miserable. But if I break down by falling into some fearful snare, my last state will be worse than my first. O God, I cannot think of it! Let me come at once, or at once come to me! I would be content, ay, glad, to live with you as your servant, if I may not as your wife; so that I could only be near you, and get glimpses of you, and think of you as mine. The daylight has nothing to show me, since you are not here, and I don't like to see the rooks and starlings in the field, because I grieve and grieve to miss you who used to see them with me. I long for only one thing in heaven or earth or under the earth, to meet you, my own dear! Come to me--come to me, and save me from what threatens me!-- Your faithful heartbroken TESS

Chapter 48

https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-6-chapters-45-52

Alec continues to visit Flintcomb-Ash to observe Tess. When he visits her again, he says that if he cannot legitimize their former relations, he can at least assist her. He says that although his religious mania is over, he retains a little good nature. He says that he will make her family comfortable if only she will show confidence in him. She tells him not to mention her siblings, and if he wants to help them, he should do so without telling her. After Alec leaves, Tess writes yet another letter to Angel, asking him to return to her. In this letter, she writes that she lives entirely for him and would be content to live with him as his servant if not as his wife.

Alec's offer to aid Tess is yet another example of his use of his financial resources to exert control over Tess, endearing himself to her by making himself essential for her survival. The significant difference in this offer to Tess is that it does not aid her, but rather her family. Hardy has established that the Durbeyfield family exerts a certain control over Tess, as when her parents goaded her into claiming kinship with the d'Urbervilles after Tess's mishap with the horse. While Tess can survive the physical hardship that she faces at Flintcomb-Ash, she finds it more difficult to allow her parents to suffer similar adversity. Tess's plea for Angel that he return to her is therefore her first sign of weakness with regard to Alec d'Urberville, who has found the one way to break down Tess's considerable defenses

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/part_1_chapters_19_to_23.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Red and the Black/section_3_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 1.chapters 19-23

book 1, chapters 19-23

{"name": "", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210301223854/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/redblack/section4/", "summary": "Julien and Mme. de Renal's affair takes a downward turn when her youngest son falls deathly ill. Mme. de Renal is convinced that God is punishing her for committing adultery and begs Julien to stay away from her. Julien thinks that her behavior is quite foolish, but worries that she might confess to both her husband and M. Chelan. She almost does, but then confides to Julien that she loves him more than anything else, even her own children. Moved by her devotion to him, Julien finally falls in love with Mme. de Renal. Their renewed happiness tips off Mme. de Renal's maid, Elisa, that something is going on and she tells M. Valenod, who writes an anonymous letter to M. de Renal. Julien immediately recognizes that the letter denounces his affair with Mme. de Renal. The two of them form a plan in order to convince M. de Renal that the accusations are false and just an attempt to embarrass the mayor. They forge a second anonymous letter and pretend to send it to Mme. de Renal. This second letter says that M. Valenod is both responsible for the first letter and out to seduce Mme. de Renal himself. Before receiving this second letter, M. de Renal spends the entire night in a state of wretched embarrassment and hatred. More concerned about his name and political position than his marriage, he considers killing both Julien and his wife. But when Mme. de Renal brings him the second letter, he no longer believes the accusations and thinks instead that M. Valenod is organizing a liberal plot against him. Mme. de Renal manipulates her husband even further by showing him old love letters written to her by M. Valenod. Julien is invited to dine with the Valenods, who want to hire him as the family tutor. He goes in order to give M. de Renal the impression that all of M. Valenod's letters were intended to make Renal fire Julien so he would move to the Valenod's. Julien is disgusted by the bourgeois liberals at the Valenod dinner party. They have all made money off the poor. Julien finds nothing honorable about their obsession with money and is doubly resolved to come to power through the Church. He gets his chance when the ever-jealous Elisa tells M. Chelan about the affair. Chelan, in order to avoid a scandal, arranges for Julien to enter a seminary in Besancon. M. de Renal, though now believing that nothing has happened between his wife and Julien, is happy to see Julien leave: the rumors will die out and M. Valenod will not get Julien to be his tutor. Mme. de Renal is devastated to see Julien leave and gives him a lock of her hair. Although Julien is excited to become a powerful figure in the Church, along the road to Besancon, he keeps looking back at Verrieres.", "analysis": "Commentary Stendhal's fascination with the psychology of love is very apparent in this section. It is only when Julien's vanity is sufficiently flattered by Mme. de Renal that he falls in love with her. Stendhal describes this change as a switch from love of possession and beauty to passion-love. When Julien realizes that she loves him more than her own children, he trusts Mme. de Renal's devotion enough to fall in love with her. Again, triangular desire enables Julien to love Mme. de Renal . The love triangle between Julien, Mme. de Renal, and Elisa also motivates the jealous Elisa to tell M. Valenod and then M. Chelan about Julien and Mme. de Renal. This section also juxtaposes Mme. de Renal's intelligence and religious faith with M. de Renal's foolish concerns for rank and lack of concern for his family. Mme. de Renal truly believes that God is punishing her for falling in love with Julien. When she actually tries to confess to her husband, Julien admires her lack of hypocrisy. When it comes to saving her family's reputation, Mme. de Renal also becomes very cunning. Julien realizes that M. Valenod has denounced them, but it is Mme. de Renal who drafts the second letter and manipulates her husband into discovering M. Valenod's old love letters. M. de Renal, in contrast, only cares about remaining the mayor of Verrieres. He considers killing Mme. de Renal and Julien but worries that then he would not receive an inheritance his wife is expecting. Mme. de Renal easily manipulates her husband with flatteries into believing her version of the story. Julien's dinner with the Valenods demonstrates Stendhal's disdain for both conservatives and liberals. Julien reads the major liberal newspapers, but when he finally meets a group of liberals at the Valenod's, he is disgusted by their stealing from the poor, lax morals, and obsession with money. For example, Mme. Valenod discusses the cost of the wine Julien is drinking. After leaving the Valenods', Julien realizes that he has much more aristocratic and refined tastes than he thought. The reader cannot help but notice Stendhal's ironical tone in describing Julien's change of heart, as well as his characteristic hypocrisy. Further tension between the red of the military and the black of the Church is played out in this section. Julien seeks the glory of a military-like seduction of Mme. de Renal, but ends up being sent to the seminary anyway. For all of Julien's ambition and determination to succeed in French society, he does not go to the seminary by choice: M. Chelan orders him there. Unlike most romantic heroes, Julien has very little free will. He does what other people tell him to do."}

CHAPTER XIX THINKING PRODUCES SUFFERING The grotesqueness of every-day events conceals the real unhappiness of the passions.--_Barnave_. As he was replacing the usual furniture in the room which M. de la Mole had occupied, Julien found a piece of very strong paper folded in four. He read at the bottom of the first page "To His Excellency M. le Marquis de la Mole, peer of France, Chevalier of the Orders of the King, etc. etc." It was a petition in the rough hand-writing of a cook. "Monsieur le Marquis, I have had religious principles all my life. I was in Lyons exposed to the bombs at the time of the siege, in '93 of execrable memory. I communicate, I go to Mass every Sunday in the parochial church. I have never missed the paschal duty, even in '93 of execrable memory. My cook used to keep servants before the revolution, my cook fasts on Fridays. I am universally respected in Verrieres, and I venture to say I deserve to be so. I walk under the canopy in the processions at the side of the cure and of the mayor. On great occasions I carry a big candle, bought at my own expense. "I ask Monsieur the marquis for the lottery appointment of Verrieres, which in one way or another is bound to be vacant shortly as the beneficiary is very ill, and moreover votes on the wrong side at elections, etc. De Cholin." In the margin of this petition was a recommendation signed "de Moirod" which began with this line, "I have had the honour, the worthy person who makes this request." "So even that imbecile de Cholin shows me the way to go about things," said Julien to himself. Eight days after the passage of the King of ---- through Verrieres, the one question which predominated over the innumerable falsehoods, foolish conjectures, and ridiculous discussions, etc., etc., which had had successively for their object the king, the Marquis de la Mole, the ten thousand bottles of wine, the fall of poor de Moirod, who, hoping to win a cross, only left his room a week after his fall, was the absolute indecency of having _foisted_ Julien Sorel, a carpenter's son, into the Guard of Honour. You should have heard on this point the rich manufacturers of printed calico, the very persons who used to bawl themselves hoarse in preaching equality, morning and evening in the cafe. That haughty woman, Madame de Renal, was of course responsible for this abomination. The reason? The fine eyes and fresh complexion of the little abbe Sorel explained everything else. A short time after their return to Vergy, Stanislas, the youngest of the children, caught the fever; Madame de Renal was suddenly attacked by an awful remorse. For the first time she reproached herself for her love with some logic. She seemed to understand as though by a miracle the enormity of the sin into which she had let herself be swept. Up to that moment, although deeply religious, she had never thought of the greatness of her crime in the eyes of God. In former times she had loved God passionately in the Convent of the Sacred Heart; in the present circumstances, she feared him with equal intensity. The struggles which lacerated her soul were all the more awful in that her fear was quite irrational. Julien found that the least argument irritated instead of soothing her. She saw in the illness the language of hell. Moreover, Julien was himself very fond of the little Stanislas. It soon assumed a serious character. Then incessant remorse deprived Madame de Renal of even her power of sleep. She ensconced herself in a gloomy silence: if she had opened her mouth, it would only have been to confess her crime to God and mankind. "I urge you," said Julien to her, as soon as they got alone, "not to speak to anyone. Let me be the sole confidant of your sufferings. If you still love me, do not speak. Your words will not be able to take away our Stanislas' fever." But his consolations produced no effect. He did not know that Madame de Renal had got it into her head that, in order to appease the wrath of a jealous God, it was necessary either to hate Julien, or let her son die. It was because she felt she could not hate her lover that she was so unhappy. "Fly from me," she said one day to Julien. "In the name of God leave this house. It is your presence here which kills my son. God punishes me," she added in a low voice. "He is just. I admire his fairness. My crime is awful, and I was living without remorse," she exclaimed. "That was the first sign of my desertion of God: I ought to be doubly punished." Julien was profoundly touched. He could see in this neither hypocrisy nor exaggeration. "She thinks that she is killing her son by loving me, and all the same the unhappy woman loves me more than her son. I cannot doubt it. It is remorse for that which is killing her. Those sentiments of hers have real greatness. But how could I have inspired such a love, I who am so poor, so badly-educated, so ignorant, and sometimes so coarse in my manners?" One night the child was extremely ill. At about two o'clock in the morning, M. de Renal came to see it. The child consumed by fever, and extremely flushed, could not recognise its father. Suddenly Madame de Renal threw herself at her husband's feet; Julien saw that she was going to confess everything and ruin herself for ever. Fortunately this extraordinary proceeding annoyed M. de Renal. "Adieu! Adieu!" he said, going away. "No, listen to me," cried his wife on her knees before him, trying to hold him back. "Hear the whole truth. It is I who am killing my son. I gave him life, and I am taking it back. Heaven is punishing me. In the eyes of God I am guilty of murder. It is necessary that I should ruin and humiliate myself. Perhaps that sacrifice will appease the the Lord." If M. de Renal had been a man of any imagination, he would then have realized everything. "Romantic nonsense," he cried, moving his wife away as she tried to embrace his knees. "All that is romantic nonsense! Julien, go and fetch the doctor at daybreak," and he went back to bed. Madame de Renal fell on her knees half-fainting, repelling Julien's help with a hysterical gesture. Julien was astonished. "So this is what adultery is," he said to himself. "Is it possible that those scoundrels of priests should be right, that they who commit so many sins themselves should have the privilege of knowing the true theory of sin? How droll!" For twenty minutes after M. de Renal had gone back to bed, Julien saw the woman he loved with her head resting on her son's little bed, motionless, and almost unconscious. "There," he said to himself, "is a woman of superior temperament brought to the depths of unhappiness simply because she has known me." "Time moves quickly. What can I do for her? I must make up my mind. I have not got simply myself to consider now. What do I care for men and their buffooneries? What can I do for her? Leave her? But I should be leaving her alone and a prey to the most awful grief. That automaton of a husband is more harm to her than good. He is so coarse that he is bound to speak harshly to her. She may go mad and throw herself out of the window." "If I leave her, if I cease to watch over her, she will confess everything, and who knows, in spite of the legacy which she is bound to bring him, he will create a scandal. She may confess everything (great God) to that scoundrel of an abbe who makes the illness of a child of six an excuse for not budging from this house, and not without a purpose either. In her grief and her fear of God, she forgets all she knows of the man; she only sees the priest." "Go away," said Madame de Renal suddenly to him, opening her eyes. "I would give my life a thousand times to know what could be of most use to you," answered Julien. "I have never loved you so much, my dear angel, or rather it is only from this last moment that I begin to adore you as you deserve to be adored. What would become of me far from you, and with the consciousness that you are unhappy owing to what I have done? But don't let my suffering come into the matter. I will go--yes, my love! But if I leave you, dear; if I cease to watch over you, to be incessantly between you and your husband, you will tell him everything. You will ruin yourself. Remember that he will hound you out of his house in disgrace. Besancon will talk of the scandal. You will be said to be absolutely in the wrong. You will never lift up your head again after that shame." "That's what I ask," she cried, standing up. "I shall suffer, so much the better." "But you will also make him unhappy through that awful scandal." "But I shall be humiliating myself, throwing myself into the mire, and by those means, perhaps, I shall save my son. Such a humiliation in the eyes of all is perhaps to be regarded as a public penitence. So far as my weak judgment goes, is it not the greatest sacrifice that I can make to God?--perhaps He will deign to accept my humiliation, and to leave me my son. Show me another sacrifice which is more painful and I will rush to it." "Let me punish myself. I too am guilty. Do you wish me to retire to the Trappist Monastery? The austerity of that life may appease your God. Oh, heaven, why cannot I take Stanislas's illness upon myself?" "Ah, do you love him then," said Madame de Renal, getting up and throwing herself in his arms. At the same time she repelled him with horror. "I believe you! I believe you! Oh, my one friend," she cried falling on her knees again. "Why are you not the father of Stanislas? In that case it would not be a terrible sin to love you more than your son." "Won't you allow me to stay and love you henceforth like a brother? It is the only rational atonement. It may appease the wrath of the Most High." "Am I," she cried, getting up and taking Julien's head between her two hands, and holding it some distance from her. "Am I to love you as if you were a brother? Is it in my power to love you like that?" Julien melted into tears. "I will obey you," he said, falling at her feet. "I will obey you in whatever you order me. That is all there is left for me to do. My mind is struck with blindness. I do not see any course to take. If I leave you you will tell your husband everything. You will ruin yourself and him as well. He will never be nominated deputy after incurring such ridicule. If I stay, you will think I am the cause of your son's death, and you will die of grief. Do you wish to try the effect of my departure. If you wish, I will punish myself for our sin by leaving you for eight days. I will pass them in any retreat you like. In the abbey of Bray-le-Haut, for instance. But swear that you will say nothing to your husband during my absence. Remember that if you speak I shall never be able to come back." She promised and he left, but was called back at the end of two days. "It is impossible for me to keep my oath without you. I shall speak to my husband if you are not constantly there to enjoin me to silence by your looks. Every hour of this abominable life seems to last a day." Finally heaven had pity on this unfortunate mother. Little by little Stanislas got out of danger. But the ice was broken. Her reason had realised the extent of her sin. She could not recover her equilibrium again. Her pangs of remorse remained, and were what they ought to have been in so sincere a heart. Her life was heaven and hell: hell when she did not see Julien; heaven when she was at his feet. "I do not deceive myself any more," she would say to him, even during the moments when she dared to surrender herself to his full love. "I am damned, irrevocably damned. You are young, heaven may forgive you, but I, I am damned. I know it by a certain sign. I am afraid, who would not be afraid at the sight of hell? but at the bottom of my heart I do not repent at all. I would commit my sin over again if I had the opportunity. If heaven will only forbear to punish me in this world and through my children, I shall have more than I deserve. But you, at any rate, my Julien," she would cry at other moments, "are you happy? Do you think I love you enough?" The suspiciousness and morbid pride of Julien, who needed, above all, a self-sacrificing love, altogether vanished when he saw at every hour of the day so great and indisputable a sacrifice. He adored Madame de Renal. "It makes no difference her being noble, and my being a labourer's son. She loves me.... she does not regard me as a valet charged with the functions of a lover." That fear once dismissed, Julien fell into all the madness of love, into all its deadly uncertainties. "At any rate," she would cry, seeing his doubts of her love, "let me feel quite happy during the three days we still have together. Let us make haste; perhaps to-morrow will be too late. If heaven strikes me through my children, it will be in vain that I shall try only to live to love you, and to be blind to the fact that it is my crime which has killed them. I could not survive that blow. Even if I wished I could not; I should go mad." "Ah, if only I could take your sin on myself as you so generously offered to take Stanislas' burning fever!" This great moral crisis changed the character of the sentiment which united Julien and his mistress. His love was no longer simply admiration for her beauty, and the pride of possessing her. Henceforth their happiness was of a quite superior character. The flame which consumed them was more intense. They had transports filled with madness. Judged by the worldly standard their happiness would have appeared intensified. But they no longer found that delicious serenity, that cloudless happiness, that facile joy of the first period of their love, when Madame de Renal's only fear was that Julien did not love her enough. Their happiness had at times the complexion of crime. In their happiest and apparently their most tranquil moments, Madame de Renal would suddenly cry out, "Oh, great God, I see hell," as she pressed Julien's hand with a convulsive grasp. "What horrible tortures! I have well deserved them." She grasped him and hung on to him like ivy onto a wall. Julien would try in vain to calm that agitated soul. She would take his hand, cover it with kisses. Then, relapsing into a gloomy reverie, she would say, "Hell itself would be a blessing for me. I should still have some days to pass with him on this earth, but hell on earth, the death of my children. Still, perhaps my crime will be forgiven me at that price. Oh, great God, do not grant me my pardon at so great a price. These poor children have in no way transgressed against You. I, I am the only culprit. I love a man who is not my husband." Julien subsequently saw Madame de Renal attain what were apparently moments of tranquillity. She was endeavouring to control herself; she did not wish to poison the life of the man she loved. They found the days pass with the rapidity of lightning amid these alternating moods of love, remorse, and voluptuousness. Julien lost the habit of reflecting. Mademoiselle Elisa went to attend to a little lawsuit which she had at Verrieres. She found Valenod very piqued against Julien. She hated the tutor and would often speak about him. "You will ruin me, Monsieur, if I tell the truth," she said one day to Valenod. "All masters have an understanding amongst themselves with regard to matters of importance. There are certain disclosures which poor servants are never forgiven." After these stereotyped phrases, which his curiosity managed to cut short, Monsieur Valenod received some information extremely mortifying to his self-conceit. This woman, who was the most distinguished in the district, the woman on whom he had lavished so much attention in the last six years, and made no secret of it, more was the pity, this woman who was so proud, whose disdain had put him to the blush times without number, had just taken for her lover a little workman masquerading as a tutor. And to fill the cup of his jealousy, Madame de Renal adored that lover. "And," added the housemaid with a sigh, "Julien did not put himself out at all to make his conquest, his manner was as cold as ever, even with Madame." Elisa had only become certain in the country, but she believed that this intrigue dated from much further back. "That is no doubt the reason," she added spitefully, "why he refused to marry me. And to think what a fool I was when I went to consult Madame de Renal and begged her to speak to the tutor." The very same evening, M. de Renal received from the town, together with his paper, a long anonymous letter which apprised him in the greatest detail of what was taking place in his house. Julien saw him pale as he read this letter written on blue paper, and look at him with a malicious expression. During all that evening the mayor failed to throw off his trouble. It was in vain that Julien paid him court by asking for explanations about the genealogy of the best families in Burgundy. CHAPTER XX ANONYMOUS LETTERS Do not give dalliance Too much the rein; the strongest oaths are straw To the fire i' the blood.--_Tempest_. As they left the drawing-room about midnight, Julien had time to say to his love, "Don't let us see each other to-night. Your husband has suspicions. I would swear that that big letter he read with a sigh was an anonymous letter." Fortunately, Julien locked himself into his room. Madame de Renal had the mad idea that this warning was only a pretext for not seeing her. She absolutely lost her head, and came to his door at the accustomed hour. Julien, who had heard the noise in the corridor, immediately blew out his lamp. Someone was trying to open the door. Was it Madame de Renal? Was it a jealous husband? Very early next morning the cook, who liked Julien, brought him a book, on the cover of which he read these words written in Italian: _Guardate alla pagina_ 130. Julien shuddered at the imprudence, looked for page 130, and found pinned to it the following letter hastily written, bathed with tears, and full of spelling mistakes. Madame de Renal was usually very correct. He was touched by this circumstance, and somewhat forgot the awfulness of the indiscretion. "So you did not want to receive me to-night? There are moments when I think that I have never read down to the depths of your soul. Your looks frighten me. I am afraid of you. Great God! perhaps you have never loved me? In that case let my husband discover my love, and shut me up in a prison in the country far away from my children. Perhaps God wills it so. I shall die soon, but you will have proved yourself a monster. "Do you not love me? Are you tired of my fits of folly and of remorse, you wicked man? Do you wish to ruin me? I will show you an easy way. Go and show this letter to all Verrieres, or rather show it to M. Valenod. Tell him that I love you, nay, do not utter such a blasphemy, tell him I adore you, that it was only on the day I saw you that my life commenced; that even in the maddest moments of my youth I never even dreamt of the happiness that I owe to you, that I have sacrificed my life to you and that I am sacrificing my soul. You know that I am sacrificing much more. But does that man know the meaning of sacrifice? Tell him, I say, simply to irritate him, that I will defy all evil tongues, that the only misfortune for me in the whole world would be to witness any change in the only man who holds me to life. What a happiness it would be to me to lose my life, to offer it up as a sacrifice and to have no longer any fear for my children. "Have no doubt about it, dear one, if it is an anonymous letter, it comes from that odious being who has persecuted me for the last six years with his loud voice, his stories about his jumps on horseback, his fatuity, and the never ending catalogue of all his advantages. "Is there an anonymous letter? I should like to discuss that question with you, you wicked man; but no, you acted rightly. Clasping you in my arms perhaps for the last time, I should never have been able to argue as coldly as I do, now that I am alone. From this moment our happiness will no longer be so easy. Will that be a vexation for you? Yes, on those days when you haven't received some amusing book from M. Fouque. The sacrifice is made; to-morrow, whether there is or whether there is not any anonymous letter, I myself will tell my husband I have received an anonymous letter and that it is necessary to give you a golden bridge at once, find some honourable excuse, and send you back to your parents without delay. "Alas, dear one, we are going to be separated for a fortnight, perhaps a month! Go, I will do you justice, you will suffer as much as I, but anyway, this is the only means of disposing of this anonymous letter. It is not the first that my husband has received, and on my score too. Alas! how I used to laugh over them! "My one aim is to make my husband think that the letter comes from M. Valenod; I have no doubt that he is its author. If you leave the house, make a point of establishing yourself at Verrieres; I will manage that my husband should think of passing a fortnight there in order to prove to the fools there was no coldness between him and me. Once at Verrieres, establish ties of friendship with everyone, even with the Liberals. I am sure that all their ladies will seek you out. "Do not quarrel with M. Valenod, or cut off his ears, as you said you would one day. Try, on the contrary, to ingratiate yourself with him. The essential point is that it should be notorious in Verrieres that you are going to enter the household either of Valenod or of someone else to take charge of the children's education. "That is what my husband will never put up with. If he does feel bound to resign himself to it, well, at any rate, you will be living in Verrieres and I shall be seeing you sometimes. My children, who love you so much, will go and see you. Great God! I feel that I love my children all the more because they love you. How is all this going to end? I am wandering.... Anyway you understand your line of conduct. Be nice, polite, but not in any way disdainful to those coarse persons. I ask you on my knees; they will be the arbiters of our fate. Do not fear for a moment but that, so far as you are concerned, my husband will conform to what public opinion lays down for him. "It is you who will supply me with the anonymous letter. Equip yourself with patience and a pair of scissors, cut out from a book the words which you will see, then stick them with the mouth-glue on to the leaf of loose paper which I am sending you. It comes to me from M. Valenod. Be on your guard against a search in your room; burn the pages of the book which you are going to mutilate. If you do not find the words ready-made, have the patience to form them letter by letter. I have made the anonymous letter too short. ANONYMOUS LETTER. 'MADAME, All your little goings-on are known, but the persons interested in stopping have been warned. I have still sufficient friendship left for you to urge you to cease all relations with the little peasant. If you are sensible enough to do this, your husband will believe that the notification he has received is misleading, and he will be left in his illusion. Remember that I have your secret; tremble, unhappy woman, you must now _walk straight_ before me.' "As soon as you have finished glueing together the words that make up this letter (have you recognised the director's special style of speech) leave the house, I will meet you. "I will go into the village and come back with a troubled face. As a matter of fact I shall be very much troubled. Great God! What a risk I run, and all because you thought you guessed an anonymous letter. Finally, looking very much upset, I shall give this letter to my husband and say that an unknown man handed it to me. As for you, go for a walk with the children, on the road to the great woods, and do not come back before dinner-time. "You will be able to see the tower of the dovecot from the top of the rocks. If things go well for us, I will place a white handkerchief there, in case of the contrary, there will be nothing at all. "Ungrateful man, will not your heart find out some means of telling me that you love me before you leave for that walk. Whatever happens, be certain of one thing: I shall never survive our final separation by a single day. Oh, you bad mother! but what is the use of my writing those two words, dear Julien? I do not feel them, at this moment I can only think of you. I have only written them so as not to be blamed by you, but what is the good of deception now that I find myself face to face with losing you? Yes, let my soul seem monstrous to you, but do not let me lie to the man whom I adore. I have already deceived only too much in this life of mine. Go! I forgive you if you love me no more. I have not the time to read over my letter. It is a small thing in my eyes to pay for the happy days that I have just passed in your arms with the price of my life. You know that they will cost me more." CHAPTER XXI DIALOGUE WITH A MASTER Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we; For such as we are made of, such we be.--_Twelfth Night_. It was with a childish pleasure that for a whole hour Julien put the words together. As he came out of his room, he met his pupils with their mother. She took the letter with a simplicity and a courage whose calmness terrified him. "Is the mouth-glue dry enough yet?" she asked him. "And is this the woman who was so maddened by remorse?" he thought. "What are her plans at this moment?" He was too proud to ask her, but she had never perhaps pleased him more. "If this turns out badly," she added with the same coolness, "I shall be deprived of everything. Take charge of this, and bury it in some place of the mountain. It will perhaps one day be my only resource." She gave him a glass case in red morocco filled with gold and some diamonds. "Now go," she said to him. She kissed the children, embracing the youngest twice. Julien remained motionless. She left him at a rapid pace without looking at him. From the moment that M. de Renal had opened the anonymous letter his life had been awful. He had not been so agitated since a duel which he had just missed having in 1816, and to do him justice, the prospect of receiving a bullet would have made him less unhappy. He scrutinised the letter from every standpoint. "Is that not a woman's handwriting?" he said to himself. In that case, what woman had written it? He reviewed all those whom he knew at Verrieres without being able to fix his suspicions on any one. Could a man have dictated that letter? Who was that man? Equal uncertainty on this point. The majority of his acquaintances were jealous of him, and, no doubt, hated him. "I must consult my wife," he said to himself through habit, as he got up from the arm-chair in which he had collapsed. "Great God!" he said aloud before he got up, striking his head, "it is she above all of whom I must be distrustful. At the present moment she is my enemy," and tears came into his eyes through sheer anger. By a poetic justice for that hardness of heart which constitutes the provincial idea of shrewdness, the two men whom M. de Renal feared the most at the present moment were his two most intimate friends. "I have ten friends perhaps after those," and he passed them in review, gauging the degree of consolation which he could get from each one. "All of them, all of them," he exclaimed in a rage, "will derive the most supreme pleasure from my awful experience." As luck would have it, he thought himself envied, and not without reason. Apart from his superb town mansion in which the king of ---- had recently spent the night, and thus conferred on it an enduring honour, he had decorated his chateau at Vergy extremely well. The facade was painted white and the windows adorned with fine green shutters. He was consoled for a moment by the thought of this magnificence. The fact was that this chateau was seen from three or four leagues off, to the great prejudice of all the country houses or so-called chateaux of the neighbourhood, which had been left in the humble grey colour given them by time. There was one of his friends on whose pity and whose tears M. de Renal could count, the churchwarden of the parish; but he was an idiot who cried at everything. This man, however, was his only resource. "What unhappiness is comparable to mine," he exclaimed with rage. "What isolation!" "Is it possible?" said this truly pitiable man to himself. "Is it possible that I have no friend in my misfortune of whom I can ask advice? for my mind is wandering, I feel it. Oh, Falcoz! oh, Ducros!" he exclaimed with bitterness. Those were the names of two friends of his childhood whom he had dropped owing to his snobbery in 1814. They were not noble, and he had wished to change the footing of equality on which they had been living with him since their childhood. One of them, Falcoz, a paper-merchant of Verrieres, and a man of intellect and spirit, had bought a printing press in the chief town of the department and undertaken the production of a journal. The priestly congregation had resolved to ruin him; his journal had been condemned, and he had been deprived of his printer's diploma. In these sad circumstances he ventured to write to M. de Renal for the first time for ten years. The mayor of Verrieres thought it his duty to answer in the old Roman style: "If the King's Minister were to do me the honour of consulting me, I should say to him, ruin ruthlessly all the provincial printers, and make printing a monopoly like tobacco." M. de Renal was horrified to remember the terms of this letter to an intimate friend whom all Verrieres had once admired, "Who would have said that I, with my rank, my fortune, my decorations, would ever come to regret it?" It was in these transports of rage, directed now against himself, now against all his surroundings, that he passed an awful night; but, fortunately, it never occurred to him to spy on his wife. "I am accustomed to Louise," he said to himself, "she knows all my affairs. If I were free to marry to-morrow, I should not find anyone to take her place." Then he began to plume himself on the idea that his wife was innocent. This point of view did not require any manifestation of character, and suited him much better. "How many calumniated women has one not seen?" "But," he suddenly exclaimed, as he walked about feverishly, "shall I put up with her making a fool of me with her lover as though I were a man of no account, some mere ragamuffin? Is all Verrieres to make merry over my complaisance? What have they not said about Charmier (he was a husband in the district who was notoriously deceived)? Was there not a smile on every lip at the mention of his name? He is a good advocate, but whoever said anything about his talent for speaking? 'Oh, Charmier,' they say, 'Bernard's Charmier,' he is thus designated by the name of the man who disgraces him." "I have no daughter, thank heaven," M. de Renal would say at other times, "and the way in which I am going to punish the mother will consequently not be so harmful to my children's household. I could surprise this little peasant with my wife and kill them both; in that case the tragedy of the situation would perhaps do away with the grotesque element." This idea appealed to him. He followed it up in all its details. "The penal code is on my side, and whatever happens our congregation and my friends on the jury will save me." He examined his hunting-knife which was quite sharp, but the idea of blood frightened him. "I could thrash this insolent tutor within an inch of his life and hound him out of the house; but what a sensation that would make in Verrieres and even over the whole department! After Falcoz' journal had been condemned, and when its chief editor left prison, I had a hand in making him lose his place of six hundred francs a year. They say that this scribbler has dared to show himself again in Besancon. He may lampoon me adroitly and in such a way that it will be impossible to bring him up before the courts. Bring him up before the courts! The insolent wretch will insinuate in a thousand and one ways that he has spoken the truth. A well-born man who keeps his place like I do, is hated by all the plebeians. I shall see my name in all those awful Paris papers. Oh, my God, what depths. To see the ancient name of Renal plunged in the mire of ridicule. If I ever travel I shall have to change my name. What! abandon that name which is my glory and my strength. Could anything be worse than that? "If I do not kill my wife but turn her out in disgrace, she has her aunt in Besancon who is going to hand all her fortune over to her. My wife will go and live in Paris with Julien. It will be known at Verrieres, and I shall be taken for a dupe." The unhappy man then noticed from the paleness of the lamplight that the dawn was beginning to appear. He went to get a little fresh air in the garden. At this moment he had almost determined to make no scandal, particularly in view of the fact that a scandal would overwhelm with joy all his good friends in Verrieres. The promenade in the garden calmed him a little. "No," he exclaimed, "I shall not deprive myself of my wife, she is too useful to me." He imagined with horror what his house would be without his wife. The only relative he had was the Marquise of R---- old, stupid, and malicious. A very sensible idea occurred to him, but its execution required a strength of character considerably superior to the small amount of character which the poor man possessed. "If I keep my wife," he said to himself, "I know what I shall do one day; on some occasion when she makes me lose patience, I shall reproach her with her guilt. She is proud, we shall quarrel, and all this will happen before she has inherited her aunt's fortune. And how they will all make fun of me then! My wife loves her children, the result will be that everything will go to them. But as for me, I shall be the laughing-stock of Verrieres. 'What,' they will say, 'he could not even manage to revenge himself on his wife!' Would it not be better to leave it and verify nothing? In that case I tie my hands, and cannot afterwards reproach her with anything." An instant afterwards M. de Renal, once more a prey to wounded vanity, set himself laboriously to recollect all the methods of procedure mentioned in the billiard-room of the _Casino_ or the _Nobles' Club_ in Verrieres, when some fine talker interrupted the pool to divert himself at the expense of some deceived husband. How cruel these pleasantries appeared to him at the present moment! "My God, why is my wife not dead! then I should be impregnable against ridicule. Why am I not a widower? I should go and pass six months in Paris in the best society. After this moment of happiness occasioned by the idea of widowerhood, his imagination reverted to the means of assuring himself of the truth. Should he put a slight layer of bran before the door of Julien's room at midnight after everyone had gone to bed? He would see the impression of the feet in the following morning. "But that's no good," he suddenly exclaimed with rage. "That inquisitive Elisa will notice it, and they will soon know all over the house that I am jealous." In another _Casino_ tale a husband had assured himself of his misfortune by tying a hair with a little wax so that it shut the door of the gallant as effectually as a seal. After so many hours of uncertainty this means of clearing up his fate seemed to him emphatically the best, and he was thinking of availing himself of it when, in one of the turnings of the avenue he met the very woman whom he would like to have seen dead. She was coming back from the village. She had gone to hear mass in the church of Vergy. A tradition, extremely doubtful in the eyes of the cold philosopher, but in which she believed, alleges that the little church was once the chapel of the chateau of the Lord of Vergy. This idea obsessed Madame de Renal all the time in the church that she had counted on spending in prayer. She kept on imagining to herself the spectacle of her husband killing Julien when out hunting as though by accident, and then making her eat his heart in the evening. "My fate," she said to herself, "depends on what he will think when he listens to me. It may be I shall never get another opportunity of speaking to him after this fatal quarter of an hour. He is not a reasonable person who is governed by his intellect. In that case, with the help of my weak intelligence, I could anticipate what he will do or say. He will decide our common fate. He has the power. But this fate depends on my adroitness, on my skill in directing the ideas of this crank, who is blinded by his rage and unable to see half of what takes place. Great God! I need talent and coolness, where shall I get it?" She regained her calmness as though by magic, and she entered the garden and saw her husband in the distance. His dishevelled hair and disordered dress showed that he had not slept. She gave him a letter with a broken seal but folded. As for him, without opening it, he gazed at his wife with the eyes of a madman. "Here's an abominable thing," she said to him, "which an evil-looking man who makes out that he knows you and is under an obligation to you, handed to me as I was passing behind the notary's garden. I insist on one thing and that is that you send back this M. Julien to his parents and without delay." Madame de Renal hastened to say these words, perhaps a little before the psychological moment, in order to free herself from the awful prospect of having to say them. She was seized with joy on seeing that which she was occasioning to her husband. She realised from the fixed stare which he was rivetting on her that Julien had surmised rightly. "What a genius he is to be so brilliantly diplomatic instead of succumbing to so real a misfortune," she thought. "He will go very far in the future! Alas, his successes will only make him forget me." This little act of admiration for the man whom she adored quite cured her of her trouble. She congratulated herself on her tactics. "I have not been unworthy of Julien," she said to herself with a sweet and secret pleasure. M. de Renal kept examining the second anonymous letter which the reader may remember was composed of printed words glued on to a paper verging on blue. He did not say a word for fear of giving himself away. "They still make fun of me in every possible way," said M. de Renal to himself, overwhelmed with exhaustion. "Still more new insults to examine and all the time on account of my wife." He was on the point of heaping on her the coarsest insults. He was barely checked by the prospects of the Besancon legacy. Consumed by the need of venting his feelings on something, he crumpled up the paper of the second anonymous letter and began to walk about with huge strides. He needed to get away from his wife. A few moments afterwards he came back to her in a quieter frame of mind. "The thing is to take some definite line and send Julien away," she said immediately, "after all it is only a labourer's son. You will compensate him by a few crowns and besides he is clever and will easily manage to find a place, with M. Valenod for example, or with the sub-prefect De Maugiron who both have children. In that way you will not be doing him any wrong...." "There you go talking like the fool that you are," exclaimed M. de Renal in a terrible voice. "How can one hope that a woman will show any good sense? You never bother yourself about common sense. How can you ever get to know anything? Your indifference and your idleness give you no energy except for hunting those miserable butterflies, which we are unfortunate to have in our houses." Madame de Renal let him speak and he spoke for a long time. _He was working off his anger_, to use the local expression. "Monsieur," she answered him at last, "I speak as a woman who has been outraged in her honour, that is to say, in what she holds most precious." Madame de Renal preserved an unalterable sang-froid during all this painful conversation on the result of which depended the possibility of still living under the same roof as Julien. She sought for the ideas which she thought most adapted to guide her husband's blind anger into a safe channel. She had been insensible to all the insulting imputations which he had addressed to her. She was not listening to them, she was then thinking about Julien. "Will he be pleased with me?" "This little peasant whom we have loaded with attentions, and even with presents, may be innocent," she said to him at last, "but he is none the less the occasion of the first affront that I have ever received. Monsieur, when I read this abominable paper, I vowed to myself that either he or I should leave your house." "Do you want to make a scandal so as to dishonour me and yourself as well? You will make things hum in Verrieres I can assure you." "It is true, the degree of prosperity in which your prudent management has succeeded in placing you yourself, your family and the town is the subject of general envy.... Well, I will urge Julien to ask you for a holiday to go and spend the month with that wood-merchant of the mountains, a fit friend to be sure for this little labourer." "Mind you do nothing at all," resumed M. de Renal with a fair amount of tranquillity. "I particularly insist on your not speaking to him. You will put him into a temper and make him quarrel with me. You know to what extent this little gentleman is always spoiling for a quarrel." "That young man has no tact," resumed Madame de Renal. "He may be learned, you know all about that, but at bottom he is only a peasant. For my own part I never thought much of him since he refused to marry Elisa. It was an assured fortune; and that on the pretext that sometimes she had made secret visits to M. Valenod." "Ah," said M. de Renal, lifting up his eyebrows inordinately. "What, did Julien tell you that?" "Not exactly, he always talked of the vocation which calls him to the holy ministry, but believe me, the first vocation for those lower-class people is getting their bread and butter. He gave me to understand that he was quite aware of her secret visits." "And I--I was ignorant," exclaimed M. de Renal, growing as angry as before and accentuating his words. "Things take place in my house which I know nothing about.... What! has there been anything between Elisa and Valenod?" "Oh, that's old history, my dear," said Madame de Renal with a smile, "and perhaps no harm has come of it. It was at the time when your good friend Valenod would not have minded their thinking at Verrieres that a perfectly platonic little affection was growing up between him and me." "I had that idea once myself," exclaimed M. de Renal, furiously striking his head as he progressed from discovery to discovery, "and you told me nothing about it." "Should one set two friends by the ears on account of a little fit of vanity on the part of our dear director? What society woman has not had addressed to her a few letters which were both extremely witty and even a little gallant?" "He has written to you?" "He writes a great deal." "Show me those letters at once, I order you," and M. de Renal pulled himself up to his six feet. "I will do nothing of the kind," he was answered with a sweetness verging on indifference. "I will show you them one day when you are in a better frame of mind." "This very instant, odds life," exclaimed M. de Renal, transported with rage and yet happier than he had been for twelve hours. "Will you swear to me," said Madame de Renal quite gravely, "never to quarrel with the director of the workhouse about these letters?" "Quarrel or no quarrel, I can take those foundlings away from him, but," he continued furiously, "I want those letters at once. Where are they?" "In a drawer in my secretary, but I shall certainly not give you the key." "I'll manage to break it," he cried, running towards his wife's room. He did break in fact with a bar of iron a costly secretary of veined mahogany which came from Paris and which he had often been accustomed to wipe with the nap of his coat, when he thought he had detected a spot. Madame de Renal had climbed up at a run the hundred and twenty steps of the dovecot. She tied the corner of a white handkerchief to one of the bars of iron of the little window. She was the happiest of women. With tears in her eyes she looked towards the great mountain forest. "Doubtless," she said to herself, "Julien is watching for this happy signal." She listened attentively for a long time and then she cursed the monotonous noise of the grasshopper and the song of the birds. "Had it not been for that importunate noise, a cry of joy starting from the big rocks could have arrived here." Her greedy eye devoured that immense slope of dark verdure which was as level as a meadow. "Why isn't he clever enough," she said to herself, quite overcome, "to invent some signal to tell me that his happiness is equal to mine?" She only came down from the dovecot when she was frightened of her husband coming there to look for her. She found him furious. He was perusing the soothing phrases of M. de Valenod and reading them with an emotion to which they were but little used. "I always come back to the same idea," said Madame de Renal seizing a moment when a pause in her husband's ejaculations gave her the possibility of getting heard. "It is necessary for Julien to travel. Whatever talent he may have for Latin, he is only a peasant after all, often coarse and lacking in tact. Thinking to be polite, he addresses inflated compliments to me every day, which are in bad taste. He learns them by heart out of some novel or other." "He never reads one," exclaimed M. de Renal. "I am assured of it. Do you think that I am the master of a house who is so blind as to be ignorant of what takes place in his own home." "Well, if he doesn't read these droll compliments anywhere, he invents them, and that's all the worse so far as he is concerned. He must have talked about me in this tone in Verrieres and perhaps without going so far," said Madame Renal with the idea of making a discovery, "he may have talked in the same strain to Elisa, which is almost the same as if he had said it to M. Valenod." "Ah," exclaimed M. de Renal, shaking the table and the room with one of the most violent raps ever made by a human fist. "The anonymous printed letter and Valenod's letters are written on the same paper." "At last," thought Madame de Renal. She pretended to be overwhelmed at this discovery, and without having the courage to add a single word, went and sat down some way off on the divan at the bottom of the drawing-room. From this point the battle was won. She had a great deal of trouble in preventing M. de Renal from going to speak to the supposed author of the anonymous letter. "What, can't you see that making a scene with M. Valenod without sufficient proof would be the most signal mistake? You are envied, Monsieur, and who is responsible? Your talents: your wise management, your tasteful buildings, the dowry which I have brought you, and above all, the substantial legacy which we are entitled to hope for from my good aunt, a legacy, the importance of which is inordinately exaggerated, have made you into the first person in Verrieres." "You are forgetting my birth," said M. de Renal, smiling a little. "You are one of the most distinguished gentlemen in the province," replied Madame de Renal emphatically. "If the king were free and could give birth its proper due, you would no doubt figure in the Chamber of Peers, etc. And being in this magnificent position, you yet wish to give the envious a fact to take hold of." "To speak about this anonymous letter to M. Valenod is equivalent to proclaiming over the whole of Verrieres, nay, over the whole of Besancon, over the whole province that this little bourgeois who has been admitted perhaps imprudently to intimacy _with a Renal_, has managed to offend him. At the time when those letters which you have just taken prove that I have reciprocated M. Valenod's love, you ought to kill me. I should have deserved it a hundred times over, but not to show him your anger. Remember that all our neighbours are only waiting for an excuse to revenge themselves for your superiority. Remember that in 1816 you had a hand in certain arrests. "I think that you show neither consideration nor love for me," exclaimed M. de Renal with all the bitterness evoked by such a memory, "and I was not made a peer." "I am thinking, my dear," resumed Madame de Renal with a smile, "that I shall be richer than you are, that I have been your companion for twelve years, and that by virtue of those qualifications I am entitled to have a voice in the council and, above all, in to-day's business. If you prefer M. Julien to me," she added, with a touch of temper which was but thinly disguised, "I am ready to go and pass a winter with my aunt." These words proved a lucky shot. They possessed a firmness which endeavoured to clothe itself with courtesy. It decided M. de Renal, but following the provincial custom, he still thought for a long time, and went again over all his arguments; his wife let him speak. There was still a touch of anger in his intonation. Finally two hours of futile rant exhausted the strength of a man who had been subject during the whole night to a continuous fit of anger. He determined on the line of conduct he was going to follow with regard to M. Valenod, Julien and even Elisa. Madame de Renal was on the point once or twice during this great scene of feeling some sympathy for the very real unhappiness of the man who had been so dear to her for twelve years. But true passions are selfish. Besides she was expecting him every instant to mention the anonymous letter which he had received the day before and he did not mention it. In order to feel quite safe, Madame de Renal wanted to know the ideas which the letter had succeeding in suggesting to the man on whom her fate depended, for, in the provinces the husbands are the masters of public opinion. A husband who complains covers himself with ridicule, an inconvenience which becomes no less dangerous in France with each succeeding year; but if he refuses to provide his wife with money, she falls to the status of a labouring woman at fifteen sous a day, while the virtuous souls have scruples about employing her. An odalisque in the seraglio can love the Sultan with all her might. He is all-powerful and she has no hope of stealing his authority by a series of little subtleties. The master's vengeance is terrible and bloody but martial and generous; a dagger thrust finishes everything. But it is by stabbing her with public contempt that a nineteenth-century husband kills his wife. It is by shutting against her the doors of all the drawing-rooms. When Madame de Renal returned to her room, her feeling of danger was vividly awakened. She was shocked by the disorder in which she found it. The locks of all the pretty little boxes had been broken. Many planks in the floor had been lifted up. "He would have no pity on me," she said to herself. "To think of his spoiling like this, this coloured wood floor which he likes so much; he gets red with rage whenever one of his children comes into it with wet shoes, and now it is spoilt for ever." The spectacle of this violence immediately banished the last scruples which she was entertaining with respect to that victory which she had won only too rapidly. Julien came back with the children a little before the dinner-bell. Madame de Renal said to him very drily at dessert when the servant had left the room: "You have told me about your wish to go and spend a fortnight at Verrieres. M. de Renal is kind enough to give you a holiday. You can leave as soon as you like, but the childrens' exercises will be sent to you every day so that they do not waste their time." "I shall certainly not allow you more than a week," said M. de Renal in a very bitter tone. Julien thought his visage betrayed the anxiety of a man who was seriously harassed. "He has not yet decided what line to take," he said to his love during a moment when they were alone together in the drawing-room. Madame de Renal rapidly recounted to him all she had done since the morning. "The details are for to-night," she added with a smile. "Feminine perversity," thought Julien, "What can be the pleasure, what can be the instinct which induces them to deceive us." "I think you are both enlightened and at the same time blinded by your love," he said to her with some coldness. "Your conduct to-day has been admirable, but is it prudent for us to try and see each other to-night? This house is paved with enemies. Just think of Elisa's passionate hatred for me." "That hate is very like the passionate indifference which you no doubt have for me." "Even if I were indifferent I ought to save you from the peril in which I have plunged you. If chance so wills it that M. de Renal should speak to Elisa, she can acquaint him with everything in a single word. What is to prevent him from hiding near my room fully armed?" "What, not even courage?" said Madame de Renal, with all the haughtiness of a scion of nobility. "I will never demean myself to speak about my courage," said Julien, coldly, "it would be mean to do so. Let the world judge by the facts. But," he added, taking her hand, "you have no idea how devoted I am to you and how over-joyed I am of being able to say good-bye to you before this cruel separation." CHAPTER XXII MANNERS OF PROCEDURE IN 1830 Speech has been given to man to conceal his thought. _R.P. Malagrida_. Julien had scarcely arrived at Verrieres before he reproached himself with his injustice towards Madame de Renal. "I should have despised her for a weakling of a woman if she had not had the strength to go through with her scene with M. de Renal. But she has acquitted herself like a diplomatist and I sympathise with the defeat of the man who is my enemy. There is a bourgeois prejudice in my action; my vanity is offended because M. de Renal is a man. Men form a vast and illustrious body to which I have the honour to belong. I am nothing but a fool." M. Chelan had refused the magnificent apartments which the most important Liberals in the district had offered him, when his loss of his living had necessitated his leaving the parsonage. The two rooms which he had rented were littered with his books. Julien, wishing to show Verrieres what a priest could do, went and fetched a dozen pinewood planks from his father, carried them on his back all along the Grande-Rue, borrowed some tools from an old comrade and soon built a kind of book-case in which he arranged M. Chelan's books. "I thought you were corrupted by the vanity of the world," said the old man to him as he cried with joy, "but this is something which well redeems all the childishness of that brilliant Guard of Honour uniform which has made you so many enemies." M. de Renal had ordered Julien to stay at his house. No one suspected what had taken place. The third day after his arrival Julien saw no less a personage than M. the sub-prefect de Maugiron come all the way up the stairs to his room. It was only after two long hours of fatuous gossip and long-winded lamentations about the wickedness of man, the lack of honesty among the people entrusted with the administration of the public funds, the dangers of his poor France, etc. etc., that Julien was at last vouchsafed a glimpse of the object of the visit. They were already on the landing of the staircase and the poor half disgraced tutor was escorting with all proper deference the future prefect of some prosperous department, when the latter was pleased to take an interest in Julien's fortune, to praise his moderation in money matters, etc., etc. Finally M. de Maugiron, embracing him in the most paternal way, proposed that he should leave M. de Renal and enter the household of an official who had children to educate and who, like King Philippe, thanked Heaven not so much that they had been granted to him, but for the fact that they had been born in the same neighbourhood as M. Julien. Their tutor would enjoy a salary of 800 francs, payable not from month to month, which is not at all aristocratic, said M. de Maugiron, but quarterly and always in advance. It was Julien's turn now. After he had been bored for an hour and a half by waiting for what he had to say, his answer was perfect and, above all, as long as a bishop's charge. It suggested everything and yet said nothing clearly. It showed at the same time respect for M. de Renal, veneration for the public of Verrieres and gratitude to the distinguished sub-prefect. The sub-prefect, astonished at finding him more Jesuitical than himself, tried in vain to obtain something definite. Julien was delighted, seized the opportunity to practise, and started his answer all over again in different language. Never has an eloquent minister who wished to make the most of the end of a session when the Chamber really seemed desirous of waking up, said less in more words. M. de Maugiron had scarcely left before Julien began to laugh like a madman. In order to exploit his Jesuitical smartness, he wrote a nine-page letter to M. de Renal in which he gave him an account of all that had been said to him and humbly asked his advice. "But the old scoundrel has not told me the name of the person who is making the offer. It is bound to be M. Valenod who, no doubt, sees in my exile at Verrieres the result of his anonymous letter." Having sent off his despatch and feeling as satisfied as a hunter who at six o'clock in the morning on a fine autumn day, comes out into a plain that abounds with game, he went out to go and ask advice of M. Chelan. But before he had arrived at the good cure's, providence, wishing to shower favours upon him, threw in his path M. de Valenod, to whom he owned quite freely that his heart was torn in two; a poor lad such as he was owed an exclusive devotion to the vocation to which it had pleased Heaven to call him. But vocation was not everything in this base world. In order to work worthily at the vine of the Lord, and to be not totally unworthy of so many worthy colleagues, it was necessary to be educated; it was necessary to spend two expensive years at the seminary of Besancon; saving consequently became an imperative necessity, and was certainly much easier with a salary of eight hundred francs paid quarterly than with six hundred francs which one received monthly. On the other hand, did not Heaven, by placing him by the side of the young de Renals, and especially by inspiring him with a special devotion to them, seem to indicate that it was not proper to abandon that education for another one. Julien reached such a degree of perfection in that particular kind of eloquence which has succeeded the drastic quickness of the empire, that he finished by boring himself with the sound of his own words. On reaching home he found a valet of M. Valenod in full livery who had been looking for him all over the town, with a card inviting him to dinner for that same day. Julien had never been in that man's house. Only a few days before he had been thinking of nothing but the means of giving him a sound thrashing without getting into trouble with the police. Although the time of the dinner was one o'clock, Julien thought it was more deferential to present himself at half-past twelve at the office of M. the director of the workhouse. He found him parading his importance in the middle of a lot of despatch boxes. His large black whiskers, his enormous quantity of hair, his Greek bonnet placed across the top of his head, his immense pipe, his embroidered slippers, the big chains of gold crossed all over his breast, and the whole stock-in-trade of a provincial financier who considers himself prosperous, failed to impose on Julien in the least: They only made him think the more of the thrashing which he owed him. He asked for the honour of being introduced to Madame Valenod. She was dressing and was unable to receive him. By way of compensation he had the privilege of witnessing the toilet of M. the director of the workhouse. They subsequently went into the apartment of Madame Valenod, who introduced her children to him with tears in her eyes. This lady was one of the most important in Verrieres, had a big face like a man's, on which she had put rouge in honour of this great function. She displayed all the maternal pathos of which she was capable. Julien thought all the time of Madame de Renal. His distrust made him only susceptible to those associations which are called up by their opposites, but he was then affected to the verge of breaking down. This tendency was increased by the sight of the house of the director of the workhouse. He was shown over it. Everything in it was new and magnificent, and he was told the price of every article of furniture. But Julien detected a certain element of sordidness, which smacked of stolen money into the bargain. Everybody in it, down to the servants, had the air of setting his face in advance against contempt. The collector of taxes, the superintendent of indirect taxes, the officer of gendarmerie, and two or three other public officials arrived with their wives. They were followed by some rich Liberals. Dinner was announced. It occurred to Julien, who was already feeling upset, that there were some poor prisoners on the other side of the dining-room wall, and that an illicit profit had perhaps been made over their rations of meat in order to purchase all that garish luxury with which they were trying to overwhelm him. "Perhaps they are hungry at this very minute," he said to himself. He felt a choking in his throat. He found it impossible to eat and almost impossible to speak. Matters became much worse a quarter of an hour afterwards; they heard in the distance some refrains of a popular song that was, it must be confessed, a little vulgar, which was being sung by one of the inmates. M. Valenod gave a look to one of his liveried servants who disappeared and soon there was no more singing to be heard. At that moment a valet offered Julien some Rhine wine in a green glass and Madame Valenod made a point of asking him to note that this wine cost nine francs a bottle in the market. Julien held up his green glass and said to M. Valenod, "They are not singing that wretched song any more." "Zounds, I should think not," answered the triumphant governor. "I have made the rascals keep quiet." These words were too much for Julien. He had the manners of his new position, but he had not yet assimilated its spirit. In spite of all his hypocrisy and its frequent practice, he felt a big tear drip down his cheek. He tried to hide it in the green glass, but he found it absolutely impossible to do justice to the Rhine wine. "Preventing singing he said to himself: Oh, my God, and you suffer it." Fortunately nobody noticed his ill-bred emotion. The collector of taxes had struck up a royalist song. "So this," reflected Julien's conscience during the hubbub of the refrain which was sung in chorus, "is the sordid prosperity which you will eventually reach, and you will only enjoy it under these conditions and in company like this. You will, perhaps, have a post worth twenty thousand francs; but while you gorge yourself on meat, you will have to prevent a poor prisoner from singing; you will give dinners with the money which you have stolen out of his miserable rations and during your dinners he will be still more wretched. Oh, Napoleon, how sweet it was to climb to fortune in your way through the dangers of a battle, but to think of aggravating the pain of the unfortunate in this cowardly way." I own that the weakness which Julien had been manifesting in this soliloquy gives me a poor opinion of him. He is worthy of being the accomplice of those kid-gloved conspirators who purport to change the whole essence of a great country's existence, without wishing to have on their conscience the most trivial scratch. Julien was sharply brought back to his role. He had not been invited to dine in such good company simply to moon dreamily and say nothing. A retired manufacturer of cotton prints, a corresponding member of the Academy of Besancon and of that of Uzes, spoke to him from the other end of the table and asked him if what was said everywhere about his astonishing progress in the study of the New Testament was really true. A profound silence was suddenly inaugurated. A New Testament in Latin was found as though by magic in the possession of the learned member of the two Academies. After Julien had answered, part of a sentence in Latin was read at random. Julien then recited. His memory proved faithful and the prodigy was admired with all the boisterous energy of the end of dinner. Julien looked at the flushed faces of the ladies. A good many were not so plain. He recognised the wife of the collector, who was a fine singer. "I am ashamed, as a matter of fact, to talk Latin so long before these ladies," he said, turning his eyes on her. "If M. Rubigneau," that was the name of the member of the two Academies, "will be kind enough to read a Latin sentence at random instead of answering by following the Latin text, I will try to translate it impromptu." This second test completed his glory. Several Liberals were there, who, though rich, were none the less the happy fathers of children capable of obtaining scholarships, and had consequently been suddenly converted at the last mission. In spite of this diplomatic step, M. de Renal had never been willing to receive them in his house. These worthy people, who only knew Julien by name and from having seen him on horseback on the day of the king of ----'s entry, were his most noisy admirers. "When will those fools get tired of listening to this Biblical language, which they don't understand in the least," he thought. But, on the contrary, that language amused them by its strangeness and made them smile. But Julien got tired. As six o'clock struck he got up gravely and talked about a chapter in Ligorio's New Theology which he had to learn by heart to recite on the following day to M. Chelan, "for," he added pleasantly, "my business is to get lessons said by heart to me, and to say them by heart myself." There was much laughter and admiration; such is the kind of wit which is customary in Verrieres. Julien had already got up and in spite of etiquette everybody got up as well, so great is the dominion exercised by genius. Madame Valenod kept him for another quarter of an hour. He really must hear her children recite their catechisms. They made the most absurd mistakes which he alone noticed. He was careful not to point them out. "What ignorance of the first principles of religion," he thought. Finally he bowed and thought he could get away; but they insisted on his trying a fable of La Fontaine. "That author is quite immoral," said Julien to Madame Valenod. A certain fable on Messire Jean Chouart dares to pour ridicule on all that we hold most venerable. He is shrewdly blamed by the best commentators. Before Julien left he received four or five invitations to dinner. "This young man is an honour to the department," cried all the guests in chorus. They even went so far as to talk of a pension voted out of the municipal funds to put him in the position of continuing his studies at Paris. While this rash idea was resounding through the dining-room Julien had swiftly reached the front door. "You scum, you scum," he cried, three or four times in succession in a low voice as he indulged in the pleasure of breathing in the fresh air. He felt quite an aristocrat at this moment, though he was the very man who had been shocked for so long a period by the haughty smile of disdainful superiority which he detected behind all the courtesies addressed to him at M. de Renal's. He could not help realising the extreme difference. Why let us even forget the fact of its being money stolen from the poor inmates, he said to himself as he went away, let us forget also their stopping the singing. M. de Renal would never think of telling his guests the price of each bottle of wine with which he regales them, and as for this M. Valenod, and his chronic cataloguing of his various belongings, he cannot talk of his house, his estate, etc., in the presence of his wife without saying, "Your house, your estate." This lady, who was apparently so keenly alive to the delights of decorum, had just had an awful scene during the dinner with a servant who had broken a wine-glass and spoilt one of her dozens; and the servant too had answered her back with the utmost insolence. "What a collection," said Julien to himself; "I would not live like they do were they to give me half of all they steal. I shall give myself away one fine day. I should not be able to restrain myself from expressing the disgust with which they inspire one." It was necessary, however, to obey Madame de Renal's injunction and be present at several dinners of the same kind. Julien was the fashion; he was forgiven his Guard of Honour uniform, or rather that indiscretion was the real cause of his successes. Soon the only question in Verrieres was whether M. de Renal or M. the director of the workhouse would be the victor in the struggle for the clever young man. These gentlemen formed, together with M. Maslon, a triumvirate which had tyrannised over the town for a number of years. People were jealous of the mayor, and the Liberals had good cause for complaint, but, after all, he was noble and born for a superior position, while M. Valenod's father had not left him six hundred francs a year. His career had necessitated a transition from pitying the shabby green suit which had been so notorious in his youth, to envying the Norman horses, his gold chains, his Paris clothes, his whole present prosperity. Julien thought that he had discovered one honest man in the whirlpool of this novel world. He was a geometrist named Gros, and had the reputation of being a Jacobin. Julien, who had vowed to say nothing but that which he disbelieved himself, was obliged to watch himself carefully when speaking to M. Gros. He received big packets of exercises from Vergy. He was advised to visit his father frequently, and he fulfilled his unpleasant duty. In a word he was patching his reputation together pretty well, when he was thoroughly surprised to find himself woken up one morning by two hands held over his eyes. It was Madame de Renal who had made a trip to the town, and who, running up the stairs four at a time while she left her children playing with a pet rabbit, had reached Julien's room a moment before her sons. This moment was delicious but very short: Madame de Renal had disappeared when the children arrived with the rabbit which they wanted to show to their friend. Julien gave them all a hearty welcome, including the rabbit. He seemed at home again. He felt that he loved these children and that he enjoyed gossiping with them. He was astonished at the sweetness of their voices, at the simplicity and dignity of their little ways; he felt he needed to purge his imagination of all the vulgar practices and all the unpleasantnesses among which he had been living in Verrieres. For there everyone was always frightened of being scored off, and luxury and poverty were at daggers drawn. The people with whom he would dine would enter into confidences over the joint which were as humiliating for themselves as they were nauseating to the hearer. "You others, who are nobles, you are right to be proud," he said to Madame de Renal, as he gave her an account of all the dinners which he had put up with. "You're the fashion then," and she laughed heartily as she thought of the rouge which Madame Valenod thought herself obliged to put on each time she expected Julien. "I think she has designs on your heart," she added. The breakfast was delicious. The presence of the children, though apparently embarrassing, increased as a matter of fact the happiness of the party. The poor children did not know how to give expression to the joy at seeing Julien again. The servants had not failed to tell them that he had been offered two hundred francs a year more to educate the little Valenods. Stanislas-Xavier, who was still pale from his illness, suddenly asked his mother in the middle of the breakfast, the value of his silver cover and of the goblet in which he was drinking. "Why do you want to know that?" "I want to sell them to give the price to M. Julien so that he shan't be _done_ if he stays with us." Julien kissed him with tears in his eyes. His mother wept unrestrainedly, for Julien took Stanislas on his knees and explained to him that he should not use the word "done" which, when employed in that meaning was an expression only fit for the servants' hall. Seeing the pleasure which he was giving to Madame de Renal, he tried to explain the meaning of being "done" by picturesque illustrations which amused the children. "I understand," said Stanislas, "it's like the crow who is silly enough to let his cheese fall and be taken by the fox who has been playing the flatterer." Madame de Renal felt mad with joy and covered her children with kisses, a process which involved her leaning a little on Julien. Suddenly the door opened. It was M. de Renal. His severe and discontented expression contrasted strangely with the sweet joy which his presence dissipated. Madame de Renal grew pale, she felt herself incapable of denying anything. Julien seized command of the conversation and commenced telling M. the mayor in a loud voice the incident of the silver goblet which Stanislas wanted to sell. He was quite certain this story would not be appreciated. M. de Renal first of all frowned mechanically at the mere mention of money. Any allusion to that mineral, he was accustomed to say, is always a prelude to some demand made upon my purse. But this was something more than a mere money matter. His suspicions were increased. The air of happiness which animated his family during his absence was not calculated to smooth matters over with a man who was a prey to so touchy a vanity. "Yes, yes," he said, as his wife started to praise to him the combined grace and cleverness of the way in which Julien gave ideas to his pupils. "I know, he renders me hateful to my own children. It is easy enough for him to make himself a hundred times more loveable to them than I am myself, though after all, I am the master. In this century everything tends to make _legitimate_ authority unpopular. Poor France!" Madame de Renal had not stopped to examine the fine shades of the welcome which her husband gave her. She had just caught a glimpse of the possibility of spending twelve hours with Julien. She had a lot of purchases to make in the town and declared that she positively insisted in going to dine at the tavern. She stuck to her idea in spite of all her husband's protests and remonstrances. The children were delighted with the mere word tavern, which our modern prudery denounces with so much gusto. M. de Renal left his wife in the first draper's shop which she entered and went to pay some visits. He came back more morose than he had been in the morning. He was convinced that the whole town was busy with himself and Julien. As a matter of fact no one had yet given him any inkling as to the more offensive part of the public gossip. Those items which had been repeated to M. the mayor dealt exclusively with the question of whether Julien would remain with him with six hundred francs, or would accept the eight hundred francs offered by M. the director of the workhouse. The director, when he met M. de Renal in society, gave him the cold shoulder. These tactics were not without cleverness. There is no impulsiveness in the provinces. Sensations are so rare there that they are never allowed to be wasted. M. le Valenod was what is called a hundred miles from Paris a _faraud_; that means a coarse imprudent type of man. His triumphant existence since 1815 had consolidated his natural qualities. He reigned, so to say, in Verrieres subject to the orders of M. de Renal; but as he was much more energetic, was ashamed of nothing, had a finger in everything, and was always going about writing and speaking, and was oblivious of all snubs, he had, although without any personal pretensions, eventually come to equal the mayor in reputation in the eyes of the ecclesiastical authorities. M. Valenod had, as it were, said to the local tradesmen "Give me the two biggest fools among your number;" to the men of law "Show me the two greatest dunces;" to the sanitary officials "Point out to me the two biggest charlatans." When he had thus collected the most impudent members of each separate calling, he had practically said to them, "Let us reign together." The manners of those people were offensive to M. de Renal. The coarseness of Valenod took offence at nothing, not even the frequency with which the little abbe Maslon would give the lie to him in public. But in the middle of all this prosperity M. Valenod found it necessary to reassure himself by a number of petty acts of insolence on the score of the crude truths which he well realised that everybody was justified in addressing to him. His activity had redoubled since the fears which the visit of M. Appert had left him. He had made three journeys to Besancon. He wrote several letters by each courier; he sent others by unknown men who came to his house at nightfall. Perhaps he had been wrong in securing the dismissal of the old cure Chelan. For this piece of vindictiveness had resulted in his being considered an extremely malicious man by several pious women of good birth. Besides, the rendering of this service had placed him in absolute dependence on M. the Grand Vicar de Frilair from whom he received some strange commissions. He had reached this point in his intrigues when he had yielded to the pleasure of writing an anonymous letter, and thus increasing his embarrassment. His wife declared to him that she wanted to have Julien in her house; her vanity was intoxicated with the idea. Such being his position M. Valenod imagined in advance a decisive scene with his old colleague M. de Renal. The latter might address to him some harsh words, which he would not mind much; but he might write to Besancon and even to Paris. Some minister's cousin might suddenly fall down on Verrieres and take over the workhouse. Valenod thought of coming to terms with the Liberals. It was for that purpose that several of them had been invited to the dinner when Julien was present. He would have obtained powerful support against the mayor but the elections might supervene, and it was only too evident that the directorship of the workhouse was inconsistent with voting on the wrong side. Madame de Renal had made a shrewd guess at this intrigue, and while she explained it to Julien as he gave her his arm to pass from one shop to another, they found themselves gradually taken as far as the _Cours de la Fidelite_ where they spent several hours nearly as tranquil as those at Vergy. At the same time M. Valenod was trying to put off a definite crisis with his old patron by himself assuming the aggressive. These tactics succeeded on this particular day, but aggravated the mayor's bad temper. Never has vanity at close grips with all the harshness and meanness of a pettifogging love of money reduced a man to a more sorry condition than that of M. de Renal when he entered the tavern. The children, on the other hand, had never been more joyful and more merry. This contrast put the finishing touch on his pique. "So far as I can see I am not wanted in my family," he said as he entered in a tone which he meant to be impressive. For answer, his wife took him on one side and declared that it was essential to send Julien away. The hours of happiness which she had just enjoyed had given her again the ease and firmness of demeanour necessary to follow out the plan of campaign which she had been hatching for a fortnight. The finishing touch to the trouble of the poor mayor of Verrieres was the fact that he knew that they joked publicly in the town about his love for cash. Valenod was as generous as a thief, and on his side had acquitted himself brilliantly in the last five or six collections for the Brotherhood of St. Joseph, the congregation of the Virgin, the congregation of the Holy Sacrament, etc., etc. M. de Renal's name had been seen more than once at the bottom of the list of gentlefolk of Verrieres, and the surrounding neighbourhood who were adroitly classified in the list of the collecting brethren according to the amount of their offerings. It was in vain that he said that he was _not making money_. The clergy stands no nonsense in such matters. CHAPTER XXIII SORROWS OF AN OFFICIAL Il piacere di alzar la testa tutto l'anno, e ben pagato da certi quarti d'ora che bisogna passar.--_Casti_. Let us leave this petty man to his petty fears; why did he take a man of spirit into his household when he needed someone with the soul of a valet? Why can't he select his staff? The ordinary trend of the nineteenth century is that when a noble and powerful individual encounters a man of spirit, he kills him, exiles him and imprisons him, or so humiliates him that the other is foolish enough to die of grief. In this country it so happens that it is not merely the man of spirit who suffers. The great misfortunes of the little towns of France and of representative governments, like that of New York, is that they find it impossible to forget the existence of individuals like M. de Renal. It is these men who make public opinion in a town of twenty thousand inhabitants, and public opinion is terrible in a country which has a charter of liberty. A man, though of a naturally noble and generous disposition, who would have been your friend in the natural course of events, but who happens to live a hundred leagues off, judges you by the public opinion of your town which is made by those fools who have chanced to be born noble, rich and conservative. Unhappy is the man who distinguishes himself. Immediately after dinner they left for Vergy, but the next day but one Julien saw the whole family return to Verrieres. An hour had not passed before he discovered to his great surprise that Madame de Renal had some mystery up her sleeve. Whenever he came into the room she would break off her conversation with her husband and would almost seem to desire that he should go away. Julien did not need to be given this hint twice. He became cold and reserved. Madame de Renal noticed it and did not ask for an explanation. "Is she going to give me a successor," thought Julien. "And to think of her being so familiar with me the day before yesterday, but that is how these great ladies are said to act. It's just like kings. One never gets any more warning than the disgraced minister who enters his house to find his letter of dismissal." Julien noticed that these conversations which left off so abruptly at his approach, often dealt with a big house which belonged to the municipality of Verrieres, a house which though old was large and commodious and situated opposite the church in the most busy commercial district of the town. "What connection can there be between this house and a new lover," said Julien to himself. In his chagrin he repeated to himself the pretty verses of Francis I. which seemed novel to him, for Madame de Renal had only taught him them a month before: Souvent femme varie Bien fol est qui s'y fie. M. de Renal took the mail to Besancon. This journey was a matter of two hours. He seemed extremely harassed. On his return he threw a big grey paper parcel on the table. "Here's that silly business," he said to his wife. An hour afterwards Julien saw the bill-poster carrying the big parcel. He followed him eagerly. "I shall learn the secret at the first street corner." He waited impatiently behind the bill-poster who was smearing the back of the poster with his big brush. It had scarcely been put in its place before Julien's curiosity saw the detailed announcement of the putting up for public auction of that big old house whose name had figured so frequently in M. de Renal's conversations with his wife. The auction of the lease was announced for to-morrow at two o'clock in the Town Hall after the extinction of the third fire. Julien was very disappointed. He found the time a little short. How could there be time to apprise all the other would-be purchasers. But, moreover, the bill, which was dated a fortnight back, and which he read again in its entirety in three distinct places, taught him nothing. He went to visit the house which was to let. The porter, who had not seen him approach, was saying mysteriously to a neighbour: "Pooh, pooh, waste of time. M. Maslon has promised him that he shall have it for three hundred francs; and, as the mayor kicked, he has been summoned to the bishop's palace by M. the Grand Vicar de Frilair." Julien's arrival seemed very much to disconcert the two friends who did not say another word. Julien made a point of being present at the auction of the lease. There was a crowd in the badly-lighted hall, but everybody kept quizzing each other in quite a singular way. All eyes were fixed on a table where Julien perceived three little lighted candle-ends on a tin plate. The usher was crying out "Three hundred francs, gentlemen." "Three hundred francs, that's a bit too thick," said a man to his neighbour in a low voice. Julien was between the two of them. "It's worth more than eight hundred, I will raise the bidding." "It's cutting off your nose to spite your face. What will you gain by putting M. Maslon, M. Valenod, the Bishop, this terrible Grand Vicar de Frilair and the whole gang on your track." "Three hundred and twenty francs," shouted out the other. "Damned brute," answered his neighbour. "Why here we have a spy of the mayor," he added, designating Julien. Julien turned sharply round to punish this remark, but the two, Franc-comtois, were no longer paying any attention to him. Their coolness gave him back his own. At that moment the last candle-end went out and the usher's drawling voice awarded the house to M. de St. Giraud of the office of the prefecture of ---- for a term of nine years and for a rent of 320 francs. As soon as the mayor had left the hall, the gossip began again. "Here's thirty francs that Grogeot's recklessness is landing the municipality in for," said one--"But," answered another, "M. de Saint Giraud will revenge himself on Grogeot." "How monstrous," said a big man on Julien's left. "A house which I myself would have given eight hundred francs for my factory, and I would have got a good bargain." "Pooh!" answered a young manufacturer, "doesn't M. de St. Giraud belong to the congregation? Haven't his four children got scholarships? poor man! The community of Verrieres must give him five hundred francs over and above his salary, that is all." "And to say that the mayor was not able to stop it," remarked a third. "For he's an ultra he is, I'm glad to say, but he doesn't steal." "Doesn't he?" answered another. "Suppose it's simply a mere game of 'snap'[1] then. Everything goes into a big common purse, and everything is divided up at the end of the year. But here's that little Sorel, let's go away." Julien got home in a very bad temper. He found Madame de Renal very sad. "You come from the auction?" she said to him. "Yes, madam, where I had the honour of passing for a spy of M. the Mayor." "If he had taken my advice, he would have gone on a journey." At this moment Monsieur de Renal appeared: he looked very dismal. The dinner passed without a single word. Monsieur de Renal ordered Julien to follow the children to Vergy. Madame de Renal endeavoured to console her husband. "You ought to be used to it, my dear." That evening they were seated in silence around the domestic hearth. The crackle of the burnt pinewood was their only distraction. It was one of those moments of silence which happen in the most united families. One of the children cried out gaily, "Somebody's ringing, somebody's ringing!" "Zounds! supposing it's Monsieur de Saint Giraud who has come under the pretext of thanking me," exclaimed the mayor. "I will give him a dressing down. It is outrageous. It is Valenod to whom he'll feel under an obligation, and it is I who get compromised. What shall I say if those damned Jacobin journalists get hold of this anecdote, and turn me into a M. Nonante Cinque." A very good-looking man, with big black whiskers, entered at this moment, preceded by the servant. "Monsieur the mayor, I am Signor Geronimo. Here is a letter which M. the Chevalier de Beauvoisis, who is attached to the Embassy of Naples, gave me for you on my departure. That is only nine days ago, added Signor Geronimo, gaily looking at Madame de Renal. Your cousin, and my good friend, Signor de Beauvoisis says that you know Italian, Madame." The Neapolitan's good humour changed this gloomy evening into a very gay one. Madame de Renal insisted upon giving him supper. She put the whole house on the go. She wanted to free Julien at any price from the imputation of espionage which she had heard already twice that day. Signor Geronimo was an excellent singer, excellent company, and had very gay qualities which, at any rate in France, are hardly compatible with each other. After dinner he sang a little duet with Madame de Renal, and told some charming tales. At one o'clock in the morning the children protested, when Julien suggested that they should go to bed. "Another of those stories," said the eldest. "It is my own, Signorino," answered Signor Geronimo. "Eight years ago I was, like you, a young pupil of the Naples Conservatoire. I mean I was your age, but I did not have the honour to be the son of the distinguished mayor of the pretty town of Verrieres." This phrase made M. de Renal sigh, and look at his wife. "Signor Zingarelli," continued the young singer, somewhat exaggerating his action, and thus making the children burst into laughter, "Signor Zingarelli was an excellent though severe master. He is not popular at the Conservatoire, but he insists on the pretence being kept up that he is. I went out as often as I could. I used to go to the little Theatre de San Carlino, where I used to hear divine music. But heavens! the question was to scrape together the eight sous which were the price of admission to the parterre? An enormous sum," he said, looking at the children and watching them laugh. "Signor Giovannone, director of the San Carlino, heard me sing. I was sixteen. 'That child is a treasure,' he said. "'Would you like me to engage you, my dear boy?' he said. "'And how much will you give me?' "'Forty ducats a month.' That is one hundred and sixty francs, gentlemen. I thought the gates of heaven had opened. "'But,' I said to Giovannone, 'how shall I get the strict Zingarelli to let me go out?' "'_Lascia fare a me_.'" "Leave it to me," exclaimed the eldest of the children. "Quite right, my young sir. Signor Giovannone he says to me, 'First sign this little piece of paper, my dear friend.' I sign. "He gives me three ducats. I had never seen so much money. Then he told me what I had to do. "Next day I asked the terrible Zingarelli for an audience. His old valet ushered me in. "'What do you want of me, you naughty boy?' said Zingarelli. "'Maestro,' I said, 'I repent of all my faults. I will never go out of the Conservatoire by passing through the iron grill. I will redouble my diligence.' "'If I were not frightened of spoiling the finest bass voice I have ever heard, I would put you in prison for a fortnight on bread and water, you rascal.' "'Maestro,' I answered, 'I will be the model boy of the whole school, _credete a me_, but I would ask one favour of you. If anyone comes and asks permission for me to sing outside, refuse. As a favour, please say that you cannot let me.' "'And who the devil do you think is going to ask for a ne'er-do-well like you? Do you think I should ever allow you to leave the Conservatoire? Do you want to make fun of me? Clear out! Clear out!' he said, trying to give me a kick, 'or look out for prison and dry bread.'" One thing astonished Julien. The solitary weeks passed at Verrieres in de Renal's house had been a period of happiness for him. He had only experienced revulsions and sad thoughts at the dinners to which he had been invited. And was he not able to read, write and reflect, without being distracted, in this solitary house? He was not distracted every moment from his brilliant reveries by the cruel necessity of studying the movement of a false soul in order to deceive it by intrigue and hypocrisy. "To think of happiness being so near to me--the expense of a life like that is small enough. I could have my choice of either marrying Mademoiselle Elisa or of entering into partnership with Fouque. But it is only the traveller who has just scaled a steep mountain and sits down on the summit who finds a perfect pleasure in resting. Would he be happy if he had to rest all the time?" Madame de Renal's mind had now reached a state of desperation. In spite of her resolutions, she had explained to Julien all the details of the auction. "He will make me forget all my oaths!" she thought. She would have sacrificed her life without hesitation to save that of her husband if she had seen him in danger. She was one of those noble, romantic souls who find a source of perpetual remorse equal to that occasioned by the actual perpetration of a crime, in seeing the possibility of a generous action and not doing it. None the less, there were deadly days when she was not able to banish the imagination of the excessive happiness which she would enjoy if she suddenly became a widow, and were able to marry Julien. He loved her sons much more than their father did; in spite of his strict justice they were devoted to him. She quite realised that if she married Julien, it would be necessary to leave that Vergy, whose shades were so dear to her. She pictured herself living at Paris, and continuing to give her sons an education which would make them admired by everyone. Her children, herself, and Julien! They would be all perfectly happy! Strange result of marriage such as the nineteenth century has made it! The boredom of matrimonial life makes love fade away inevitably, when love has preceded the marriage. But none the less, said a philosopher, married life soon reduces those people who are sufficiently rich not to have to work, to a sense of being utterly bored by all quiet enjoyments. And among women, it is only arid souls whom it does not predispose to love. The philosopher's reflection makes me excuse Madame de Renal, but she was not excused in Verrieres, and without her suspecting it, the whole town found its sole topic of interest in the scandal of her intrigue. As a result of this great affair, the autumn was less boring than usual. The autumn and part of the winter passed very quickly. It was necessary to leave the woods of Vergy. Good Verrieres society began to be indignant at the fact that its anathemas made so little impression on Monsieur de Renal. Within eight days, several serious personages who made up for their habitual gravity of demeanour by their pleasure in fulfilling missions of this kind, gave him the most cruel suspicions, at the same time utilising the most measured terms. M. Valenod, who was playing a deep game, had placed Elisa in an aristocratic family of great repute, where there were five women. Elisa, fearing, so she said, not to find a place during the winter, had only asked from this family about two-thirds of what she had received in the house of the mayor. The girl hit upon the excellent idea of going to confession at the same time to both the old cure Chelan, and also to the new one, so as to tell both of them in detail about Julien's amours. The day after his arrival, the abbe Chelan summoned Julien to him at six o'clock in the morning. "I ask you nothing," he said. "I beg you, and if needs be I insist, that you either leave for the Seminary of Besancon, or for your friend Fouque, who is always ready to provide you with a splendid future. I have seen to everything and have arranged everything, but you must leave, and not come back to Verrieres for a year." Julien did not answer. He was considering whether his honour ought to regard itself offended at the trouble which Chelan, who, after all, was not his father, had taken on his behalf. "I shall have the honour of seeing you again to-morrow at the same hour," he said finally to the cure. Chelan, who reckoned on carrying so young a man by storm, talked a great deal. Julien, cloaked in the most complete humbleness, both of demeanour and expression, did not open his lips. Eventually he left, and ran to warn Madame de Renal whom he found in despair. Her husband had just spoken to her with a certain amount of frankness. The weakness of his character found support in the prospect of the legacy, and had decided him to treat her as perfectly innocent. He had just confessed to her the strange state in which he had found public opinion in Verrieres. The public was wrong; it had been misled by jealous tongues. But, after all, what was one to do? Madame de Renal was, for the moment, under the illusion that Julien would accept the offer of Valenod and stay at Verrieres. But she was no longer the simple, timid woman that she had been the preceding year. Her fatal passion and remorse had enlightened her. She soon realised the painful truth (while at the same time she listened to her husband), that at any rate a temporary separation had become essential. When he is far from me, Julien will revert to those ambitious projects which are so natural when one has no money. And I, Great God! I am so rich, and my riches are so useless for my happiness. He will forget me. Loveable as he is, he will be loved, and he will love. You unhappy woman. What can I complain of? Heaven is just. I was not virtuous enough to leave off the crime. Fate robs me of my judgment. I could easily have bribed Elisa if I had wanted to; nothing was easier. I did not take the trouble to reflect for a moment. The mad imagination of love absorbed all my time. I am ruined. When Julien apprised Madame de Renal of the terrible news of his departure, he was struck with one thing. He did not find her put forward any selfish objections. She was evidently making efforts not to cry. "We have need of firmness, my dear." She cut off a strand of her hair. "I do no know what I shall do," she said to him, "but promise me if I die, never to forget my children. Whether you are far or near, try to make them into honest men. If there is a new revolution, all the nobles will have their throats cut. Their father will probably emigrate, because of that peasant on the roof who got killed. Watch over my family. Give me your hand. Adieu, my dear. These are our last moments. Having made this great sacrifice, I hope I shall have the courage to consider my reputation in public." Julien had been expecting despair. The simplicity of this farewell touched him. "No, I am not going to receive your farewell like this. I will leave you now, as you yourself wish it. But three days after my departure I will come back to see you at night." Madame de Renal's life was changed. So Julien really loved her, since of his own accord he had thought of seeing her again. Her awful grief became changed into one of the keenest transports of joy which she had felt in her whole life. Everything became easy for her. The certainty of seeing her lover deprived these last moments of their poignancy. From that moment, both Madame de Renal's demeanour and the expression of her face were noble, firm, and perfectly dignified. M. de Renal soon came back. He was beside himself. He eventually mentioned to his wife the anonymous letter which he had received two months before. "I will take it to the Casino, and shew everybody that it has been sent by that brute Valenod, whom I took out of the gutter and made into one of the richest tradesmen in Verrieres. I will disgrace him publicly, and then I will fight him. This is too much." "Great Heavens! I may become a widow," thought Madame de Renal, and almost at the same time she said to herself, "If I do not, as I certainly can, prevent this duel, I shall be the murderess of my own husband." She had never expended so much skill in honoring his vanity. Within two hours she made him see, and always by virtue of reasons which he discovered himself, that it was necessary to show more friendship than ever to M. Valenod, and even to take Elisa back into the household. Madame de Renal had need of courage to bring herself to see again the girl who was the cause of her unhappiness. But this idea was one of Julien's. Finally, having been put on the track three or four times, M. de Renal arrived spontaneously at the conclusion, disagreeable though it was from the financial standpoint, that the most painful thing that could happen to him would be that Julien, in the middle of the effervescence of popular gossip throughout Verrieres, should stay in the town as the tutor of Valenod's children. It was obviously to Julien's interest to accept the offer of the director of the workhouse. Conversely, it was essential for M. de Renal's prestige that Julien should leave Verrieres to enter the seminary of Besancon or that of Dijon. But how to make him decide on that course? And then how is he going to live? M. de Renal, seeing a monetary sacrifice looming in the distance, was in deeper despair than his wife. As for her, she felt after this interview in the position of a man of spirit who, tired of life, has taken a dose of stramonium. He only acts mechanically so to speak, and takes no longer any interest in anything. In this way, Louis XIV. came to say on his death-bed, "When I was king." An admirable epigram. Next morning, M. de Renal received quite early an anonymous letter. It was written in a most insulting style, and the coarsest words applicable to his position occurred on every line. It was the work of some jealous subordinate. This letter made him think again of fighting a duel with Valenod. Soon his courage went as far as the idea of immediate action. He left the house alone, went to the armourer's and got some pistols which he loaded. "Yes, indeed," he said to himself, "even though the strict administration of the Emperor Napoleon were to become fashionable again, I should not have one sou's worth of jobbery to reproach myself with; at the outside, I have shut my eyes, and I have some good letters in my desk which authorise me to do so." Madame de Renal was terrified by her husband's cold anger. It recalled to her the fatal idea of widowhood which she had so much trouble in repelling. She closeted herself with him. For several hours she talked to him in vain. The new anonymous letter had decided him. Finally she succeeded in transforming the courage which had decided him to box Valenod's ears, into the courage of offering six hundred francs to Julien, which would keep him for one year in a seminary. M. de Renal cursed a thousand times the day that he had had the ill-starred idea of taking a tutor into his house, and forgot the anonymous letter. He consoled himself a little by an idea which he did not tell his wife. With the exercise of some skill, and by exploiting the romantic ideas of the young man, he hoped to be able to induce him to refuse M. Valenod's offer at a cheaper price. Madame de Renal had much more trouble in proving to Julien that inasmuch as he was sacrificing the post of six hundred francs a year in order to enable her husband to keep up appearances, he need have no shame about accepting the compensation. But Julien would say each time, "I have never thought for a moment of accepting that offer. You have made me so used to a refined life that the coarseness of those people would kill me." Cruel necessity bent Julien's will with its iron hand. His pride gave him the illusion that he only accepted the sum offered by M. de Renal as a loan, and induced him to give him a promissory note, repayable in five years with interest. Madame de Renal had, of course, many thousands of francs which had been concealed in the little mountain cave. She offered them to him all a tremble, feeling only too keenly that they would be angrily refused. "Do you wish," said Julien to her, "to make the memory of our love loathsome?" Finally Julien left Verrieres. M. de Renal was very happy, but when the fatal moment came to accept money from him the sacrifice proved beyond Julien's strength. He refused point blank. M. de Renal embraced him around the neck with tears in his eyes. Julien had asked him for a testimonial of good conduct, and his enthusiasm could find no terms magnificent enough in which to extol his conduct. Our hero had five louis of savings and he reckoned on asking Fouque for an equal sum. He was very moved. But one league from Verrieres, where he left so much that was dear to him, he only thought of the happiness of seeing the capital of a great military town like Besancon. During the short absence of three days, Madame de Renal was the victim of one of the cruellest deceptions to which love is liable. Her life was tolerable, because between her and extreme unhappiness there was still that last interview which she was to have with Julien. Finally during the night of the third day, she heard from a distance the preconcerted signal. Julien, having passed through a thousand dangers, appeared before her. In this moment she only had one thought--"I see him for the last time." Instead of answering the endearments of her lover, she seemed more dead than alive. If she forced herself to tell him that she loved him, she said it with an embarrassed air which almost proved the contrary. Nothing could rid her of the cruel idea of eternal separation. The suspicious Julien thought for the moment that he was already forgotten. His pointed remarks to this effect were only answered by great tears which flowed down in silence, and by some hysterical pressings of the hand. "But," Julien would answer his mistress's cold protestations, "Great Heavens! How can you expect me to believe you? You would show one hundred times more sincere affection to Madame Derville to a mere acquaintance." Madame de Renal was petrified, and at a loss for an answer. "It is impossible to be more unhappy. I hope I am going to die. I feel my heart turn to ice." Those were the longest answers which he could obtain. When the approach of day rendered it necessary for him to leave Madame de Renal, her tears completely ceased. She saw him tie a knotted rope to the window without saying a word, and without returning her kisses. It was in vain that Julien said to her. "So now we have reached the state of affairs which you wished for so much. Henceforward you will live without remorse. The slightest indisposition of your children will no longer make you see them in the tomb." "I am sorry that you cannot kiss Stanislas," she said coldly. Julien finished by being profoundly impressed by the cold embraces of this living corpse. He could think of nothing else for several leagues. His soul was overwhelmed, and before passing the mountain, and while he could still see the church tower of Verrieres he turned round frequently. [1] C'est pigeon qui vole. A reference to a contemporary animal game with a pun on the word "vole."

https://web.archive.org/web/20210301223854/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/redblack/section4/

Julien and Mme. de Renal's affair takes a downward turn when her youngest son falls deathly ill. Mme. de Renal is convinced that God is punishing her for committing adultery and begs Julien to stay away from her. Julien thinks that her behavior is quite foolish, but worries that she might confess to both her husband and M. Chelan. She almost does, but then confides to Julien that she loves him more than anything else, even her own children. Moved by her devotion to him, Julien finally falls in love with Mme. de Renal. Their renewed happiness tips off Mme. de Renal's maid, Elisa, that something is going on and she tells M. Valenod, who writes an anonymous letter to M. de Renal. Julien immediately recognizes that the letter denounces his affair with Mme. de Renal. The two of them form a plan in order to convince M. de Renal that the accusations are false and just an attempt to embarrass the mayor. They forge a second anonymous letter and pretend to send it to Mme. de Renal. This second letter says that M. Valenod is both responsible for the first letter and out to seduce Mme. de Renal himself. Before receiving this second letter, M. de Renal spends the entire night in a state of wretched embarrassment and hatred. More concerned about his name and political position than his marriage, he considers killing both Julien and his wife. But when Mme. de Renal brings him the second letter, he no longer believes the accusations and thinks instead that M. Valenod is organizing a liberal plot against him. Mme. de Renal manipulates her husband even further by showing him old love letters written to her by M. Valenod. Julien is invited to dine with the Valenods, who want to hire him as the family tutor. He goes in order to give M. de Renal the impression that all of M. Valenod's letters were intended to make Renal fire Julien so he would move to the Valenod's. Julien is disgusted by the bourgeois liberals at the Valenod dinner party. They have all made money off the poor. Julien finds nothing honorable about their obsession with money and is doubly resolved to come to power through the Church. He gets his chance when the ever-jealous Elisa tells M. Chelan about the affair. Chelan, in order to avoid a scandal, arranges for Julien to enter a seminary in Besancon. M. de Renal, though now believing that nothing has happened between his wife and Julien, is happy to see Julien leave: the rumors will die out and M. Valenod will not get Julien to be his tutor. Mme. de Renal is devastated to see Julien leave and gives him a lock of her hair. Although Julien is excited to become a powerful figure in the Church, along the road to Besancon, he keeps looking back at Verrieres.

Commentary Stendhal's fascination with the psychology of love is very apparent in this section. It is only when Julien's vanity is sufficiently flattered by Mme. de Renal that he falls in love with her. Stendhal describes this change as a switch from love of possession and beauty to passion-love. When Julien realizes that she loves him more than her own children, he trusts Mme. de Renal's devotion enough to fall in love with her. Again, triangular desire enables Julien to love Mme. de Renal . The love triangle between Julien, Mme. de Renal, and Elisa also motivates the jealous Elisa to tell M. Valenod and then M. Chelan about Julien and Mme. de Renal. This section also juxtaposes Mme. de Renal's intelligence and religious faith with M. de Renal's foolish concerns for rank and lack of concern for his family. Mme. de Renal truly believes that God is punishing her for falling in love with Julien. When she actually tries to confess to her husband, Julien admires her lack of hypocrisy. When it comes to saving her family's reputation, Mme. de Renal also becomes very cunning. Julien realizes that M. Valenod has denounced them, but it is Mme. de Renal who drafts the second letter and manipulates her husband into discovering M. Valenod's old love letters. M. de Renal, in contrast, only cares about remaining the mayor of Verrieres. He considers killing Mme. de Renal and Julien but worries that then he would not receive an inheritance his wife is expecting. Mme. de Renal easily manipulates her husband with flatteries into believing her version of the story. Julien's dinner with the Valenods demonstrates Stendhal's disdain for both conservatives and liberals. Julien reads the major liberal newspapers, but when he finally meets a group of liberals at the Valenod's, he is disgusted by their stealing from the poor, lax morals, and obsession with money. For example, Mme. Valenod discusses the cost of the wine Julien is drinking. After leaving the Valenods', Julien realizes that he has much more aristocratic and refined tastes than he thought. The reader cannot help but notice Stendhal's ironical tone in describing Julien's change of heart, as well as his characteristic hypocrisy. Further tension between the red of the military and the black of the Church is played out in this section. Julien seeks the glory of a military-like seduction of Mme. de Renal, but ends up being sent to the seminary anyway. For all of Julien's ambition and determination to succeed in French society, he does not go to the seminary by choice: M. Chelan orders him there. Unlike most romantic heroes, Julien has very little free will. He does what other people tell him to do.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/47.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_6_part_2.txt

Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapter xlvi

chapter xlvi

{"name": "Chapter XLVI", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase6-chapter45-52", "summary": "Once again smitten, Alec begins to hound Tess: \"sight of you has waked up my love\". At Flintcomb-Ash, he begs her to marry him and go with him as a missionary. Tess replies that she is already married, and he leaves but returns at Candlemas to beg for mercy. She responds that she does not believe in God. He belittles Angel for abandoning her", "analysis": ""}

Several days had passed since her futile journey, and Tess was afield. The dry winter wind still blew, but a screen of thatched hurdles erected in the eye of the blast kept its force away from her. On the sheltered side was a turnip-slicing machine, whose bright blue hue of new paint seemed almost vocal in the otherwise subdued scene. Opposite its front was a long mound or "grave", in which the roots had been preserved since early winter. Tess was standing at the uncovered end, chopping off with a bill-hook the fibres and earth from each root, and throwing it after the operation into the slicer. A man was turning the handle of the machine, and from its trough came the newly-cut swedes, the fresh smell of whose yellow chips was accompanied by the sounds of the snuffling wind, the smart swish of the slicing-blades, and the choppings of the hook in Tess's leather-gloved hand. The wide acreage of blank agricultural brownness, apparent where the swedes had been pulled, was beginning to be striped in wales of darker brown, gradually broadening to ribands. Along the edge of each of these something crept upon ten legs, moving without haste and without rest up and down the whole length of the field; it was two horses and a man, the plough going between them, turning up the cleared ground for a spring sowing. For hours nothing relieved the joyless monotony of things. Then, far beyond the ploughing-teams, a black speck was seen. It had come from the corner of a fence, where there was a gap, and its tendency was up the incline, towards the swede-cutters. From the proportions of a mere point it advanced to the shape of a ninepin, and was soon perceived to be a man in black, arriving from the direction of Flintcomb-Ash. The man at the slicer, having nothing else to do with his eyes, continually observed the comer, but Tess, who was occupied, did not perceive him till her companion directed her attention to his approach. It was not her hard taskmaster, Farmer Groby; it was one in a semi-clerical costume, who now represented what had once been the free-and-easy Alec d'Urberville. Not being hot at his preaching there was less enthusiasm about him now, and the presence of the grinder seemed to embarrass him. A pale distress was already on Tess's face, and she pulled her curtained hood further over it. D'Urberville came up and said quietly-- "I want to speak to you, Tess." "You have refused my last request, not to come near me!" said she. "Yes, but I have a good reason." "Well, tell it." "It is more serious than you may think." He glanced round to see if he were overheard. They were at some distance from the man who turned the slicer, and the movement of the machine, too, sufficiently prevented Alec's words reaching other ears. D'Urberville placed himself so as to screen Tess from the labourer, turning his back to the latter. "It is this," he continued, with capricious compunction. "In thinking of your soul and mine when we last met, I neglected to inquire as to your worldly condition. You were well dressed, and I did not think of it. But I see now that it is hard--harder than it used to be when I--knew you--harder than you deserve. Perhaps a good deal of it is owning to me!" She did not answer, and he watched her inquiringly, as, with bent head, her face completely screened by the hood, she resumed her trimming of the swedes. By going on with her work she felt better able to keep him outside her emotions. "Tess," he added, with a sigh of discontent,--"yours was the very worst case I ever was concerned in! I had no idea of what had resulted till you told me. Scamp that I was to foul that innocent life! The whole blame was mine--the whole unconventional business of our time at Trantridge. You, too, the real blood of which I am but the base imitation, what a blind young thing you were as to possibilities! I say in all earnestness that it is a shame for parents to bring up their girls in such dangerous ignorance of the gins and nets that the wicked may set for them, whether their motive be a good one or the result of simple indifference." Tess still did no more than listen, throwing down one globular root and taking up another with automatic regularity, the pensive contour of the mere fieldwoman alone marking her. "But it is not that I came to say," d'Urberville went on. "My circumstances are these. I have lost my mother since you were at Trantridge, and the place is my own. But I intend to sell it, and devote myself to missionary work in Africa. A devil of a poor hand I shall make at the trade, no doubt. However, what I want to ask you is, will you put it in my power to do my duty--to make the only reparation I can make for the trick played you: that is, will you be my wife, and go with me? ... I have already obtained this precious document. It was my old mother's dying wish." He drew a piece of parchment from his pocket, with a slight fumbling of embarrassment. "What is it?" said she. "A marriage licence." "O no, sir--no!" she said quickly, starting back. "You will not? Why is that?" And as he asked the question a disappointment which was not entirely the disappointment of thwarted duty crossed d'Urberville's face. It was unmistakably a symptom that something of his old passion for her had been revived; duty and desire ran hand-in-hand. "Surely," he began again, in more impetuous tones, and then looked round at the labourer who turned the slicer. Tess, too, felt that the argument could not be ended there. Informing the man that a gentleman had come to see her, with whom she wished to walk a little way, she moved off with d'Urberville across the zebra-striped field. When they reached the first newly-ploughed section he held out his hand to help her over it; but she stepped forward on the summits of the earth-rolls as if she did not see him. "You will not marry me, Tess, and make me a self-respecting man?" he repeated, as soon as they were over the furrows. "I cannot." "But why?" "You know I have no affection for you." "But you would get to feel that in time, perhaps--as soon as you really could forgive me?" "Never!" "Why so positive?" "I love somebody else." The words seemed to astonish him. "You do?" he cried. "Somebody else? But has not a sense of what is morally right and proper any weight with you?" "No, no, no--don't say that!" "Anyhow, then, your love for this other man may be only a passing feeling which you will overcome--" "No--no." "Yes, yes! Why not?" "I cannot tell you." "You must in honour!" "Well then ... I have married him." "Ah!" he exclaimed; and he stopped dead and gazed at her. "I did not wish to tell--I did not mean to!" she pleaded. "It is a secret here, or at any rate but dimly known. So will you, PLEASE will you, keep from questioning me? You must remember that we are now strangers." "Strangers--are we? Strangers!" For a moment a flash of his old irony marked his face; but he determinedly chastened it down. "Is that man your husband?" he asked mechanically, denoting by a sign the labourer who turned the machine. "That man!" she said proudly. "I should think not!" "Who, then?" "Do not ask what I do not wish to tell!" she begged, and flashed her appeal to him from her upturned face and lash-shadowed eyes. D'Urberville was disturbed. "But I only asked for your sake!" he retorted hotly. "Angels of heaven!--God forgive me for such an expression--I came here, I swear, as I thought for your good. Tess--don't look at me so--I cannot stand your looks! There never were such eyes, surely, before Christianity or since! There--I won't lose my head; I dare not. I own that the sight of you had waked up my love for you, which, I believed, was extinguished with all such feelings. But I thought that our marriage might be a sanctification for us both. 'The unbelieving husband is sanctified by the wife, and the unbelieving wife is sanctified by the husband,' I said to myself. But my plan is dashed from me; and I must bear the disappointment!" He moodily reflected with his eyes on the ground. "Married. Married! ... Well, that being so," he added, quite calmly, tearing the licence slowly into halves and putting them in his pocket; "that being prevented, I should like to do some good to you and your husband, whoever he may be. There are many questions that I am tempted to ask, but I will not do so, of course, in opposition to your wishes. Though, if I could know your husband, I might more easily benefit him and you. Is he on this farm?" "No," she murmured. "He is far away." "Far away? From YOU? What sort of husband can he be?" "O, do not speak against him! It was through you! He found out--" "Ah, is it so! ... That's sad, Tess!" "Yes." "But to stay away from you--to leave you to work like this!" "He does not leave me to work!" she cried, springing to the defence of the absent one with all her fervour. "He don't know it! It is by my own arrangement." "Then, does he write?" "I--I cannot tell you. There are things which are private to ourselves." "Of course that means that he does not. You are a deserted wife, my fair Tess--" In an impulse he turned suddenly to take her hand; the buff-glove was on it, and he seized only the rough leather fingers which did not express the life or shape of those within. "You must not--you must not!" she cried fearfully, slipping her hand from the glove as from a pocket, and leaving it in his grasp. "O, will you go away--for the sake of me and my husband--go, in the name of your own Christianity!" "Yes, yes; I will," he said abruptly, and thrusting the glove back to her he turned to leave. Facing round, however, he said, "Tess, as God is my judge, I meant no humbug in taking your hand!" A pattering of hoofs on the soil of the field, which they had not noticed in their preoccupation, ceased close behind them; and a voice reached her ear: "What the devil are you doing away from your work at this time o' day?" Farmer Groby had espied the two figures from the distance, and had inquisitively ridden across, to learn what was their business in his field. "Don't speak like that to her!" said d'Urberville, his face blackening with something that was not Christianity. "Indeed, Mister! And what mid Methodist pa'sons have to do with she?" "Who is the fellow?" asked d'Urberville, turning to Tess. She went close up to him. "Go--I do beg you!" she said. "What! And leave you to that tyrant? I can see in his face what a churl he is." "He won't hurt me. HE'S not in love with me. I can leave at Lady-Day." "Well, I have no right but to obey, I suppose. But--well, goodbye!" Her defender, whom she dreaded more than her assailant, having reluctantly disappeared, the farmer continued his reprimand, which Tess took with the greatest coolness, that sort of attack being independent of sex. To have as a master this man of stone, who would have cuffed her if he had dared, was almost a relief after her former experiences. She silently walked back towards the summit of the field that was the scene of her labour, so absorbed in the interview which had just taken place that she was hardly aware that the nose of Groby's horse almost touched her shoulders. "If so be you make an agreement to work for me till Lady-Day, I'll see that you carry it out," he growled. "'Od rot the women--now 'tis one thing, and then 'tis another. But I'll put up with it no longer!" Knowing very well that he did not harass the other women of the farm as he harassed her out of spite for the flooring he had once received, she did for one moment picture what might have been the result if she had been free to accept the offer just made her of being the monied Alec's wife. It would have lifted her completely out of subjection, not only to her present oppressive employer, but to a whole world who seemed to despise her. "But no, no!" she said breathlessly; "I could not have married him now! He is so unpleasant to me." That very night she began an appealing letter to Clare, concealing from him her hardships, and assuring him of her undying affection. Any one who had been in a position to read between the lines would have seen that at the back of her great love was some monstrous fear--almost a desperation--as to some secret contingencies which were not disclosed. But again she did not finish her effusion; he had asked Izz to go with him, and perhaps he did not care for her at all. She put the letter in her box, and wondered if it would ever reach Angel's hands. After this her daily tasks were gone through heavily enough, and brought on the day which was of great import to agriculturists--the day of the Candlemas Fair. It was at this fair that new engagements were entered into for the twelve months following the ensuing Lady-Day, and those of the farming population who thought of changing their places duly attended at the county-town where the fair was held. Nearly all the labourers on Flintcomb-Ash farm intended flight, and early in the morning there was a general exodus in the direction of the town, which lay at a distance of from ten to a dozen miles over hilly country. Though Tess also meant to leave at the quarter-day, she was one of the few who did not go to the fair, having a vaguely-shaped hope that something would happen to render another outdoor engagement unnecessary. It was a peaceful February day, of wonderful softness for the time, and one would almost have thought that winter was over. She had hardly finished her dinner when d'Urberville's figure darkened the window of the cottage wherein she was a lodger, which she had all to herself to-day. Tess jumped up, but her visitor had knocked at the door, and she could hardly in reason run away. D'Urberville's knock, his walk up to the door, had some indescribable quality of difference from his air when she last saw him. They seemed to be acts of which the doer was ashamed. She thought that she would not open the door; but, as there was no sense in that either, she arose, and having lifted the latch stepped back quickly. He came in, saw her, and flung himself down into a chair before speaking. "Tess--I couldn't help it!" he began desperately, as he wiped his heated face, which had also a superimposed flush of excitement. "I felt that I must call at least to ask how you are. I assure you I had not been thinking of you at all till I saw you that Sunday; now I cannot get rid of your image, try how I may! It is hard that a good woman should do harm to a bad man; yet so it is. If you would only pray for me, Tess!" The suppressed discontent of his manner was almost pitiable, and yet Tess did not pity him. "How can I pray for you," she said, "when I am forbidden to believe that the great Power who moves the world would alter His plans on my account?" "You really think that?" "Yes. I have been cured of the presumption of thinking otherwise." "Cured? By whom?" "By my husband, if I must tell." "Ah--your husband--your husband! How strange it seems! I remember you hinted something of the sort the other day. What do you really believe in these matters, Tess?" he asked. "You seem to have no religion--perhaps owing to me." "But I have. Though I don't believe in anything supernatural." D'Urberville looked at her with misgiving. "Then do you think that the line I take is all wrong?" "A good deal of it." "H'm--and yet I've felt so sure about it," he said uneasily. "I believe in the SPIRIT of the Sermon on the Mount, and so did my dear husband... But I don't believe--" Here she gave her negations. "The fact is," said d'Urberville drily, "whatever your dear husband believed you accept, and whatever he rejected you reject, without the least inquiry or reasoning on your own part. That's just like you women. Your mind is enslaved to his." "Ah, because he knew everything!" said she, with a triumphant simplicity of faith in Angel Clare that the most perfect man could hardly have deserved, much less her husband. "Yes, but you should not take negative opinions wholesale from another person like that. A pretty fellow he must be to teach you such scepticism!" "He never forced my judgement! He would never argue on the subject with me! But I looked at it in this way; what he believed, after inquiring deep into doctrines, was much more likely to be right than what I might believe, who hadn't looked into doctrines at all." "What used he to say? He must have said something?" She reflected; and with her acute memory for the letter of Angel Clare's remarks, even when she did not comprehend their spirit, she recalled a merciless polemical syllogism that she had heard him use when, as it occasionally happened, he indulged in a species of thinking aloud with her at his side. In delivering it she gave also Clare's accent and manner with reverential faithfulness. "Say that again," asked d'Urberville, who had listened with the greatest attention. She repeated the argument, and d'Urberville thoughtfully murmured the words after her. "Anything else?" he presently asked. "He said at another time something like this"; and she gave another, which might possibly have been paralleled in many a work of the pedigree ranging from the _Dictionnaire Philosophique_ to Huxley's _Essays_. "Ah--ha! How do you remember them?" "I wanted to believe what he believed, though he didn't wish me to; and I managed to coax him to tell me a few of his thoughts. I can't say I quite understand that one; but I know it is right." "H'm. Fancy your being able to teach me what you don't know yourself!" He fell into thought. "And so I threw in my spiritual lot with his," she resumed. "I didn't wish it to be different. What's good enough for him is good enough for me." "Does he know that you are as big an infidel as he?" "No--I never told him--if I am an infidel." "Well--you are better off to-day that I am, Tess, after all! You don't believe that you ought to preach my doctrine, and, therefore, do no despite to your conscience in abstaining. I do believe I ought to preach it, but, like the devils, I believe and tremble, for I suddenly leave off preaching it, and give way to my passion for you." "How?" "Why," he said aridly; "I have come all the way here to see you to-day! But I started from home to go to Casterbridge Fair, where I have undertaken to preach the Word from a waggon at half-past two this afternoon, and where all the brethren are expecting me this minute. Here's the announcement." He drew from his breast-pocket a poster whereon was printed the day, hour, and place of meeting, at which he, d'Urberville, would preach the Gospel as aforesaid. "But how can you get there?" said Tess, looking at the clock. "I cannot get there! I have come here." "What, you have really arranged to preach, and--" "I have arranged to preach, and I shall not be there--by reason of my burning desire to see a woman whom I once despised!--No, by my word and truth, I never despised you; if I had I should not love you now! Why I did not despise you was on account of your being unsmirched in spite of all; you withdrew yourself from me so quickly and resolutely when you saw the situation; you did not remain at my pleasure; so there was one petticoat in the world for whom I had no contempt, and you are she. But you may well despise me now! I thought I worshipped on the mountains, but I find I still serve in the groves! Ha! ha!" "O Alec d'Urberville! what does this mean? What have I done!" "Done?" he said, with a soulless sneer in the word. "Nothing intentionally. But you have been the means--the innocent means--of my backsliding, as they call it. I ask myself, am I, indeed, one of those 'servants of corruption' who, 'after they have escaped the pollutions of the world, are again entangled therein and overcome'-- whose latter end is worse than their beginning?" He laid his hand on her shoulder. "Tess, my girl, I was on the way to, at least, social salvation till I saw you again!" he said freakishly shaking her, as if she were a child. "And why then have you tempted me? I was firm as a man could be till I saw those eyes and that mouth again--surely there never was such a maddening mouth since Eve's!" His voice sank, and a hot archness shot from his own black eyes. "You temptress, Tess; you dear damned witch of Babylon--I could not resist you as soon as I met you again!" "I couldn't help your seeing me again!" said Tess, recoiling. "I know it--I repeat that I do not blame you. But the fact remains. When I saw you ill-used on the farm that day I was nearly mad to think that I had no legal right to protect you--that I could not have it; whilst he who has it seems to neglect you utterly!" "Don't speak against him--he is absent!" she cried in much excitement. "Treat him honourably--he has never wronged you! O leave his wife before any scandal spreads that may do harm to his honest name!" "I will--I will," he said, like a man awakening from a luring dream. "I have broken my engagement to preach to those poor drunken boobies at the fair--it is the first time I have played such a practical joke. A month ago I should have been horrified at such a possibility. I'll go away--to swear--and--ah, can I! to keep away." Then, suddenly: "One clasp, Tessy--one! Only for old friendship--" "I am without defence. Alec! A good man's honour is in my keeping-- think--be ashamed!" "Pooh! Well, yes--yes!" He clenched his lips, mortified with himself for his weakness. His eyes were equally barren of worldly and religious faith. The corpses of those old fitful passions which had lain inanimate amid the lines of his face ever since his reformation seemed to wake and come together as in a resurrection. He went out indeterminately. Though d'Urberville had declared that this breach of his engagement to-day was the simple backsliding of a believer, Tess's words, as echoed from Angel Clare, had made a deep impression upon him, and continued to do so after he had left her. He moved on in silence, as if his energies were benumbed by the hitherto undreamt-of possibility that his position was untenable. Reason had had nothing to do with his whimsical conversion, which was perhaps the mere freak of a careless man in search of a new sensation, and temporarily impressed by his mother's death. The drops of logic Tess had let fall into the sea of his enthusiasm served to chill its effervescence to stagnation. He said to himself, as he pondered again and again over the crystallized phrases that she had handed on to him, "That clever fellow little thought that, by telling her those things, he might be paving my way back to her!"

Chapter XLVI

https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase6-chapter45-52

Once again smitten, Alec begins to hound Tess: "sight of you has waked up my love". At Flintcomb-Ash, he begs her to marry him and go with him as a missionary. Tess replies that she is already married, and he leaves but returns at Candlemas to beg for mercy. She responds that she does not believe in God. He belittles Angel for abandoning her

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/21.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_3_part_8.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 3.chapter 8

book 3, chapter 8

{"name": "book 3, Chapter 8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section4/", "summary": "Over the Cognac Fyodor Pavlovich is soon bored with his servants' quarrel, and he dismisses them. He asks Ivan about his religious belief, and Ivan says that he does not believe in God or in the immortality of the soul. Alyosha defends religion, claiming that God does exist and that the soul is immortal. Fyodor Pavlovich is quickly bored of this debate and instead of furthering it, he begins to taunt Alyosha about his mother. He attacks her religious faith and describes her seizures, and Alyosha grows so upset with this attack that he has a seizure himself. Ivan angrily reminds Fyodor Pavlovich that he and Alyosha have the same mother--Fyodor Pavlovich has forgotten that they are both the children of his second marriage. Suddenly, Dmitri comes into the room, screaming at his father and insisting that Grushenka is hidden in Fyodor Pavlovich's house", "analysis": ""}

Chapter VIII. Over The Brandy The controversy was over. But, strange to say, Fyodor Pavlovitch, who had been so gay, suddenly began frowning. He frowned and gulped brandy, and it was already a glass too much. "Get along with you, Jesuits!" he cried to the servants. "Go away, Smerdyakov. I'll send you the gold piece I promised you to-day, but be off! Don't cry, Grigory. Go to Marfa. She'll comfort you and put you to bed. The rascals won't let us sit in peace after dinner," he snapped peevishly, as the servants promptly withdrew at his word. "Smerdyakov always pokes himself in now, after dinner. It's you he's so interested in. What have you done to fascinate him?" he added to Ivan. "Nothing whatever," answered Ivan. "He's pleased to have a high opinion of me; he's a lackey and a mean soul. Raw material for revolution, however, when the time comes." "For revolution?" "There will be others and better ones. But there will be some like him as well. His kind will come first, and better ones after." "And when will the time come?" "The rocket will go off and fizzle out, perhaps. The peasants are not very fond of listening to these soup-makers, so far." "Ah, brother, but a Balaam's ass like that thinks and thinks, and the devil knows where he gets to." "He's storing up ideas," said Ivan, smiling. "You see, I know he can't bear me, nor any one else, even you, though you fancy that he has a high opinion of you. Worse still with Alyosha, he despises Alyosha. But he doesn't steal, that's one thing, and he's not a gossip, he holds his tongue, and doesn't wash our dirty linen in public. He makes capital fish pasties too. But, damn him, is he worth talking about so much?" "Of course he isn't." "And as for the ideas he may be hatching, the Russian peasant, generally speaking, needs thrashing. That I've always maintained. Our peasants are swindlers, and don't deserve to be pitied, and it's a good thing they're still flogged sometimes. Russia is rich in birches. If they destroyed the forests, it would be the ruin of Russia. I stand up for the clever people. We've left off thrashing the peasants, we've grown so clever, but they go on thrashing themselves. And a good thing too. 'For with what measure ye mete it shall be measured to you again,' or how does it go? Anyhow, it will be measured. But Russia's all swinishness. My dear, if you only knew how I hate Russia.... That is, not Russia, but all this vice! But maybe I mean Russia. _Tout cela c'est de la cochonnerie_.... Do you know what I like? I like wit." "You've had another glass. That's enough." "Wait a bit. I'll have one more, and then another, and then I'll stop. No, stay, you interrupted me. At Mokroe I was talking to an old man, and he told me: 'There's nothing we like so much as sentencing girls to be thrashed, and we always give the lads the job of thrashing them. And the girl he has thrashed to-day, the young man will ask in marriage to-morrow. So it quite suits the girls, too,' he said. There's a set of de Sades for you! But it's clever, anyway. Shall we go over and have a look at it, eh? Alyosha, are you blushing? Don't be bashful, child. I'm sorry I didn't stay to dinner at the Superior's and tell the monks about the girls at Mokroe. Alyosha, don't be angry that I offended your Superior this morning. I lost my temper. If there is a God, if He exists, then, of course, I'm to blame, and I shall have to answer for it. But if there isn't a God at all, what do they deserve, your fathers? It's not enough to cut their heads off, for they keep back progress. Would you believe it, Ivan, that that lacerates my sentiments? No, you don't believe it as I see from your eyes. You believe what people say, that I'm nothing but a buffoon. Alyosha, do you believe that I'm nothing but a buffoon?" "No, I don't believe it." "And I believe you don't, and that you speak the truth. You look sincere and you speak sincerely. But not Ivan. Ivan's supercilious.... I'd make an end of your monks, though, all the same. I'd take all that mystic stuff and suppress it, once for all, all over Russia, so as to bring all the fools to reason. And the gold and the silver that would flow into the mint!" "But why suppress it?" asked Ivan. "That Truth may prevail. That's why." "Well, if Truth were to prevail, you know, you'd be the first to be robbed and suppressed." "Ah! I dare say you're right. Ah, I'm an ass!" burst out Fyodor Pavlovitch, striking himself lightly on the forehead. "Well, your monastery may stand then, Alyosha, if that's how it is. And we clever people will sit snug and enjoy our brandy. You know, Ivan, it must have been so ordained by the Almighty Himself. Ivan, speak, is there a God or not? Stay, speak the truth, speak seriously. Why are you laughing again?" "I'm laughing that you should have made a clever remark just now about Smerdyakov's belief in the existence of two saints who could move mountains." "Why, am I like him now, then?" "Very much." "Well, that shows I'm a Russian, too, and I have a Russian characteristic. And you may be caught in the same way, though you are a philosopher. Shall I catch you? What do you bet that I'll catch you to-morrow. Speak, all the same, is there a God, or not? Only, be serious. I want you to be serious now." "No, there is no God." "Alyosha, is there a God?" "There is." "Ivan, and is there immortality of some sort, just a little, just a tiny bit?" "There is no immortality either." "None at all?" "None at all." "There's absolute nothingness then. Perhaps there is just something? Anything is better than nothing!" "Absolute nothingness." "Alyosha, is there immortality?" "There is." "God and immortality?" "God and immortality. In God is immortality." "H'm! It's more likely Ivan's right. Good Lord! to think what faith, what force of all kinds, man has lavished for nothing, on that dream, and for how many thousand years. Who is it laughing at man? Ivan! For the last time, once for all, is there a God or not? I ask for the last time!" "And for the last time there is not." "Who is laughing at mankind, Ivan?" "It must be the devil," said Ivan, smiling. "And the devil? Does he exist?" "No, there's no devil either." "It's a pity. Damn it all, what wouldn't I do to the man who first invented God! Hanging on a bitter aspen tree would be too good for him." "There would have been no civilization if they hadn't invented God." "Wouldn't there have been? Without God?" "No. And there would have been no brandy either. But I must take your brandy away from you, anyway." "Stop, stop, stop, dear boy, one more little glass. I've hurt Alyosha's feelings. You're not angry with me, Alyosha? My dear little Alexey!" "No, I am not angry. I know your thoughts. Your heart is better than your head." "My heart better than my head, is it? Oh, Lord! And that from you. Ivan, do you love Alyosha?" "Yes." "You must love him" (Fyodor Pavlovitch was by this time very drunk). "Listen, Alyosha, I was rude to your elder this morning. But I was excited. But there's wit in that elder, don't you think, Ivan?" "Very likely." "There is, there is. _Il y a du Piron la-dedans._ He's a Jesuit, a Russian one, that is. As he's an honorable person there's a hidden indignation boiling within him at having to pretend and affect holiness." "But, of course, he believes in God." "Not a bit of it. Didn't you know? Why, he tells every one so, himself. That is, not every one, but all the clever people who come to him. He said straight out to Governor Schultz not long ago: '_Credo_, but I don't know in what.' " "Really?" "He really did. But I respect him. There's something of Mephistopheles about him, or rather of 'The hero of our time' ... Arbenin, or what's his name?... You see, he's a sensualist. He's such a sensualist that I should be afraid for my daughter or my wife if she went to confess to him. You know, when he begins telling stories.... The year before last he invited us to tea, tea with liqueur (the ladies send him liqueur), and began telling us about old times till we nearly split our sides.... Especially how he once cured a paralyzed woman. 'If my legs were not bad I know a dance I could dance you,' he said. What do you say to that? 'I've plenty of tricks in my time,' said he. He did Dernidov, the merchant, out of sixty thousand." "What, he stole it?" "He brought him the money as a man he could trust, saying, 'Take care of it for me, friend, there'll be a police search at my place to-morrow.' And he kept it. 'You have given it to the Church,' he declared. I said to him: 'You're a scoundrel,' I said. 'No,' said he, 'I'm not a scoundrel, but I'm broad-minded.' But that wasn't he, that was some one else. I've muddled him with some one else ... without noticing it. Come, another glass and that's enough. Take away the bottle, Ivan. I've been telling lies. Why didn't you stop me, Ivan, and tell me I was lying?" "I knew you'd stop of yourself." "That's a lie. You did it from spite, from simple spite against me. You despise me. You have come to me and despised me in my own house." "Well, I'm going away. You've had too much brandy." "I've begged you for Christ's sake to go to Tchermashnya for a day or two, and you don't go." "I'll go to-morrow if you're so set upon it." "You won't go. You want to keep an eye on me. That's what you want, spiteful fellow. That's why you won't go." The old man persisted. He had reached that state of drunkenness when the drunkard who has till then been inoffensive tries to pick a quarrel and to assert himself. "Why are you looking at me? Why do you look like that? Your eyes look at me and say, 'You ugly drunkard!' Your eyes are mistrustful. They're contemptuous.... You've come here with some design. Alyosha, here, looks at me and his eyes shine. Alyosha doesn't despise me. Alexey, you mustn't love Ivan." "Don't be ill-tempered with my brother. Leave off attacking him," Alyosha said emphatically. "Oh, all right. Ugh, my head aches. Take away the brandy, Ivan. It's the third time I've told you." He mused, and suddenly a slow, cunning grin spread over his face. "Don't be angry with a feeble old man, Ivan. I know you don't love me, but don't be angry all the same. You've nothing to love me for. You go to Tchermashnya. I'll come to you myself and bring you a present. I'll show you a little wench there. I've had my eye on her a long time. She's still running about bare-foot. Don't be afraid of bare-footed wenches--don't despise them--they're pearls!" And he kissed his hand with a smack. "To my thinking," he revived at once, seeming to grow sober the instant he touched on his favorite topic. "To my thinking ... Ah, you boys! You children, little sucking-pigs, to my thinking ... I never thought a woman ugly in my life--that's been my rule! Can you understand that? How could you understand it? You've milk in your veins, not blood. You're not out of your shells yet. My rule has been that you can always find something devilishly interesting in every woman that you wouldn't find in any other. Only, one must know how to find it, that's the point! That's a talent! To my mind there are no ugly women. The very fact that she is a woman is half the battle ... but how could you understand that? Even in _vieilles filles_, even in them you may discover something that makes you simply wonder that men have been such fools as to let them grow old without noticing them. Bare-footed girls or unattractive ones, you must take by surprise. Didn't you know that? You must astound them till they're fascinated, upset, ashamed that such a gentleman should fall in love with such a little slut. It's a jolly good thing that there always are and will be masters and slaves in the world, so there always will be a little maid- of-all-work and her master, and you know, that's all that's needed for happiness. Stay ... listen, Alyosha, I always used to surprise your mother, but in a different way. I paid no attention to her at all, but all at once, when the minute came, I'd be all devotion to her, crawl on my knees, kiss her feet, and I always, always--I remember it as though it were to-day--reduced her to that tinkling, quiet, nervous, queer little laugh. It was peculiar to her. I knew her attacks always used to begin like that. The next day she would begin shrieking hysterically, and this little laugh was not a sign of delight, though it made a very good counterfeit. That's the great thing, to know how to take every one. Once Belyavsky--he was a handsome fellow, and rich--used to like to come here and hang about her--suddenly gave me a slap in the face in her presence. And she--such a mild sheep--why, I thought she would have knocked me down for that blow. How she set on me! 'You're beaten, beaten now,' she said. 'You've taken a blow from him. You have been trying to sell me to him,' she said.... 'And how dared he strike you in my presence! Don't dare come near me again, never, never! Run at once, challenge him to a duel!'... I took her to the monastery then to bring her to her senses. The holy Fathers prayed her back to reason. But I swear, by God, Alyosha, I never insulted the poor crazy girl! Only once, perhaps, in the first year; then she was very fond of praying. She used to keep the feasts of Our Lady particularly and used to turn me out of her room then. I'll knock that mysticism out of her, thought I! 'Here,' said I, 'you see your holy image. Here it is. Here I take it down. You believe it's miraculous, but here, I'll spit on it directly and nothing will happen to me for it!'... When she saw it, good Lord! I thought she would kill me. But she only jumped up, wrung her hands, then suddenly hid her face in them, began trembling all over and fell on the floor ... fell all of a heap. Alyosha, Alyosha, what's the matter?" The old man jumped up in alarm. From the time he had begun speaking about his mother, a change had gradually come over Alyosha's face. He flushed crimson, his eyes glowed, his lips quivered. The old sot had gone spluttering on, noticing nothing, till the moment when something very strange happened to Alyosha. Precisely what he was describing in the crazy woman was suddenly repeated with Alyosha. He jumped up from his seat exactly as his mother was said to have done, wrung his hands, hid his face in them, and fell back in his chair, shaking all over in an hysterical paroxysm of sudden violent, silent weeping. His extraordinary resemblance to his mother particularly impressed the old man. "Ivan, Ivan! Water, quickly! It's like her, exactly as she used to be then, his mother. Spurt some water on him from your mouth, that's what I used to do to her. He's upset about his mother, his mother," he muttered to Ivan. "But she was my mother, too, I believe, his mother. Was she not?" said Ivan, with uncontrolled anger and contempt. The old man shrank before his flashing eyes. But something very strange had happened, though only for a second; it seemed really to have escaped the old man's mind that Alyosha's mother actually was the mother of Ivan too. "Your mother?" he muttered, not understanding. "What do you mean? What mother are you talking about? Was she?... Why, damn it! of course she was yours too! Damn it! My mind has never been so darkened before. Excuse me, why, I was thinking, Ivan.... He he he!" He stopped. A broad, drunken, half-senseless grin overspread his face. At that moment a fearful noise and clamor was heard in the hall, there were violent shouts, the door was flung open, and Dmitri burst into the room. The old man rushed to Ivan in terror. "He'll kill me! He'll kill me! Don't let him get at me!" he screamed, clinging to the skirt of Ivan's coat.

book 3, Chapter 8

https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section4/

Over the Cognac Fyodor Pavlovich is soon bored with his servants' quarrel, and he dismisses them. He asks Ivan about his religious belief, and Ivan says that he does not believe in God or in the immortality of the soul. Alyosha defends religion, claiming that God does exist and that the soul is immortal. Fyodor Pavlovich is quickly bored of this debate and instead of furthering it, he begins to taunt Alyosha about his mother. He attacks her religious faith and describes her seizures, and Alyosha grows so upset with this attack that he has a seizure himself. Ivan angrily reminds Fyodor Pavlovich that he and Alyosha have the same mother--Fyodor Pavlovich has forgotten that they are both the children of his second marriage. Suddenly, Dmitri comes into the room, screaming at his father and insisting that Grushenka is hidden in Fyodor Pavlovich's house

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/12.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Prince/section_10_part_0.txt

The Prince.chapter 12

chapter 12

{"name": "Chapter 12", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201108110625/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-prince/summary-and-analysis/chapter-12", "summary": "Having discussed the different types of states in Chapters 2 through 11, Machiavelli now turns to how to attack and defend them. Princes must lay good foundations, and those foundations include good laws and good armies. There cannot be good laws without good armies, and where there are good laws, there must be good arms, so Machiavelli declares he will only discuss arms, not laws. Arms to defend the state are the prince's own, mercenaries, auxiliaries, or a mix of the three. Mercenaries and auxiliaries are dangerous and unreliable. If a mercenary is talented, he will always be trying to increase his power at the prince's expense. If he is incompetent, he will ruin the prince. Only princes and republics that can field their own armies can succeed, for mercenaries do nothing but lose. Those who are well armed can live free. Machiavelli sites many examples of mercenaries who have turned on their employers. All this began when the Holy Roman Empire lost power in Italy and the popes gained power. Citizens took up arms against the nobles, and the popes encouraged them. Because neither the citizens nor the popes knew how to fight, they hired mercenaries. Soon mercenaries commanded every army in Italy. These mercenaries adopted strategies that kept them from hard work and danger, and this caused the ruin and humiliation of Italy.", "analysis": "This chapter and the two following concern arms and armies. It is tempting to interpret Machiavelli's quotable line that there cannot be good laws without good arms as just a variation on \"might makes right,\" but this was probably not his intent. Because force is an inseparable part of the state, a well-governed state needs a good army. If the reader interprets \"good laws\" not in the strict legal sense, but as the conditions that make for orderly life in society, Machiavelli's observation loses some of its radical edge. Even in the modern world, the state that does not rely on police or military force to keep order and protect its citizens is rare indeed. Machiavelli further observes that where there are good arms there must be good laws, meaning that a ruler who is capable enough to raise and command a disciplined army must also be capable enough to keep his state well ordered. Equally important is what Machiavelli chooses not to discuss. Just as in Chapter 1, where he declined to discuss republics, here he declines to discuss laws, confining himself to a prince's command of the military. However, the world he describes is clearly one of cutthroat competition and violence, in which only the well armed can live free. In such a world, the weak will quickly be exploited by the strong unless they can defend themselves. \"Good arms,\" in Machiavelli's view, can be only the state's own troops; that is, its own citizens, rather than outsiders. Keeping with his view that independence and self-sufficiency are the only security, Machiavelli asserts that dependence on foreign troops is the kiss of death to a prince's power. He had good reasons to think so, having observed the widespread use of foreign mercenaries in Italy and what he felt were its disastrous consequences. He blamed the mercenaries for lacking the spirit of soldiers who were defending their own lands and homes. In his opinion, the mercenaries were lazy, looking only for the easiest way to get their money, regardless of whether this benefited the state that employed them. They were also untrustworthy, because if they worked for a prince's money, they were probably just as willing to work for the prince's opponent. Notice also Machiavelli's characteristic assessment of human selfishness: If you hire a talented mercenary who is successful, you will never be safe, because he will want to take over your position. Mercenaries were common in the Renaissance. Ironically, the most famous were the Italian condottieri, sophisticated professional soldiers who spent their lives serving various employers. Criticism of them was commonplace and not necessarily always deserved, because many of them were highly successful and loyal to their employers' interests. Both foreign and Italian mercenaries participated in Italian warfare. Glossary chalk Alexander VI supposedly remarked that Charles VIII of France was able to conquer Italy with a piece of chalk, simply by marking the doors of houses in order to claim them as quarters for his soldiers. sins Savonarola interpreted the foreign invasions as punishment for Italian sinfulness, but Machiavelli says that the only sin involved was that of relying on mercenaries. Carthage ancient city-state in northern Africa, founded by Phonecians near the site of modern Tunis and destroyed by Romans, rebuilt by Romans, and destroyed by Arabs. Epaminondas a famous Theban general. Philip II of Macedon was not a mercenary but an ally of the Thebans. Duke Filippo Filippo Maria Visconti , Duke of Milan. Francesco Sforza's rise to power in Milan is described in Chapter 2. Queen Giovanna Giovanna II of Naples . The incident referred to involved a dispute between Giovanna and Muzio Attendolo Sforza . Sforza supported Louis III of Anjou as Giovanna's successor, while she favored Alfonso V, King of Aragon. John Hawkwood , also called Giovanni Acuto, an English mercenary who spent his career in Italy. Near the end of his life, he worked for the Florentines. Paolo Vitelli mercenary leader employed by the Florentines. The Florentine government became suspicious of his conduct in the war against Pisa and had him executed. Carmagnola Francesco Bussone , Count of Caramagnola, was a mercenary originally employed by the Milanese and dismissed by them. He was then employed by the Venetians, for whom he defeated the Milanese army. The Venetians were suspicious of his relationship with the Milanese and had him executed. Vaila the city at which the League of Cambrai, including forces of Julius II and Louis XII, defeated the Venetians in 1509. Empire the Holy Roman Empire, in west-central Europe, comprising the German-speaking peoples and northern Italy. Alberigo da Cunio Alberigo da Barbiano , Count of Cunio. He founded the Company of St. George, the first company of Italian mercenaries."}

Having discoursed particularly on the characteristics of such principalities as in the beginning I proposed to discuss, and having considered in some degree the causes of there being good or bad, and having shown the methods by which many have sought to acquire them and to hold them, it now remains for me to discuss generally the means of offence and defence which belong to each of them. We have seen above how necessary it is for a prince to have his foundations well laid, otherwise it follows of necessity he will go to ruin. The chief foundations of all states, new as well as old or composite, are good laws and good arms; and as there cannot be good laws where the state is not well armed, it follows that where they are well armed they have good laws. I shall leave the laws out of the discussion and shall speak of the arms. I say, therefore, that the arms with which a prince defends his state are either his own, or they are mercenaries, auxiliaries, or mixed. Mercenaries and auxiliaries are useless and dangerous; and if one holds his state based on these arms, he will stand neither firm nor safe; for they are disunited, ambitious, and without discipline, unfaithful, valiant before friends, cowardly before enemies; they have neither the fear of God nor fidelity to men, and destruction is deferred only so long as the attack is; for in peace one is robbed by them, and in war by the enemy. The fact is, they have no other attraction or reason for keeping the field than a trifle of stipend, which is not sufficient to make them willing to die for you. They are ready enough to be your soldiers whilst you do not make war, but if war comes they take themselves off or run from the foe; which I should have little trouble to prove, for the ruin of Italy has been caused by nothing else than by resting all her hopes for many years on mercenaries, and although they formerly made some display and appeared valiant amongst themselves, yet when the foreigners came they showed what they were. Thus it was that Charles, King of France, was allowed to seize Italy with chalk in hand;(*) and he who told us that our sins were the cause of it told the truth, but they were not the sins he imagined, but those which I have related. And as they were the sins of princes, it is the princes who have also suffered the penalty. (*) "With chalk in hand," "col gesso." This is one of the _bons mots_ of Alexander VI, and refers to the ease with which Charles VIII seized Italy, implying that it was only necessary for him to send his quartermasters to chalk up the billets for his soldiers to conquer the country. Cf. "The History of Henry VII," by Lord Bacon: "King Charles had conquered the realm of Naples, and lost it again, in a kind of a felicity of a dream. He passed the whole length of Italy without resistance: so that it was true what Pope Alexander was wont to say: That the Frenchmen came into Italy with chalk in their hands, to mark up their lodgings, rather than with swords to fight." I wish to demonstrate further the infelicity of these arms. The mercenary captains are either capable men or they are not; if they are, you cannot trust them, because they always aspire to their own greatness, either by oppressing you, who are their master, or others contrary to your intentions; but if the captain is not skilful, you are ruined in the usual way. And if it be urged that whoever is armed will act in the same way, whether mercenary or not, I reply that when arms have to be resorted to, either by a prince or a republic, then the prince ought to go in person and perform the duty of a captain; the republic has to send its citizens, and when one is sent who does not turn out satisfactorily, it ought to recall him, and when one is worthy, to hold him by the laws so that he does not leave the command. And experience has shown princes and republics, single-handed, making the greatest progress, and mercenaries doing nothing except damage; and it is more difficult to bring a republic, armed with its own arms, under the sway of one of its citizens than it is to bring one armed with foreign arms. Rome and Sparta stood for many ages armed and free. The Switzers are completely armed and quite free. Of ancient mercenaries, for example, there are the Carthaginians, who were oppressed by their mercenary soldiers after the first war with the Romans, although the Carthaginians had their own citizens for captains. After the death of Epaminondas, Philip of Macedon was made captain of their soldiers by the Thebans, and after victory he took away their liberty. Duke Filippo being dead, the Milanese enlisted Francesco Sforza against the Venetians, and he, having overcome the enemy at Caravaggio,(*) allied himself with them to crush the Milanese, his masters. His father, Sforza, having been engaged by Queen Johanna(+) of Naples, left her unprotected, so that she was forced to throw herself into the arms of the King of Aragon, in order to save her kingdom. And if the Venetians and Florentines formerly extended their dominions by these arms, and yet their captains did not make themselves princes, but have defended them, I reply that the Florentines in this case have been favoured by chance, for of the able captains, of whom they might have stood in fear, some have not conquered, some have been opposed, and others have turned their ambitions elsewhere. One who did not conquer was Giovanni Acuto,(%) and since he did not conquer his fidelity cannot be proved; but every one will acknowledge that, had he conquered, the Florentines would have stood at his discretion. Sforza had the Bracceschi always against him, so they watched each other. Francesco turned his ambition to Lombardy; Braccio against the Church and the kingdom of Naples. But let us come to that which happened a short while ago. The Florentines appointed as their captain Pagolo Vitelli, a most prudent man, who from a private position had risen to the greatest renown. If this man had taken Pisa, nobody can deny that it would have been proper for the Florentines to keep in with him, for if he became the soldier of their enemies they had no means of resisting, and if they held to him they must obey him. The Venetians, if their achievements are considered, will be seen to have acted safely and gloriously so long as they sent to war their own men, when with armed gentlemen and plebians they did valiantly. This was before they turned to enterprises on land, but when they began to fight on land they forsook this virtue and followed the custom of Italy. And in the beginning of their expansion on land, through not having much territory, and because of their great reputation, they had not much to fear from their captains; but when they expanded, as under Carmignuola,(#) they had a taste of this mistake; for, having found him a most valiant man (they beat the Duke of Milan under his leadership), and, on the other hand, knowing how lukewarm he was in the war, they feared they would no longer conquer under him, and for this reason they were not willing, nor were they able, to let him go; and so, not to lose again that which they had acquired, they were compelled, in order to secure themselves, to murder him. They had afterwards for their captains Bartolomeo da Bergamo, Roberto da San Severino, the count of Pitigliano,(&) and the like, under whom they had to dread loss and not gain, as happened afterwards at Vaila,($) where in one battle they lost that which in eight hundred years they had acquired with so much trouble. Because from such arms conquests come but slowly, long delayed and inconsiderable, but the losses sudden and portentous. (*) Battle of Caravaggio, 15th September 1448. (+) Johanna II of Naples, the widow of Ladislao, King of Naples. (%) Giovanni Acuto. An English knight whose name was Sir John Hawkwood. He fought in the English wars in France, and was knighted by Edward III; afterwards he collected a body of troops and went into Italy. These became the famous "White Company." He took part in many wars, and died in Florence in 1394. He was born about 1320 at Sible Hedingham, a village in Essex. He married Domnia, a daughter of Bernabo Visconti. (#) Carmignuola. Francesco Bussone, born at Carmagnola about 1390, executed at Venice, 5th May 1432. (&) Bartolomeo Colleoni of Bergamo; died 1457. Roberto of San Severino; died fighting for Venice against Sigismund, Duke of Austria, in 1487. "Primo capitano in Italia."-- Machiavelli. Count of Pitigliano; Nicolo Orsini, born 1442, died 1510. ($) Battle of Vaila in 1509. And as with these examples I have reached Italy, which has been ruled for many years by mercenaries, I wish to discuss them more seriously, in order that, having seen their rise and progress, one may be better prepared to counteract them. You must understand that the empire has recently come to be repudiated in Italy, that the Pope has acquired more temporal power, and that Italy has been divided up into more states, for the reason that many of the great cities took up arms against their nobles, who, formerly favoured by the emperor, were oppressing them, whilst the Church was favouring them so as to gain authority in temporal power: in many others their citizens became princes. From this it came to pass that Italy fell partly into the hands of the Church and of republics, and, the Church consisting of priests and the republic of citizens unaccustomed to arms, both commenced to enlist foreigners. The first who gave renown to this soldiery was Alberigo da Conio,(*) the Romagnian. From the school of this man sprang, among others, Braccio and Sforza, who in their time were the arbiters of Italy. After these came all the other captains who till now have directed the arms of Italy; and the end of all their valour has been, that she has been overrun by Charles, robbed by Louis, ravaged by Ferdinand, and insulted by the Switzers. The principle that has guided them has been, first, to lower the credit of infantry so that they might increase their own. They did this because, subsisting on their pay and without territory, they were unable to support many soldiers, and a few infantry did not give them any authority; so they were led to employ cavalry, with a moderate force of which they were maintained and honoured; and affairs were brought to such a pass that, in an army of twenty thousand soldiers, there were not to be found two thousand foot soldiers. They had, besides this, used every art to lessen fatigue and danger to themselves and their soldiers, not killing in the fray, but taking prisoners and liberating without ransom. They did not attack towns at night, nor did the garrisons of the towns attack encampments at night; they did not surround the camp either with stockade or ditch, nor did they campaign in the winter. All these things were permitted by their military rules, and devised by them to avoid, as I have said, both fatigue and dangers; thus they have brought Italy to slavery and contempt. (*) Alberigo da Conio. Alberico da Barbiano, Count of Cunio in Romagna. He was the leader of the famous "Company of St George," composed entirely of Italian soldiers. He died in 1409.

Chapter 12

https://web.archive.org/web/20201108110625/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-prince/summary-and-analysis/chapter-12

Having discussed the different types of states in Chapters 2 through 11, Machiavelli now turns to how to attack and defend them. Princes must lay good foundations, and those foundations include good laws and good armies. There cannot be good laws without good armies, and where there are good laws, there must be good arms, so Machiavelli declares he will only discuss arms, not laws. Arms to defend the state are the prince's own, mercenaries, auxiliaries, or a mix of the three. Mercenaries and auxiliaries are dangerous and unreliable. If a mercenary is talented, he will always be trying to increase his power at the prince's expense. If he is incompetent, he will ruin the prince. Only princes and republics that can field their own armies can succeed, for mercenaries do nothing but lose. Those who are well armed can live free. Machiavelli sites many examples of mercenaries who have turned on their employers. All this began when the Holy Roman Empire lost power in Italy and the popes gained power. Citizens took up arms against the nobles, and the popes encouraged them. Because neither the citizens nor the popes knew how to fight, they hired mercenaries. Soon mercenaries commanded every army in Italy. These mercenaries adopted strategies that kept them from hard work and danger, and this caused the ruin and humiliation of Italy.

This chapter and the two following concern arms and armies. It is tempting to interpret Machiavelli's quotable line that there cannot be good laws without good arms as just a variation on "might makes right," but this was probably not his intent. Because force is an inseparable part of the state, a well-governed state needs a good army. If the reader interprets "good laws" not in the strict legal sense, but as the conditions that make for orderly life in society, Machiavelli's observation loses some of its radical edge. Even in the modern world, the state that does not rely on police or military force to keep order and protect its citizens is rare indeed. Machiavelli further observes that where there are good arms there must be good laws, meaning that a ruler who is capable enough to raise and command a disciplined army must also be capable enough to keep his state well ordered. Equally important is what Machiavelli chooses not to discuss. Just as in Chapter 1, where he declined to discuss republics, here he declines to discuss laws, confining himself to a prince's command of the military. However, the world he describes is clearly one of cutthroat competition and violence, in which only the well armed can live free. In such a world, the weak will quickly be exploited by the strong unless they can defend themselves. "Good arms," in Machiavelli's view, can be only the state's own troops; that is, its own citizens, rather than outsiders. Keeping with his view that independence and self-sufficiency are the only security, Machiavelli asserts that dependence on foreign troops is the kiss of death to a prince's power. He had good reasons to think so, having observed the widespread use of foreign mercenaries in Italy and what he felt were its disastrous consequences. He blamed the mercenaries for lacking the spirit of soldiers who were defending their own lands and homes. In his opinion, the mercenaries were lazy, looking only for the easiest way to get their money, regardless of whether this benefited the state that employed them. They were also untrustworthy, because if they worked for a prince's money, they were probably just as willing to work for the prince's opponent. Notice also Machiavelli's characteristic assessment of human selfishness: If you hire a talented mercenary who is successful, you will never be safe, because he will want to take over your position. Mercenaries were common in the Renaissance. Ironically, the most famous were the Italian condottieri, sophisticated professional soldiers who spent their lives serving various employers. Criticism of them was commonplace and not necessarily always deserved, because many of them were highly successful and loyal to their employers' interests. Both foreign and Italian mercenaries participated in Italian warfare. Glossary chalk Alexander VI supposedly remarked that Charles VIII of France was able to conquer Italy with a piece of chalk, simply by marking the doors of houses in order to claim them as quarters for his soldiers. sins Savonarola interpreted the foreign invasions as punishment for Italian sinfulness, but Machiavelli says that the only sin involved was that of relying on mercenaries. Carthage ancient city-state in northern Africa, founded by Phonecians near the site of modern Tunis and destroyed by Romans, rebuilt by Romans, and destroyed by Arabs. Epaminondas a famous Theban general. Philip II of Macedon was not a mercenary but an ally of the Thebans. Duke Filippo Filippo Maria Visconti , Duke of Milan. Francesco Sforza's rise to power in Milan is described in Chapter 2. Queen Giovanna Giovanna II of Naples . The incident referred to involved a dispute between Giovanna and Muzio Attendolo Sforza . Sforza supported Louis III of Anjou as Giovanna's successor, while she favored Alfonso V, King of Aragon. John Hawkwood , also called Giovanni Acuto, an English mercenary who spent his career in Italy. Near the end of his life, he worked for the Florentines. Paolo Vitelli mercenary leader employed by the Florentines. The Florentine government became suspicious of his conduct in the war against Pisa and had him executed. Carmagnola Francesco Bussone , Count of Caramagnola, was a mercenary originally employed by the Milanese and dismissed by them. He was then employed by the Venetians, for whom he defeated the Milanese army. The Venetians were suspicious of his relationship with the Milanese and had him executed. Vaila the city at which the League of Cambrai, including forces of Julius II and Louis XII, defeated the Venetians in 1509. Empire the Holy Roman Empire, in west-central Europe, comprising the German-speaking peoples and northern Italy. Alberigo da Cunio Alberigo da Barbiano , Count of Cunio. He founded the Company of St. George, the first company of Italian mercenaries.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/06.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Sense and Sensibility/section_5_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 6

chapter 6

{"name": "Chapter 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820034609/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmSenseSensibility22.asp", "summary": "The Dashwoods take possession of their cottage in the fertile Barton Valley, which is \"well wooded and rich in pasture. \" Their new house is quite comfortable. Although Mrs. Dashwood is not completely satisfied with the cottage, she is happy that it can be turned into a suitable dwelling with just a few changes. Shortly after reaching their new home, they are welcomed by their landlord, Sir John Middleton. Later, they meet Lady Middleton and her children. John Middleton is spontaneous and warm, while his wife is cold and reserved. They both invite the Dashwoods to their house the next day.", "analysis": "Notes The scene shifts to the countryside. Barton Cottage is small, but it is surrounded by a beautiful landscape. The Dashwood girls approve of the cottage and admire its lush green environment. The place gives its inhabitants a sense of freedom. The people, too, are very welcoming. John Middleton's face \"was thoroughly good-humored; and his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. \" He is concerned and helpful. He does everything to make his new tenants feel comfortable in their surroundings. His wife is not as cordial as her husband, but to please him, she extends the hand of friendship to Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters. Jane Austen creates an irony of circumstance here. At Norland Estate, Mrs. Dashwood and her girls had been living in a familiar setting, yet they felt like strangers. At Barton, they find themselves in a strange setting, but they feel comfortable. Mr. John Dashwood, as the only brother to the Dashwood girls, was expected to see to their comfort and provide them security, but he failed to fulfill his responsibilities. But Sir John Middleton, distantly related to Mrs. Dashwood and almost a stranger to her daughters, treats them like a brother. He welcomes them to the estate, helps them to settle down and invites them to the Park. CHAPTER 7 Summary The chapter is devoted to the introduction of John Middleton's family. John Middleton is a happy-go-lucky man, whose lack of taste is compensated by his lively spirits and generous heart. He is a sportsman who spends his spare time in entertaining friends and acquaintances. He feels pride in cultivating friendship with cultured people like the Dashwoods. His fashionable wife is busy looking after her children and is always contented to talk about them. The Dashwoods are welcomed heartily by John Middleton when they arrive at the Park. He introduces them to his mother-in-law, Mrs. Jennings, and Colonel Brandon. Mrs. Jennings is as delighted to meet the Dashwood family as John Middleton was, and she tries to entertain them to the best of her ability. Colonel Brandon keeps to himself. Marianne plays the piano and wins everyone's heart through her talent. Notes Jane Austen is at her ironic best when she describes John Middleton and his wife. The Middletons have different interests but resemble each other in their lack of taste and talent. In the words of Austen, \"Sir John was a sportsman, Lady Middleton a mother. He hunted and shot, and she humored her children, and these were their only resources. Lady Middleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all the year round, while Sir John's independent employments were in existence only half the time. Continual engagements at home and abroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies of nature and education, supported the good spirits of Sir John, and gave exercise to the good breeding of his wife. \" The passage is full of subtle humor. Both Sir John and Lady Middleton are busy doing nothing. Just as hunting is a sport for John Middleton, mothering is a sport for Lady Middleton. While Sir John spends his time pursuing his hunting, his wife occupies herself by spoiling her children. Two more characters are introduced in the chapter. Mrs. Jennings is a merry old woman, who takes pleasure in joking with young ladies and gentleman. Colonel Brandon is placed in striking contrast to her. Unlike her, he is sober, self-restrained and reserved. He appreciates talent but refrains from voicing compliments. He is a perfect foil to Lady Jennings; they balance each other in the atmosphere of the scene. In this chapter Colonel Brandon meets Marianne, listens to her singing and falls in love with her. Marianne is unaware of his feelings for her. She ignores him, as she considers him too old for her company."}

The first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. But as they drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a country which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view of Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. It was a pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture. After winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house. A small green court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat wicket gate admitted them into it. As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact; but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were the walls covered with honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly through the house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the offices and the stairs. Four bed-rooms and two garrets formed the rest of the house. It had not been built many years and was in good repair. In comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed!--but the tears which recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the servants on their arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy. It was very early in September; the season was fine, and from first seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an impression in its favour which was of material service in recommending it to their lasting approbation. The situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately behind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open downs, the others cultivated and woody. The village of Barton was chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the cottage windows. The prospect in front was more extensive; it commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond. The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley in that direction; under another name, and in another course, it branched out again between two of the steepest of them. With the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the whole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered many additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was a delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to supply all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments. "As for the house itself, to be sure," said she, "it is too small for our family, but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it is too late in the year for improvements. Perhaps in the spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may think about building. These parlors are both too small for such parties of our friends as I hope to see often collected here; and I have some thoughts of throwing the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of the other, and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance; this, with a new drawing room which may be easily added, and a bed-chamber and garret above, will make it a very snug little cottage. I could wish the stairs were handsome. But one must not expect every thing; though I suppose it would be no difficult matter to widen them. I shall see how much I am before-hand with the world in the spring, and we will plan our improvements accordingly." In the mean time, till all these alterations could be made from the savings of an income of five hundred a-year by a woman who never saved in her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it was; and each of them was busy in arranging their particular concerns, and endeavoring, by placing around them books and other possessions, to form themselves a home. Marianne's pianoforte was unpacked and properly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were affixed to the walls of their sitting room. In such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome them to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from his own house and garden in which theirs might at present be deficient. Sir John Middleton was a good looking man about forty. He had formerly visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins to remember him. His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their arrival seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an object of real solicitude to him. He said much of his earnest desire of their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed them so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they were better settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried to a point of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give offence. His kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour after he left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit arrived from the park, which was followed before the end of the day by a present of game. He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their letters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day. Lady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her intention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon as she could be assured that her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced to them the next day. They were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of their comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance was favourable to their wishes. Lady Middleton was not more than six or seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking, and her address graceful. Her manners had all the elegance which her husband's wanted. But they would have been improved by some share of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to detract something from their first admiration, by shewing that, though perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark. Conversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, and Lady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her their eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means there was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of extremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire his beauty, and ask him questions which his mother answered for him, while he hung about her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as he could make noise enough at home. On every formal visit a child ought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse. In the present case it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his father or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of course every body differed, and every body was astonished at the opinion of the others. An opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating on the rest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house without securing their promise of dining at the park the next day.

Chapter 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820034609/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmSenseSensibility22.asp

The Dashwoods take possession of their cottage in the fertile Barton Valley, which is "well wooded and rich in pasture. " Their new house is quite comfortable. Although Mrs. Dashwood is not completely satisfied with the cottage, she is happy that it can be turned into a suitable dwelling with just a few changes. Shortly after reaching their new home, they are welcomed by their landlord, Sir John Middleton. Later, they meet Lady Middleton and her children. John Middleton is spontaneous and warm, while his wife is cold and reserved. They both invite the Dashwoods to their house the next day.

Notes The scene shifts to the countryside. Barton Cottage is small, but it is surrounded by a beautiful landscape. The Dashwood girls approve of the cottage and admire its lush green environment. The place gives its inhabitants a sense of freedom. The people, too, are very welcoming. John Middleton's face "was thoroughly good-humored; and his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. " He is concerned and helpful. He does everything to make his new tenants feel comfortable in their surroundings. His wife is not as cordial as her husband, but to please him, she extends the hand of friendship to Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters. Jane Austen creates an irony of circumstance here. At Norland Estate, Mrs. Dashwood and her girls had been living in a familiar setting, yet they felt like strangers. At Barton, they find themselves in a strange setting, but they feel comfortable. Mr. John Dashwood, as the only brother to the Dashwood girls, was expected to see to their comfort and provide them security, but he failed to fulfill his responsibilities. But Sir John Middleton, distantly related to Mrs. Dashwood and almost a stranger to her daughters, treats them like a brother. He welcomes them to the estate, helps them to settle down and invites them to the Park. CHAPTER 7 Summary The chapter is devoted to the introduction of John Middleton's family. John Middleton is a happy-go-lucky man, whose lack of taste is compensated by his lively spirits and generous heart. He is a sportsman who spends his spare time in entertaining friends and acquaintances. He feels pride in cultivating friendship with cultured people like the Dashwoods. His fashionable wife is busy looking after her children and is always contented to talk about them. The Dashwoods are welcomed heartily by John Middleton when they arrive at the Park. He introduces them to his mother-in-law, Mrs. Jennings, and Colonel Brandon. Mrs. Jennings is as delighted to meet the Dashwood family as John Middleton was, and she tries to entertain them to the best of her ability. Colonel Brandon keeps to himself. Marianne plays the piano and wins everyone's heart through her talent. Notes Jane Austen is at her ironic best when she describes John Middleton and his wife. The Middletons have different interests but resemble each other in their lack of taste and talent. In the words of Austen, "Sir John was a sportsman, Lady Middleton a mother. He hunted and shot, and she humored her children, and these were their only resources. Lady Middleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all the year round, while Sir John's independent employments were in existence only half the time. Continual engagements at home and abroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies of nature and education, supported the good spirits of Sir John, and gave exercise to the good breeding of his wife. " The passage is full of subtle humor. Both Sir John and Lady Middleton are busy doing nothing. Just as hunting is a sport for John Middleton, mothering is a sport for Lady Middleton. While Sir John spends his time pursuing his hunting, his wife occupies herself by spoiling her children. Two more characters are introduced in the chapter. Mrs. Jennings is a merry old woman, who takes pleasure in joking with young ladies and gentleman. Colonel Brandon is placed in striking contrast to her. Unlike her, he is sober, self-restrained and reserved. He appreciates talent but refrains from voicing compliments. He is a perfect foil to Lady Jennings; they balance each other in the atmosphere of the scene. In this chapter Colonel Brandon meets Marianne, listens to her singing and falls in love with her. Marianne is unaware of his feelings for her. She ignores him, as she considers him too old for her company.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/39.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_38_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 2.chapter 9

part 2, chapter 9

{"name": "Part 2, Chapter 9", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-9", "summary": "Mathilde de La Mole dances with a bunch of dudes at the duke's ball to get her mind off Julien. But it doesn't really work. She keeps trying to listen in on Julien's conversation with Count Altamira, which seems to be all about revolution and politics. All she can think about is how much more interesting he is than the guy she's supposed to marry, a guy named Croisenois. Mathilde soon realizes that Julien takes away her boredom. That's why she's so interested in him. The days after the ball, Julien glows with revolutionary passion. Whenever he sees Mathilde around, this glow fades because he's afraid of giving his true thoughts away. All she sees, though, is a drop in his enthusiasm whenever he sees her. Julien notices that Mathilde is dressed in black as if she's in mourning. When Mathilde tries to ask him what he's thinking about, he boils over and tells her all the violent, revolutionary thoughts he's been having. He's so aggressive that he actually scares Mathilde.", "analysis": ""}

CHAPTER XXXIX THE BALL The luxurious dresses, the glitter of the candles; all those pretty arms and fine shoulders; the bouquets, the intoxicating strains of Rossini, the paintings of Ciceri. I am beside myself.--_Journeys of Useri_. "You are in a bad temper," said the marquise de la Mole to her; "let me caution you, it is ungracious at a ball." "I only have a headache," answered Mathilde disdainfully, "it is too hot here." At this moment the old Baron Tolly became ill and fell down, as though to justify mademoiselle de la Mole's remark. They were obliged to carry him away. They talked about apoplexy. It was a disagreeable incident. Mathilde did not bother much about it. She made a point of never looking at old men, or at anyone who had the reputation of being bad company. She danced in order to escape the conversation about the apoplexy, which was not apoplexy inasmuch as the baron put in an appearance the following day. "But Sorel does not come," she said to herself after she had danced. She was almost looking round for him when she found him in another salon. Astonishing, but he seemed to have lost that impassive coldness that was so natural to him; he no longer looked English. "He is talking to comte Altamira who was sentenced to death," said Mathilde to herself. "His eye is full of a sombre fire; he looks like a prince in disguise; his haughtiness has become twice as pronounced." Julien came back to where she was, still talking to Altamira. She looked at Altamira fixedly, studying his features in order to trace those lofty qualities which can earn a man the honour of being condemned to death. "Yes," he was saying to comte Altamira as he passed by her, "Danton was a real man." "Heavens can he be a Danton?" said Mathilde to herself, "but he has so noble a face, and that Danton was so horribly ugly, a butcher I believe." Julien was still fairly near her. She did not hesitate to call him; she had the consciousness and the pride of putting a question that was unusual for a young girl. "Was not Danton a butcher?" she said to him. "Yes, in the eyes of certain persons," Julien answered her with the most thinly disguised expression of contempt. His eyes were still ardent from his conversation with Altamira, "but unfortunately for the people of good birth he was an advocate at Mery-sur-Seine, that is to say, mademoiselle," he added maliciously, "he began like many peers whom I see here. It was true that Danton laboured under a great disadvantage in the eyes of beauty; he was ugly." These last few words were spoken rapidly in an extraordinary and indeed very discourteous manner. Julien waited for a moment, leaning slightly forward and with an air of proud humility. He seemed to be saying, "I am paid to answer you and I live on my pay." He did not deign to look up at Mathilde. She looked like his slave with her fine eyes open abnormally wide and fixed on him. Finally as the silence continued he looked at her, like a valet looking at his master to receive orders. Although his eyes met the full gaze of Mathilde which were fixed on him all the time with a strange expression, he went away with a marked eagerness. "To think of a man who is as handsome as he is," said Mathilde to herself as she emerged from her reverie, "praising ugliness in such a way, he is not like Caylus or Croisenois. This Sorel has something like my father's look when he goes to a fancy dress ball as Napoleon." She had completely forgotten Danton. "Yes, I am decidedly bored to-night." She took her brother's arm and to his great disgust made him take her round the ball-room. The idea occurred to her of following the conversation between Julien and the man who had been condemned to death. The crowd was enormous. She managed to find them, however, at the moment when two yards in front of her Altamira was going near a dumb-waiter to take an ice. He was talking to Julien with his body half turned round. He saw an arm in an embroidered coat which was taking an ice close by. The embroidery seemed to attract his attention. He turned round to look at the person to whom the arm belonged. His noble and yet simple eyes immediately assumed a slightly disdainful expression. "You see that man," he said to Julien in a low voice; "that is the Prince of Araceli Ambassador of ----. He asked M. de Nerval, your Minister for Foreign Affairs, for my extradition this morning. See, there he is over there playing whist. Monsieur de Nerval is willing enough to give me up, for we gave up two or three conspirators to you in 1816. If I am given up to my king I shall be hanged in twenty-four hours. It will be one of those handsome moustachioed gentlemen who will arrest me." "The wretches!" exclaimed Julien half aloud. Mathilde did not lose a syllable of their conversation. Her ennui had vanished. "They are not scoundrels," replied Count Altamira. "I talk to you about myself in order to give you a vivid impression. Look at the Prince of Araceli. He casts his eyes on his golden fleece every five minutes; he cannot get over the pleasure of seeing that decoration on his breast. In reality the poor man is really an anachronism. The fleece was a signal honour a hundred years ago, but he would have been nowhere near it in those days. But nowadays, so far as people of birth are concerned, you have to be an Araceli to be delighted with it. He had a whole town hanged in order to get it." "Is that the price he had to pay?" said Julien anxiously. "Not exactly," answered Altamira coldly, "he probably had about thirty rich landed proprietors in his district who had the reputation of being Liberals thrown into the river." "What a monster!" pursued Julien. Mademoiselle de la Mole who was leaning her head forward with keenest interest was so near him that her beautiful hair almost touched his shoulder. "You are very young," answered Altamira. "I was telling you that I had a married sister in Provence. She is still pretty, good and gentle; she is an excellent mother, performs all her duties faithfully, is pious but not a bigot." "What is he driving at?" thought mademoiselle de la Mole. "She is happy," continued the comte Altamira; "she was so in 1815. I was then in hiding at her house on her estate near the Antibes. Well the moment she learnt of marshall Ney's execution she began to dance." "Is it possible?" said Julien, thunderstruck. "It's party spirit," replied Altamira. "There are no longer any real passions in the nineteenth century: that's why one is so bored in France. People commit acts of the greatest cruelty, but without any feeling of cruelty." "So much the worse," said Julien, "when one does commit a crime one ought at least to take pleasure in committing it; that's the only good thing they have about them and that's the only way in which they have the slightest justification." Mademoiselle de la Mole had entirely forgotten what she owed to herself and placed herself completely between Altamira and Julien. Her brother, who was giving her his arm, and was accustomed to obey her, was looking at another part of the room, and in order to keep himself in countenance was pretending to be stopped by the crowd. "You are right," Altamira went on, "one takes pleasure in nothing one does, and one does not remember it: this applies even to crimes. I can show you perhaps ten men in this ballroom who have been convicted of murder. They have forgotten all about it and everybody else as well." "Many are moved to the point of tears if their dog breaks a paw. When you throw flowers on their grave at Pere-la-Chaise, as you say so humorously in Paris, we learn they united all the virtues of the knights of chivalry, and we speak about the noble feats of their great-grandfather who lived in the reign of Henri IV. If, in spite of the good offices of the Prince de Araceli, I escape hanging and I ever manage to enjoy the use of my money in Paris, I will get you to dine with eight or ten of these respected and callous murderers. "At that dinner you and I will be the only ones whose blood is pure, but I shall be despised and almost hated as a monster, while you will be simply despised as a man of the people who has pushed his way into good society." "Nothing could be truer," said mademoiselle de la Mole. Altamira looked at her in astonishment; but Julien did not deign to look at her. "Observe that the revolution, at whose head I found myself," continued the comte Altamira, "only failed for the one reason that I would not cut off three heads and distribute among our partisans seven or eight millions which happened to be in a box of which I happened to have the key. My king, who is burning to have me hanged to-day, and who called me by my christian name before the rebellion, would have given me the great ribbon of his order if I had had those three heads cut off and had had the money in those boxes distributed; for I should have had at least a semi-success and my country would have had a charta like ----. So wags the world; it's a game of chess." "At that time," answered Julien with a fiery eye, "you did not know the game; now...." "You mean I would have the heads cut off, and I would not be a Girondin, as you said I was the other day? I will give you your answer," said Altamira sadly, "when you have killed a man in a duel--a far less ugly matter than having him put to death by an executioner." "Upon my word," said Julien, "the end justifies the means. If instead of being an insignificant man I had some power I would have three men hanged in order to save four men's lives." His eyes expressed the fire of his own conscience; they met the eyes of mademoiselle de la Mole who was close by him, and their contempt, so far from changing into politeness seemed to redouble. She was deeply shocked; but she found herself unable to forget Julien; she dragged her brother away and went off in a temper. "I must take some punch and dance a lot," she said to herself. "I will pick out the best partner and cut some figure at any price. Good, there is that celebrated cynic, the comte de Fervaques." She accepted his invitation; they danced. "The question is," she thought, "which of us two will be the more impertinent, but in order to make absolute fun of him, I must get him to talk." Soon all the other members of the quadrille were dancing as a matter of formality, they did not want to lose any of Mathilde's cutting reparte. M. de Fervaques felt uneasy and as he could only find elegant expressions instead of ideas, began to scowl. Mathilde, who was in a bad temper was cruel, and made an enemy of him. She danced till daylight and then went home terribly tired. But when she was in the carriage the little vitality she had left, was still employed in making her sad and unhappy. She had been despised by Julien and could not despise him. Julien was at the zenith of his happiness. He was enchanted without his knowing it by the music, the flowers, the pretty women, the general elegance, and above all by his own imagination which dreamt of distinctions for himself and of liberty for all. "What a fine ball," he said to the comte. "Nothing is lacking." "Thought is lacking" answered Altamira, and his face betrayed that contempt which is only more deadly from the very fact that a manifest effort is being made to hide it as a matter of politeness. "You are right, monsieur the comte, there isn't any thought at all, let alone enough to make a conspiracy." "I am here because of my name, but thought is hated in your salons. Thought must not soar above the level of the point of a Vaudeville couplet: it is then rewarded. But as for your man who thinks, if he shows energy and originality we call him a cynic. Was not that name given by one of your judges to Courier. You put him in prison as well as Beranger. The priestly congregation hands over to the police everyone who is worth anything amongst you individually; and good society applauds. "The fact is your effete society prizes conventionalism above everything else. You will never get beyond military bravery. You will have Murats, never Washingtons. I can see nothing in France except vanity. A man who goes on speaking on the spur of the moment may easily come to make an imprudent witticism and the master of the house thinks himself insulted." As he was saying this, the carriage in which the comte was seeing Julien home stopped before the Hotel de la Mole. Julien was in love with his conspirator. Altamira had paid him this great compliment which was evidently the expression of a sound conviction. "You have not got the French flippancy and you understand the principle of _utility_." It happened that Julien had seen the day before _Marino Faliero_, a tragedy, by Casmir Delavigne. "Has not Israel Bertuccio got more character than all those noble Venetians?" said our rebellious plebeian to himself, "and yet those are the people whose nobility goes back to the year seven hundred, a century before Charlemagne, while the cream of the nobility at M. de Ritz's ball to-night only goes back, and that rather lamely, to the thirteenth century. Well, in spite of all the noble Venetians whose birth makes so great, it is Israel Bertuccio whom one remembers. "A conspiracy annihilates all titles conferred by social caprice. There, a man takes for his crest the rank that is given him by the way in which he faces death. The intellect itself loses some of its power. "What would Danton have been to-day in this age of the Valenods and the Renals? Not even a deputy for the Public Prosecutor. "What am I saying? He would have sold himself to the priests, he would have been a minister, for after all the great Danton did steal. Mirabeau also sold himself. Napoleon stole millions in Italy, otherwise he would have been stopped short in his career by poverty like Pichegru. Only La Fayette refrained from stealing. Ought one to steal, ought one to sell oneself?" thought Julien. This question pulled him up short. He passed the rest of the night in reading the history of the revolution. When he wrote his letters in the library the following day, his mind was still concentrated on his conversation with count Altamira. "As a matter of fact," he said to himself after a long reverie, "If the Spanish Liberals had not injured their nation by crimes they would not have been cleared out as easily as they were. "They were haughty, talkative children--just like I am!" he suddenly exclaimed as though waking up with a start. "What difficulty have I surmounted that entitles me to judge such devils who, once alive, dared to begin to act. I am like a man who exclaims at the close of a meal, 'I won't dine to-morrow; but that won't prevent me from feeling as strong and merry like I do to-day.' Who knows what one feels when one is half-way through a great action?" These lofty thoughts were disturbed by the unexpected arrival in the library of mademoiselle de la Mole. He was so animated by his admiration for the great qualities of such invincibles as Danton, Mirabeau, and Carnot that, though he fixed his eyes on mademoiselle de la Mole, he neither gave her a thought nor bowed to her, and scarcely even saw her. When finally his big, open eyes realized her presence, their expression vanished. Mademoiselle de la Mole noticed it with bitterness. It was in vain that she asked him for Vely's History of France which was on the highest shelf, and thus necessitated Julien going to fetch the longer of the two ladders. Julien had brought the ladder and had fetched the volume and given it to her, but had not yet been able to give her a single thought. As he was taking the ladder back he hit in his hurry one of the glass panes in the library with his elbow; the noise of the glass falling on the floor finally brought him to himself. He hastened to apologise to mademoiselle de la Mole. He tried to be polite and was certainly nothing more. Mathilde saw clearly that she had disturbed him, and that he would have preferred to have gone on thinking about what he had been engrossed in before her arrival, to speaking to her. After looking at him for some time she went slowly away. Julien watched her walk. He enjoyed the contrast of her present dress with the elegant magnificence of the previous night. The difference between the two expressions was equally striking. The young girl who had been so haughty at the Duke de Retz's ball, had, at the present moment, an almost plaintive expression. "As a matter of fact," said Julien to himself, "that black dress makes the beauty of her figure all the more striking. She has a queenly carriage; but why is she in mourning?" "If I ask someone the reason for this mourning, they will think I am putting my foot in it again." Julien had now quite emerged from the depth of his enthusiasm. "I must read over again all the letters I have written this morning. God knows how many missed out words and blunders I shall find. As he was forcing himself to concentrate his mind on the first of these letters he heard the rustle of a silk dress near him. He suddenly turned round, mademoiselle de la Mole was two yards from his table, she was smiling. This second interruption put Julien into a bad temper. Mathilde had just fully realized that she meant nothing to this young man. Her smile was intended to hide her embarrassment; she succeeded in doing so. "You are evidently thinking of something very interesting, Monsieur Sorel. Is it not some curious anecdote about that conspiracy which is responsible for comte Altamira being in Paris? Tell me what it is about, I am burning to know. I will be discreet, I swear it." She was astonished at hearing herself utter these words. What! was she asking a favour of an inferior! Her embarrassment increased, and she added with a little touch of flippancy, "What has managed to turn such a usually cold person as yourself, into an inspired being, a kind of Michael Angelo prophet?" This sharp and indiscreet question wounded Julien deeply, and rendered him madder than ever. "Was Danton right in stealing?" he said to her brusquely in a manner that grew more and more surly. "Ought the revolutionaries of Piedmont and of Spain to have injured the people by crimes? To have given all the places in the army and all the orders to undeserving persons? Would not the persons who wore these orders have feared the return of the king? Ought they to have allowed the treasure of Turin to be looted? In a word, mademoiselle," he said, coming near her with a terrifying expression, "ought the man who wishes to chase ignorance and crime from the world to pass like the whirlwind and do evil indiscriminately?" Mathilde felt frightened, was unable to stand his look, and retreated a couples of paces. She looked at him a moment, and then ashamed of her own fear, left the library with a light step.

Part 2, Chapter 9

https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-9

Mathilde de La Mole dances with a bunch of dudes at the duke's ball to get her mind off Julien. But it doesn't really work. She keeps trying to listen in on Julien's conversation with Count Altamira, which seems to be all about revolution and politics. All she can think about is how much more interesting he is than the guy she's supposed to marry, a guy named Croisenois. Mathilde soon realizes that Julien takes away her boredom. That's why she's so interested in him. The days after the ball, Julien glows with revolutionary passion. Whenever he sees Mathilde around, this glow fades because he's afraid of giving his true thoughts away. All she sees, though, is a drop in his enthusiasm whenever he sees her. Julien notices that Mathilde is dressed in black as if she's in mourning. When Mathilde tries to ask him what he's thinking about, he boils over and tells her all the violent, revolutionary thoughts he's been having. He's so aggressive that he actually scares Mathilde.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Sense and Sensibility/section_2_part_3.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter xiv

chapter xiv

{"name": "Chapter XIV", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter12-22", "summary": "Willoughby spends all his time with Marianne. Elinor is sure that he and Marianne are secretly engaged, and cannot understand why Marianne does not admit it. Willoughby is not rich, and Elinor thinks that this may be why he is postponing marriage. Willoughby talks passionately of how happy he has been at Barton Cottage, implying that it is Marianne who has made him so, and forbids Mrs. Dashwood ever to alter the house", "analysis": ""}

The sudden termination of Colonel Brandon's visit at the park, with his steadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind, and raised the wonder of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days; she was a great wonderer, as every one must be who takes a very lively interest in all the comings and goings of all their acquaintance. She wondered, with little intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there must be some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could have befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape them all. "Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure," said she. "I could see it in his face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances may be bad. The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two thousand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved. I do think he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can it be? I wonder whether it is so. I would give anything to know the truth of it. Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare say it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her. May be she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I have a notion she is always rather sickly. I would lay any wager it is about Miss Williams. It is not so very likely he should be distressed in his circumstances NOW, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure must have cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can be! May be his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over. His setting off in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him out of all his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain." So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Her opinion varying with every fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose. Elinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel Brandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away, which Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides that the circumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise disposed of. It was engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on the subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them all. As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange and more incompatible with the disposition of both. Why they should not openly acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant behaviour to each other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine. She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in their power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason to believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at about six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of his poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all, she could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to their general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her making any inquiry of Marianne. Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than Willoughby's behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing tenderness which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more of his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general engagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his favourite pointer at her feet. One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood's happening to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as perfect with him. "What!" he exclaimed--"Improve this dear cottage! No. THAT I will never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are regarded." "Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood, "nothing of the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it." "I am heartily glad of it," he cried. "May she always be poor, if she can employ her riches no better." "Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it?" "I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage." "With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said Elinor. "Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing belonging to it;--in no one convenience or INconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton." "I flatter myself," replied Elinor, "that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this." "There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my affection, which no other can possibly share." Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him. "How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account for. Must it not have been so, Marianne?" speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then continuing his former tone, he said, "And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance first began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by us together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance, and every body would be eager to pass through the room which has hitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world could possibly afford." Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should be attempted. "You are a good woman," he warmly replied. "Your promise makes me easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will always consider me with the kindness which has made everything belonging to you so dear to me." The promise was readily given, and Willoughby's behaviour during the whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness. "Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?" said Mrs. Dashwood, when he was leaving them. "I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must walk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton." He engaged to be with them by four o'clock.

Chapter XIV

https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter12-22

Willoughby spends all his time with Marianne. Elinor is sure that he and Marianne are secretly engaged, and cannot understand why Marianne does not admit it. Willoughby is not rich, and Elinor thinks that this may be why he is postponing marriage. Willoughby talks passionately of how happy he has been at Barton Cottage, implying that it is Marianne who has made him so, and forbids Mrs. Dashwood ever to alter the house

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/174-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_11_part_0.txt

The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapter 11

chapter 11

{"name": "Chapter 11", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219150422/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/summary-and-analysis/chapter-11", "summary": "As the chapter begins, the narrator announces that years have passed. Dorian has spent the time developing his credo of life under the influence of the yellow book and, to a lesser degree now, Lord Henry. Dorian's licentious behavior is the source of people's gossip, but those who see him in person dismiss such gossip because the \"purity of his face\" makes such tales seem impossible. Often, Dorian creeps up to the attic to look at the figure in the portrait, now bloated, ugly, and aged. On such occasions, he laughingly contrasts his face in a mirror with that in the painting. If anything, he has become even more enamored with his good looks. He has \"mad hungers\" that become \"more ravenous\" as he feeds them. At times he takes a room in a shabby tavern by the docks, disguising himself and using an assumed name. However, he observes his obligations in polite society and is idolized by many of the young men of his class because he lives his life surrounded by beauty. His life is his primary and most important work of art. Dorian seeks a \"new Hedonism\" to combat the Puritanism of Victorian England. He wants life without obligation or regret, and he is not terribly concerned if others are hurt along the way. Rumors grow as Dorian passes his twenty-fifth year and approaches thirty. Many find him charming; others shun him. His face, however, reveals no debauchery. His appearance is innocent. Only his soul has been \"poisoned by a book.\"", "analysis": "The bulk of Chapter 11 lists, page after page, the various pursuits of Dorian's adult life. In these lists, Wilde shows the result of Dorian's chosen path. The reader sees the peculiar kind of hell that Dorian inhabits because of his pact; Wilde delivers a strong judgement against the dangers of decadence. The lengthy passages describing Dorian's study of perfumes, music, jewels, and embroideries border on being tedious. Wilde was too good a writer to include these passages merely to show off his knowledge of these subjects. These overly-detailed passages transport the reader into the world that Dorian has created for himself, one in which the passionate pursuit of pleasure has become a monotonous, vain, never-ending stream of meaningless and trivial debauchery. No matter how much Dorian indulges his passions, he is never satisfied. By the end of the chapter, the narrator states of Dorian, \"There were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could realise his conception of the beautiful.\" Dorian's life seems to be one of floating from one passion to the next, completely at his own whim. And yet, he remains tethered to the portrait and his fear that his secret will be discovered. He lives in a gilded cage, a prisoner of his passions and his fears. Glossary Dante Dante Alighieri , Italian poet; author of The Divine Comedy. Eton Eton College, a school for boys in Buckinghamshire, England. fop a dandy; a man excessively concerned about his clothes and appearance to the exclusion of deeper values. Satyricon \"Book of Satyrlike Adventures\"; a first-century-A.D. comic novel attributed to Petronius. arbiter elegantiarum Latin, \"judge of elegance.\" anchorite a religious recluse. panis caelistis Latin, \"bread of Heaven.\" de la vieille roche French, \"of the old rock.\" Schubert Franz Schubert , Austrian composer. Chopin Frederick Francois Chopin , Polish pianist and composer; resident in France from 1829 until his death. Beethoven Ludwig van Beethoven , German composer. Madame, je suis tout joyeux French, \"Madam, I am quite happy.\" entrees French, \"entries\"; in North America, it is the main dish of the meal; in England, during Wilde's era, it was a dish served between the meat and fish courses. taedium vitae Latin, \"tedium of life.\" sentinel one who keeps guard; a sentry. alchemist one who tries to turn base metals into gold. ascetic a person who renounces comforts to live a life of self-disci-pline, sometimes for a religious reason. fresco the art of painting on fresh, moist plaster with earth colors dissolved in water and pressed into the plaster. calumnies false statements meant to injure someone. macaroni here, a term used in eighteenth-century England to describe a well-to-do young man who dressed in Continental fashions rather than in staid, bland English clothing."}

For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence of this book. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never sought to free himself from it. He procured from Paris no less than nine large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in different colours, so that they might suit his various moods and the changing fancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to have almost entirely lost control. The hero, the wonderful young Parisian in whom the romantic and the scientific temperaments were so strangely blended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of himself. And, indeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own life, written before he had lived it. In one point he was more fortunate than the novel's fantastic hero. He never knew--never, indeed, had any cause to know--that somewhat grotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still water which came upon the young Parisian so early in his life, and was occasioned by the sudden decay of a beau that had once, apparently, been so remarkable. It was with an almost cruel joy--and perhaps in nearly every joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its place--that he used to read the latter part of the book, with its really tragic, if somewhat overemphasized, account of the sorrow and despair of one who had himself lost what in others, and the world, he had most dearly valued. For the wonderful beauty that had so fascinated Basil Hallward, and many others besides him, seemed never to leave him. Even those who had heard the most evil things against him--and from time to time strange rumours about his mode of life crept through London and became the chatter of the clubs--could not believe anything to his dishonour when they saw him. He had always the look of one who had kept himself unspotted from the world. Men who talked grossly became silent when Dorian Gray entered the room. There was something in the purity of his face that rebuked them. His mere presence seemed to recall to them the memory of the innocence that they had tarnished. They wondered how one so charming and graceful as he was could have escaped the stain of an age that was at once sordid and sensual. Often, on returning home from one of those mysterious and prolonged absences that gave rise to such strange conjecture among those who were his friends, or thought that they were so, he himself would creep upstairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left him now, and stand, with a mirror, in front of the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him, looking now at the evil and aging face on the canvas, and now at the fair young face that laughed back at him from the polished glass. The very sharpness of the contrast used to quicken his sense of pleasure. He grew more and more enamoured of his own beauty, more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul. He would examine with minute care, and sometimes with a monstrous and terrible delight, the hideous lines that seared the wrinkling forehead or crawled around the heavy sensual mouth, wondering sometimes which were the more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of age. He would place his white hands beside the coarse bloated hands of the picture, and smile. He mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs. There were moments, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless in his own delicately scented chamber, or in the sordid room of the little ill-famed tavern near the docks which, under an assumed name and in disguise, it was his habit to frequent, he would think of the ruin he had brought upon his soul with a pity that was all the more poignant because it was purely selfish. But moments such as these were rare. That curiosity about life which Lord Henry had first stirred in him, as they sat together in the garden of their friend, seemed to increase with gratification. The more he knew, the more he desired to know. He had mad hungers that grew more ravenous as he fed them. Yet he was not really reckless, at any rate in his relations to society. Once or twice every month during the winter, and on each Wednesday evening while the season lasted, he would throw open to the world his beautiful house and have the most celebrated musicians of the day to charm his guests with the wonders of their art. His little dinners, in the settling of which Lord Henry always assisted him, were noted as much for the careful selection and placing of those invited, as for the exquisite taste shown in the decoration of the table, with its subtle symphonic arrangements of exotic flowers, and embroidered cloths, and antique plate of gold and silver. Indeed, there were many, especially among the very young men, who saw, or fancied that they saw, in Dorian Gray the true realization of a type of which they had often dreamed in Eton or Oxford days, a type that was to combine something of the real culture of the scholar with all the grace and distinction and perfect manner of a citizen of the world. To them he seemed to be of the company of those whom Dante describes as having sought to "make themselves perfect by the worship of beauty." Like Gautier, he was one for whom "the visible world existed." And, certainly, to him life itself was the first, the greatest, of the arts, and for it all the other arts seemed to be but a preparation. Fashion, by which what is really fantastic becomes for a moment universal, and dandyism, which, in its own way, is an attempt to assert the absolute modernity of beauty, had, of course, their fascination for him. His mode of dressing, and the particular styles that from time to time he affected, had their marked influence on the young exquisites of the Mayfair balls and Pall Mall club windows, who copied him in everything that he did, and tried to reproduce the accidental charm of his graceful, though to him only half-serious, fopperies. For, while he was but too ready to accept the position that was almost immediately offered to him on his coming of age, and found, indeed, a subtle pleasure in the thought that he might really become to the London of his own day what to imperial Neronian Rome the author of the Satyricon once had been, yet in his inmost heart he desired to be something more than a mere _arbiter elegantiarum_, to be consulted on the wearing of a jewel, or the knotting of a necktie, or the conduct of a cane. He sought to elaborate some new scheme of life that would have its reasoned philosophy and its ordered principles, and find in the spiritualizing of the senses its highest realization. The worship of the senses has often, and with much justice, been decried, men feeling a natural instinct of terror about passions and sensations that seem stronger than themselves, and that they are conscious of sharing with the less highly organized forms of existence. But it appeared to Dorian Gray that the true nature of the senses had never been understood, and that they had remained savage and animal merely because the world had sought to starve them into submission or to kill them by pain, instead of aiming at making them elements of a new spirituality, of which a fine instinct for beauty was to be the dominant characteristic. As he looked back upon man moving through history, he was haunted by a feeling of loss. So much had been surrendered! and to such little purpose! There had been mad wilful rejections, monstrous forms of self-torture and self-denial, whose origin was fear and whose result was a degradation infinitely more terrible than that fancied degradation from which, in their ignorance, they had sought to escape; Nature, in her wonderful irony, driving out the anchorite to feed with the wild animals of the desert and giving to the hermit the beasts of the field as his companions. Yes: there was to be, as Lord Henry had prophesied, a new Hedonism that was to recreate life and to save it from that harsh uncomely puritanism that is having, in our own day, its curious revival. It was to have its service of the intellect, certainly, yet it was never to accept any theory or system that would involve the sacrifice of any mode of passionate experience. Its aim, indeed, was to be experience itself, and not the fruits of experience, sweet or bitter as they might be. Of the asceticism that deadens the senses, as of the vulgar profligacy that dulls them, it was to know nothing. But it was to teach man to concentrate himself upon the moments of a life that is itself but a moment. There are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either after one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamoured of death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques, and that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one might fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled with the malady of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep through the curtains, and they appear to tremble. In black fantastic shapes, dumb shadows crawl into the corners of the room and crouch there. Outside, there is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down from the hills and wandering round the silent house, as though it feared to wake the sleepers and yet must needs call forth sleep from her purple cave. Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan mirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we had left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the letter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often. Nothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of joy having its bitterness and the memories of pleasure their pain. It was the creation of such worlds as these that seemed to Dorian Gray to be the true object, or amongst the true objects, of life; and in his search for sensations that would be at once new and delightful, and possess that element of strangeness that is so essential to romance, he would often adopt certain modes of thought that he knew to be really alien to his nature, abandon himself to their subtle influences, and then, having, as it were, caught their colour and satisfied his intellectual curiosity, leave them with that curious indifference that is not incompatible with a real ardour of temperament, and that, indeed, according to certain modern psychologists, is often a condition of it. It was rumoured of him once that he was about to join the Roman Catholic communion, and certainly the Roman ritual had always a great attraction for him. The daily sacrifice, more awful really than all the sacrifices of the antique world, stirred him as much by its superb rejection of the evidence of the senses as by the primitive simplicity of its elements and the eternal pathos of the human tragedy that it sought to symbolize. He loved to kneel down on the cold marble pavement and watch the priest, in his stiff flowered dalmatic, slowly and with white hands moving aside the veil of the tabernacle, or raising aloft the jewelled, lantern-shaped monstrance with that pallid wafer that at times, one would fain think, is indeed the "_panis caelestis_," the bread of angels, or, robed in the garments of the Passion of Christ, breaking the Host into the chalice and smiting his breast for his sins. The fuming censers that the grave boys, in their lace and scarlet, tossed into the air like great gilt flowers had their subtle fascination for him. As he passed out, he used to look with wonder at the black confessionals and long to sit in the dim shadow of one of them and listen to men and women whispering through the worn grating the true story of their lives. But he never fell into the error of arresting his intellectual development by any formal acceptance of creed or system, or of mistaking, for a house in which to live, an inn that is but suitable for the sojourn of a night, or for a few hours of a night in which there are no stars and the moon is in travail. Mysticism, with its marvellous power of making common things strange to us, and the subtle antinomianism that always seems to accompany it, moved him for a season; and for a season he inclined to the materialistic doctrines of the _Darwinismus_ movement in Germany, and found a curious pleasure in tracing the thoughts and passions of men to some pearly cell in the brain, or some white nerve in the body, delighting in the conception of the absolute dependence of the spirit on certain physical conditions, morbid or healthy, normal or diseased. Yet, as has been said of him before, no theory of life seemed to him to be of any importance compared with life itself. He felt keenly conscious of how barren all intellectual speculation is when separated from action and experiment. He knew that the senses, no less than the soul, have their spiritual mysteries to reveal. And so he would now study perfumes and the secrets of their manufacture, distilling heavily scented oils and burning odorous gums from the East. He saw that there was no mood of the mind that had not its counterpart in the sensuous life, and set himself to discover their true relations, wondering what there was in frankincense that made one mystical, and in ambergris that stirred one's passions, and in violets that woke the memory of dead romances, and in musk that troubled the brain, and in champak that stained the imagination; and seeking often to elaborate a real psychology of perfumes, and to estimate the several influences of sweet-smelling roots and scented, pollen-laden flowers; of aromatic balms and of dark and fragrant woods; of spikenard, that sickens; of hovenia, that makes men mad; and of aloes, that are said to be able to expel melancholy from the soul. At another time he devoted himself entirely to music, and in a long latticed room, with a vermilion-and-gold ceiling and walls of olive-green lacquer, he used to give curious concerts in which mad gipsies tore wild music from little zithers, or grave, yellow-shawled Tunisians plucked at the strained strings of monstrous lutes, while grinning Negroes beat monotonously upon copper drums and, crouching upon scarlet mats, slim turbaned Indians blew through long pipes of reed or brass and charmed--or feigned to charm--great hooded snakes and horrible horned adders. The harsh intervals and shrill discords of barbaric music stirred him at times when Schubert's grace, and Chopin's beautiful sorrows, and the mighty harmonies of Beethoven himself, fell unheeded on his ear. He collected together from all parts of the world the strangest instruments that could be found, either in the tombs of dead nations or among the few savage tribes that have survived contact with Western civilizations, and loved to touch and try them. He had the mysterious _juruparis_ of the Rio Negro Indians, that women are not allowed to look at and that even youths may not see till they have been subjected to fasting and scourging, and the earthen jars of the Peruvians that have the shrill cries of birds, and flutes of human bones such as Alfonso de Ovalle heard in Chile, and the sonorous green jaspers that are found near Cuzco and give forth a note of singular sweetness. He had painted gourds filled with pebbles that rattled when they were shaken; the long _clarin_ of the Mexicans, into which the performer does not blow, but through which he inhales the air; the harsh _ture_ of the Amazon tribes, that is sounded by the sentinels who sit all day long in high trees, and can be heard, it is said, at a distance of three leagues; the _teponaztli_, that has two vibrating tongues of wood and is beaten with sticks that are smeared with an elastic gum obtained from the milky juice of plants; the _yotl_-bells of the Aztecs, that are hung in clusters like grapes; and a huge cylindrical drum, covered with the skins of great serpents, like the one that Bernal Diaz saw when he went with Cortes into the Mexican temple, and of whose doleful sound he has left us so vivid a description. The fantastic character of these instruments fascinated him, and he felt a curious delight in the thought that art, like Nature, has her monsters, things of bestial shape and with hideous voices. Yet, after some time, he wearied of them, and would sit in his box at the opera, either alone or with Lord Henry, listening in rapt pleasure to "Tannhauser" and seeing in the prelude to that great work of art a presentation of the tragedy of his own soul. On one occasion he took up the study of jewels, and appeared at a costume ball as Anne de Joyeuse, Admiral of France, in a dress covered with five hundred and sixty pearls. This taste enthralled him for years, and, indeed, may be said never to have left him. He would often spend a whole day settling and resettling in their cases the various stones that he had collected, such as the olive-green chrysoberyl that turns red by lamplight, the cymophane with its wirelike line of silver, the pistachio-coloured peridot, rose-pink and wine-yellow topazes, carbuncles of fiery scarlet with tremulous, four-rayed stars, flame-red cinnamon-stones, orange and violet spinels, and amethysts with their alternate layers of ruby and sapphire. He loved the red gold of the sunstone, and the moonstone's pearly whiteness, and the broken rainbow of the milky opal. He procured from Amsterdam three emeralds of extraordinary size and richness of colour, and had a turquoise _de la vieille roche_ that was the envy of all the connoisseurs. He discovered wonderful stories, also, about jewels. In Alphonso's Clericalis Disciplina a serpent was mentioned with eyes of real jacinth, and in the romantic history of Alexander, the Conqueror of Emathia was said to have found in the vale of Jordan snakes "with collars of real emeralds growing on their backs." There was a gem in the brain of the dragon, Philostratus told us, and "by the exhibition of golden letters and a scarlet robe" the monster could be thrown into a magical sleep and slain. According to the great alchemist, Pierre de Boniface, the diamond rendered a man invisible, and the agate of India made him eloquent. The cornelian appeased anger, and the hyacinth provoked sleep, and the amethyst drove away the fumes of wine. The garnet cast out demons, and the hydropicus deprived the moon of her colour. The selenite waxed and waned with the moon, and the meloceus, that discovers thieves, could be affected only by the blood of kids. Leonardus Camillus had seen a white stone taken from the brain of a newly killed toad, that was a certain antidote against poison. The bezoar, that was found in the heart of the Arabian deer, was a charm that could cure the plague. In the nests of Arabian birds was the aspilates, that, according to Democritus, kept the wearer from any danger by fire. The King of Ceilan rode through his city with a large ruby in his hand, as the ceremony of his coronation. The gates of the palace of John the Priest were "made of sardius, with the horn of the horned snake inwrought, so that no man might bring poison within." Over the gable were "two golden apples, in which were two carbuncles," so that the gold might shine by day and the carbuncles by night. In Lodge's strange romance 'A Margarite of America', it was stated that in the chamber of the queen one could behold "all the chaste ladies of the world, inchased out of silver, looking through fair mirrours of chrysolites, carbuncles, sapphires, and greene emeraults." Marco Polo had seen the inhabitants of Zipangu place rose-coloured pearls in the mouths of the dead. A sea-monster had been enamoured of the pearl that the diver brought to King Perozes, and had slain the thief, and mourned for seven moons over its loss. When the Huns lured the king into the great pit, he flung it away--Procopius tells the story--nor was it ever found again, though the Emperor Anastasius offered five hundred-weight of gold pieces for it. The King of Malabar had shown to a certain Venetian a rosary of three hundred and four pearls, one for every god that he worshipped. When the Duke de Valentinois, son of Alexander VI, visited Louis XII of France, his horse was loaded with gold leaves, according to Brantome, and his cap had double rows of rubies that threw out a great light. Charles of England had ridden in stirrups hung with four hundred and twenty-one diamonds. Richard II had a coat, valued at thirty thousand marks, which was covered with balas rubies. Hall described Henry VIII, on his way to the Tower previous to his coronation, as wearing "a jacket of raised gold, the placard embroidered with diamonds and other rich stones, and a great bauderike about his neck of large balasses." The favourites of James I wore ear-rings of emeralds set in gold filigrane. Edward II gave to Piers Gaveston a suit of red-gold armour studded with jacinths, a collar of gold roses set with turquoise-stones, and a skull-cap _parseme_ with pearls. Henry II wore jewelled gloves reaching to the elbow, and had a hawk-glove sewn with twelve rubies and fifty-two great orients. The ducal hat of Charles the Rash, the last Duke of Burgundy of his race, was hung with pear-shaped pearls and studded with sapphires. How exquisite life had once been! How gorgeous in its pomp and decoration! Even to read of the luxury of the dead was wonderful. Then he turned his attention to embroideries and to the tapestries that performed the office of frescoes in the chill rooms of the northern nations of Europe. As he investigated the subject--and he always had an extraordinary faculty of becoming absolutely absorbed for the moment in whatever he took up--he was almost saddened by the reflection of the ruin that time brought on beautiful and wonderful things. He, at any rate, had escaped that. Summer followed summer, and the yellow jonquils bloomed and died many times, and nights of horror repeated the story of their shame, but he was unchanged. No winter marred his face or stained his flowerlike bloom. How different it was with material things! Where had they passed to? Where was the great crocus-coloured robe, on which the gods fought against the giants, that had been worked by brown girls for the pleasure of Athena? Where the huge velarium that Nero had stretched across the Colosseum at Rome, that Titan sail of purple on which was represented the starry sky, and Apollo driving a chariot drawn by white, gilt-reined steeds? He longed to see the curious table-napkins wrought for the Priest of the Sun, on which were displayed all the dainties and viands that could be wanted for a feast; the mortuary cloth of King Chilperic, with its three hundred golden bees; the fantastic robes that excited the indignation of the Bishop of Pontus and were figured with "lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests, rocks, hunters--all, in fact, that a painter can copy from nature"; and the coat that Charles of Orleans once wore, on the sleeves of which were embroidered the verses of a song beginning "_Madame, je suis tout joyeux_," the musical accompaniment of the words being wrought in gold thread, and each note, of square shape in those days, formed with four pearls. He read of the room that was prepared at the palace at Rheims for the use of Queen Joan of Burgundy and was decorated with "thirteen hundred and twenty-one parrots, made in broidery, and blazoned with the king's arms, and five hundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose wings were similarly ornamented with the arms of the queen, the whole worked in gold." Catherine de Medicis had a mourning-bed made for her of black velvet powdered with crescents and suns. Its curtains were of damask, with leafy wreaths and garlands, figured upon a gold and silver ground, and fringed along the edges with broideries of pearls, and it stood in a room hung with rows of the queen's devices in cut black velvet upon cloth of silver. Louis XIV had gold embroidered caryatides fifteen feet high in his apartment. The state bed of Sobieski, King of Poland, was made of Smyrna gold brocade embroidered in turquoises with verses from the Koran. Its supports were of silver gilt, beautifully chased, and profusely set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. It had been taken from the Turkish camp before Vienna, and the standard of Mohammed had stood beneath the tremulous gilt of its canopy. And so, for a whole year, he sought to accumulate the most exquisite specimens that he could find of textile and embroidered work, getting the dainty Delhi muslins, finely wrought with gold-thread palmates and stitched over with iridescent beetles' wings; the Dacca gauzes, that from their transparency are known in the East as "woven air," and "running water," and "evening dew"; strange figured cloths from Java; elaborate yellow Chinese hangings; books bound in tawny satins or fair blue silks and wrought with _fleurs-de-lis_, birds and images; veils of _lacis_ worked in Hungary point; Sicilian brocades and stiff Spanish velvets; Georgian work, with its gilt coins, and Japanese _Foukousas_, with their green-toned golds and their marvellously plumaged birds. He had a special passion, also, for ecclesiastical vestments, as indeed he had for everything connected with the service of the Church. In the long cedar chests that lined the west gallery of his house, he had stored away many rare and beautiful specimens of what is really the raiment of the Bride of Christ, who must wear purple and jewels and fine linen that she may hide the pallid macerated body that is worn by the suffering that she seeks for and wounded by self-inflicted pain. He possessed a gorgeous cope of crimson silk and gold-thread damask, figured with a repeating pattern of golden pomegranates set in six-petalled formal blossoms, beyond which on either side was the pine-apple device wrought in seed-pearls. The orphreys were divided into panels representing scenes from the life of the Virgin, and the coronation of the Virgin was figured in coloured silks upon the hood. This was Italian work of the fifteenth century. Another cope was of green velvet, embroidered with heart-shaped groups of acanthus-leaves, from which spread long-stemmed white blossoms, the details of which were picked out with silver thread and coloured crystals. The morse bore a seraph's head in gold-thread raised work. The orphreys were woven in a diaper of red and gold silk, and were starred with medallions of many saints and martyrs, among whom was St. Sebastian. He had chasubles, also, of amber-coloured silk, and blue silk and gold brocade, and yellow silk damask and cloth of gold, figured with representations of the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ, and embroidered with lions and peacocks and other emblems; dalmatics of white satin and pink silk damask, decorated with tulips and dolphins and _fleurs-de-lis_; altar frontals of crimson velvet and blue linen; and many corporals, chalice-veils, and sudaria. In the mystic offices to which such things were put, there was something that quickened his imagination. For these treasures, and everything that he collected in his lovely house, were to be to him means of forgetfulness, modes by which he could escape, for a season, from the fear that seemed to him at times to be almost too great to be borne. Upon the walls of the lonely locked room where he had spent so much of his boyhood, he had hung with his own hands the terrible portrait whose changing features showed him the real degradation of his life, and in front of it had draped the purple-and-gold pall as a curtain. For weeks he would not go there, would forget the hideous painted thing, and get back his light heart, his wonderful joyousness, his passionate absorption in mere existence. Then, suddenly, some night he would creep out of the house, go down to dreadful places near Blue Gate Fields, and stay there, day after day, until he was driven away. On his return he would sit in front of the picture, sometimes loathing it and himself, but filled, at other times, with that pride of individualism that is half the fascination of sin, and smiling with secret pleasure at the misshapen shadow that had to bear the burden that should have been his own. After a few years he could not endure to be long out of England, and gave up the villa that he had shared at Trouville with Lord Henry, as well as the little white walled-in house at Algiers where they had more than once spent the winter. He hated to be separated from the picture that was such a part of his life, and was also afraid that during his absence some one might gain access to the room, in spite of the elaborate bars that he had caused to be placed upon the door. He was quite conscious that this would tell them nothing. It was true that the portrait still preserved, under all the foulness and ugliness of the face, its marked likeness to himself; but what could they learn from that? He would laugh at any one who tried to taunt him. He had not painted it. What was it to him how vile and full of shame it looked? Even if he told them, would they believe it? Yet he was afraid. Sometimes when he was down at his great house in Nottinghamshire, entertaining the fashionable young men of his own rank who were his chief companions, and astounding the county by the wanton luxury and gorgeous splendour of his mode of life, he would suddenly leave his guests and rush back to town to see that the door had not been tampered with and that the picture was still there. What if it should be stolen? The mere thought made him cold with horror. Surely the world would know his secret then. Perhaps the world already suspected it. For, while he fascinated many, there were not a few who distrusted him. He was very nearly blackballed at a West End club of which his birth and social position fully entitled him to become a member, and it was said that on one occasion, when he was brought by a friend into the smoking-room of the Churchill, the Duke of Berwick and another gentleman got up in a marked manner and went out. Curious stories became current about him after he had passed his twenty-fifth year. It was rumoured that he had been seen brawling with foreign sailors in a low den in the distant parts of Whitechapel, and that he consorted with thieves and coiners and knew the mysteries of their trade. His extraordinary absences became notorious, and, when he used to reappear again in society, men would whisper to each other in corners, or pass him with a sneer, or look at him with cold searching eyes, as though they were determined to discover his secret. Of such insolences and attempted slights he, of course, took no notice, and in the opinion of most people his frank debonair manner, his charming boyish smile, and the infinite grace of that wonderful youth that seemed never to leave him, were in themselves a sufficient answer to the calumnies, for so they termed them, that were circulated about him. It was remarked, however, that some of those who had been most intimate with him appeared, after a time, to shun him. Women who had wildly adored him, and for his sake had braved all social censure and set convention at defiance, were seen to grow pallid with shame or horror if Dorian Gray entered the room. Yet these whispered scandals only increased in the eyes of many his strange and dangerous charm. His great wealth was a certain element of security. Society--civilized society, at least--is never very ready to believe anything to the detriment of those who are both rich and fascinating. It feels instinctively that manners are of more importance than morals, and, in its opinion, the highest respectability is of much less value than the possession of a good _chef_. And, after all, it is a very poor consolation to be told that the man who has given one a bad dinner, or poor wine, is irreproachable in his private life. Even the cardinal virtues cannot atone for half-cold _entrees_, as Lord Henry remarked once, in a discussion on the subject, and there is possibly a good deal to be said for his view. For the canons of good society are, or should be, the same as the canons of art. Form is absolutely essential to it. It should have the dignity of a ceremony, as well as its unreality, and should combine the insincere character of a romantic play with the wit and beauty that make such plays delightful to us. Is insincerity such a terrible thing? I think not. It is merely a method by which we can multiply our personalities. Such, at any rate, was Dorian Gray's opinion. He used to wonder at the shallow psychology of those who conceive the ego in man as a thing simple, permanent, reliable, and of one essence. To him, man was a being with myriad lives and myriad sensations, a complex multiform creature that bore within itself strange legacies of thought and passion, and whose very flesh was tainted with the monstrous maladies of the dead. He loved to stroll through the gaunt cold picture-gallery of his country house and look at the various portraits of those whose blood flowed in his veins. Here was Philip Herbert, described by Francis Osborne, in his Memoires on the Reigns of Queen Elizabeth and King James, as one who was "caressed by the Court for his handsome face, which kept him not long company." Was it young Herbert's life that he sometimes led? Had some strange poisonous germ crept from body to body till it had reached his own? Was it some dim sense of that ruined grace that had made him so suddenly, and almost without cause, give utterance, in Basil Hallward's studio, to the mad prayer that had so changed his life? Here, in gold-embroidered red doublet, jewelled surcoat, and gilt-edged ruff and wristbands, stood Sir Anthony Sherard, with his silver-and-black armour piled at his feet. What had this man's legacy been? Had the lover of Giovanna of Naples bequeathed him some inheritance of sin and shame? Were his own actions merely the dreams that the dead man had not dared to realize? Here, from the fading canvas, smiled Lady Elizabeth Devereux, in her gauze hood, pearl stomacher, and pink slashed sleeves. A flower was in her right hand, and her left clasped an enamelled collar of white and damask roses. On a table by her side lay a mandolin and an apple. There were large green rosettes upon her little pointed shoes. He knew her life, and the strange stories that were told about her lovers. Had he something of her temperament in him? These oval, heavy-lidded eyes seemed to look curiously at him. What of George Willoughby, with his powdered hair and fantastic patches? How evil he looked! The face was saturnine and swarthy, and the sensual lips seemed to be twisted with disdain. Delicate lace ruffles fell over the lean yellow hands that were so overladen with rings. He had been a macaroni of the eighteenth century, and the friend, in his youth, of Lord Ferrars. What of the second Lord Beckenham, the companion of the Prince Regent in his wildest days, and one of the witnesses at the secret marriage with Mrs. Fitzherbert? How proud and handsome he was, with his chestnut curls and insolent pose! What passions had he bequeathed? The world had looked upon him as infamous. He had led the orgies at Carlton House. The star of the Garter glittered upon his breast. Beside him hung the portrait of his wife, a pallid, thin-lipped woman in black. Her blood, also, stirred within him. How curious it all seemed! And his mother with her Lady Hamilton face and her moist, wine-dashed lips--he knew what he had got from her. He had got from her his beauty, and his passion for the beauty of others. She laughed at him in her loose Bacchante dress. There were vine leaves in her hair. The purple spilled from the cup she was holding. The carnations of the painting had withered, but the eyes were still wonderful in their depth and brilliancy of colour. They seemed to follow him wherever he went. Yet one had ancestors in literature as well as in one's own race, nearer perhaps in type and temperament, many of them, and certainly with an influence of which one was more absolutely conscious. There were times when it appeared to Dorian Gray that the whole of history was merely the record of his own life, not as he had lived it in act and circumstance, but as his imagination had created it for him, as it had been in his brain and in his passions. He felt that he had known them all, those strange terrible figures that had passed across the stage of the world and made sin so marvellous and evil so full of subtlety. It seemed to him that in some mysterious way their lives had been his own. The hero of the wonderful novel that had so influenced his life had himself known this curious fancy. In the seventh chapter he tells how, crowned with laurel, lest lightning might strike him, he had sat, as Tiberius, in a garden at Capri, reading the shameful books of Elephantis, while dwarfs and peacocks strutted round him and the flute-player mocked the swinger of the censer; and, as Caligula, had caroused with the green-shirted jockeys in their stables and supped in an ivory manger with a jewel-frontleted horse; and, as Domitian, had wandered through a corridor lined with marble mirrors, looking round with haggard eyes for the reflection of the dagger that was to end his days, and sick with that ennui, that terrible _taedium vitae_, that comes on those to whom life denies nothing; and had peered through a clear emerald at the red shambles of the circus and then, in a litter of pearl and purple drawn by silver-shod mules, been carried through the Street of Pomegranates to a House of Gold and heard men cry on Nero Caesar as he passed by; and, as Elagabalus, had painted his face with colours, and plied the distaff among the women, and brought the Moon from Carthage and given her in mystic marriage to the Sun. Over and over again Dorian used to read this fantastic chapter, and the two chapters immediately following, in which, as in some curious tapestries or cunningly wrought enamels, were pictured the awful and beautiful forms of those whom vice and blood and weariness had made monstrous or mad: Filippo, Duke of Milan, who slew his wife and painted her lips with a scarlet poison that her lover might suck death from the dead thing he fondled; Pietro Barbi, the Venetian, known as Paul the Second, who sought in his vanity to assume the title of Formosus, and whose tiara, valued at two hundred thousand florins, was bought at the price of a terrible sin; Gian Maria Visconti, who used hounds to chase living men and whose murdered body was covered with roses by a harlot who had loved him; the Borgia on his white horse, with Fratricide riding beside him and his mantle stained with the blood of Perotto; Pietro Riario, the young Cardinal Archbishop of Florence, child and minion of Sixtus IV, whose beauty was equalled only by his debauchery, and who received Leonora of Aragon in a pavilion of white and crimson silk, filled with nymphs and centaurs, and gilded a boy that he might serve at the feast as Ganymede or Hylas; Ezzelin, whose melancholy could be cured only by the spectacle of death, and who had a passion for red blood, as other men have for red wine--the son of the Fiend, as was reported, and one who had cheated his father at dice when gambling with him for his own soul; Giambattista Cibo, who in mockery took the name of Innocent and into whose torpid veins the blood of three lads was infused by a Jewish doctor; Sigismondo Malatesta, the lover of Isotta and the lord of Rimini, whose effigy was burned at Rome as the enemy of God and man, who strangled Polyssena with a napkin, and gave poison to Ginevra d'Este in a cup of emerald, and in honour of a shameful passion built a pagan church for Christian worship; Charles VI, who had so wildly adored his brother's wife that a leper had warned him of the insanity that was coming on him, and who, when his brain had sickened and grown strange, could only be soothed by Saracen cards painted with the images of love and death and madness; and, in his trimmed jerkin and jewelled cap and acanthuslike curls, Grifonetto Baglioni, who slew Astorre with his bride, and Simonetto with his page, and whose comeliness was such that, as he lay dying in the yellow piazza of Perugia, those who had hated him could not choose but weep, and Atalanta, who had cursed him, blessed him. There was a horrible fascination in them all. He saw them at night, and they troubled his imagination in the day. The Renaissance knew of strange manners of poisoning--poisoning by a helmet and a lighted torch, by an embroidered glove and a jewelled fan, by a gilded pomander and by an amber chain. Dorian Gray had been poisoned by a book. There were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could realize his conception of the beautiful.

Chapter 11

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219150422/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/summary-and-analysis/chapter-11

As the chapter begins, the narrator announces that years have passed. Dorian has spent the time developing his credo of life under the influence of the yellow book and, to a lesser degree now, Lord Henry. Dorian's licentious behavior is the source of people's gossip, but those who see him in person dismiss such gossip because the "purity of his face" makes such tales seem impossible. Often, Dorian creeps up to the attic to look at the figure in the portrait, now bloated, ugly, and aged. On such occasions, he laughingly contrasts his face in a mirror with that in the painting. If anything, he has become even more enamored with his good looks. He has "mad hungers" that become "more ravenous" as he feeds them. At times he takes a room in a shabby tavern by the docks, disguising himself and using an assumed name. However, he observes his obligations in polite society and is idolized by many of the young men of his class because he lives his life surrounded by beauty. His life is his primary and most important work of art. Dorian seeks a "new Hedonism" to combat the Puritanism of Victorian England. He wants life without obligation or regret, and he is not terribly concerned if others are hurt along the way. Rumors grow as Dorian passes his twenty-fifth year and approaches thirty. Many find him charming; others shun him. His face, however, reveals no debauchery. His appearance is innocent. Only his soul has been "poisoned by a book."

The bulk of Chapter 11 lists, page after page, the various pursuits of Dorian's adult life. In these lists, Wilde shows the result of Dorian's chosen path. The reader sees the peculiar kind of hell that Dorian inhabits because of his pact; Wilde delivers a strong judgement against the dangers of decadence. The lengthy passages describing Dorian's study of perfumes, music, jewels, and embroideries border on being tedious. Wilde was too good a writer to include these passages merely to show off his knowledge of these subjects. These overly-detailed passages transport the reader into the world that Dorian has created for himself, one in which the passionate pursuit of pleasure has become a monotonous, vain, never-ending stream of meaningless and trivial debauchery. No matter how much Dorian indulges his passions, he is never satisfied. By the end of the chapter, the narrator states of Dorian, "There were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could realise his conception of the beautiful." Dorian's life seems to be one of floating from one passion to the next, completely at his own whim. And yet, he remains tethered to the portrait and his fear that his secret will be discovered. He lives in a gilded cage, a prisoner of his passions and his fears. Glossary Dante Dante Alighieri , Italian poet; author of The Divine Comedy. Eton Eton College, a school for boys in Buckinghamshire, England. fop a dandy; a man excessively concerned about his clothes and appearance to the exclusion of deeper values. Satyricon "Book of Satyrlike Adventures"; a first-century-A.D. comic novel attributed to Petronius. arbiter elegantiarum Latin, "judge of elegance." anchorite a religious recluse. panis caelistis Latin, "bread of Heaven." de la vieille roche French, "of the old rock." Schubert Franz Schubert , Austrian composer. Chopin Frederick Francois Chopin , Polish pianist and composer; resident in France from 1829 until his death. Beethoven Ludwig van Beethoven , German composer. Madame, je suis tout joyeux French, "Madam, I am quite happy." entrees French, "entries"; in North America, it is the main dish of the meal; in England, during Wilde's era, it was a dish served between the meat and fish courses. taedium vitae Latin, "tedium of life." sentinel one who keeps guard; a sentry. alchemist one who tries to turn base metals into gold. ascetic a person who renounces comforts to live a life of self-disci-pline, sometimes for a religious reason. fresco the art of painting on fresh, moist plaster with earth colors dissolved in water and pressed into the plaster. calumnies false statements meant to injure someone. macaroni here, a term used in eighteenth-century England to describe a well-to-do young man who dressed in Continental fashions rather than in staid, bland English clothing.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/04.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Prince/section_1_part_4.txt

The Prince.chapter iv

chapter iv

{"name": "Chapter IV", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210303115306/https://www.sparknotes.com/philosophy/prince/section2/", "summary": "Why Alexander's Successors Were Able to Keep Possession of Darius' Kingdom after Alexander's Death There are two ways to govern a principality. The first involves a prince and appointed ministers. While the ministers help govern, everyone remains subservient to the prince. The second way involves a prince and nobles. Nobles are not appointed by the prince, but they benefit from their ancient lineage and have subjects of their own. Of both these scenarios, the prince is regarded as being much stronger if he uses ministers, since he is the only ruler in the country. It is much harder to take over a country if a prince uses ministers, because ministers have little incentive to be corrupted by foreign powers or to turn on their prince. Furthermore, even if they were to turn against the prince, they would not be able to muster support from any subjects because they hold no personal loyalties. It is easier to conquer a country governed with the cooperation of nobles, because finding a discontented noble eager for change is always possible. Moreover, nobles command the loyalty of their own subjects, so a corrupted noble will corrupt the support of his subjects. Although it is easier to take over a state ruled by nobles, it is much harder to maintain control of that state. In a state ruled by nobles, it is not enough to kill the former ruler's family, because the nobles will still be around to revolt. Holding onto a state with ministers is much easier, because it merely requires killing off the one prince and his family. Machiavelli asserts that the rules he proposes are consistent with historical evidence, such as Alexander's successful conquest of Asia and the rebellions against the Romans in Spain, France, and Greece.", "analysis": "Machiavelli builds his case through a combination of historical examples and methodical argument. The first step in his argument is to establish the terms and categories that he will use to make sense out of the multitude of different political situations that exist in the real world. The clear-cut distinctions Machiavelli makes between different kinds of states--beginning with principalities and republics--are very effective insofar as they enable him to present his ideas clearly and concisely. Whether his categories do justice to the complexity of political history is a different question. Machiavelli creates an impression of directness and practicality by presenting the world in simple, clearly defined terms. At the same time, Machiavelli does not rely heavily on theory or abstract thought to make his points; these chapters illustrate his reliance on history as the basis for his theory of government. He sets out to answer the question \"How best can a ruler maintain control of his state. His response, a set of empirically verifiable rules and guidelines, is derived from a study of the conquests of the past, especially those of the French, the Romans, and the Greeks. One important difference between Machiavelli's philosophy and other philosophies of government lies in his description of the ordinary subject. Aristotle's political writings describe a citizenry that is by nature political and very interested in the welfare of the community. Though Aristotle disregards the majority of people who live within the Greek city-state--women and slaves--he considers the free citizens to be the very reason for the state's existence. Machiavelli, on the other hand, sees the ordinary citizen as a piddling, simpleminded creature. Such people will either love or hate their ruler, depending on whether they are harmed or injured, but as long as the prince can maintain control, he need have little concern for their welfare. Thus, the purpose of government is not the good of the people but the stability of the state and the perpetuation of the established ruler's control. Machiavelli does not concern himself with what goes on inside the state but what occurs externally. A successful prince must always be aware of foreign powers and the threat of invasion. A focus on power diplomacy and warcraft, at the expense of domestic affairs, is a distinctive element of Machiavelli's project. Finally, the guidelines set forth in The Prince have often been characterized as \"amoral\" because some of Machiavelli's advice--killing off the family of the former ruler, the violent suppression of revolts and insurrections--seems cruel, brutal, and perhaps downright evil. Whereas the ancient Greeks conceived of a close relationship between ethics and politics, Machiavelli seems to separate these disciplines altogether. Nonetheless, to deny that Machiavelli's political theory accommodates any form of morality and ethics would be inaccurate. For example, religion does play a role in Machiavelli's state. Moreover, although Machiavelli does not use the words \"ethical\" or \"moral\" as such, later chapters of The Prince suggest that rulers have duties or obligations that could be considered ethical or moral"}

Considering the difficulties which men have had to hold to a newly acquired state, some might wonder how, seeing that Alexander the Great became the master of Asia in a few years, and died whilst it was scarcely settled (whence it might appear reasonable that the whole empire would have rebelled), nevertheless his successors maintained themselves, and had to meet no other difficulty than that which arose among themselves from their own ambitions. I answer that the principalities of which one has record are found to be governed in two different ways; either by a prince, with a body of servants, who assist him to govern the kingdom as ministers by his favour and permission; or by a prince and barons, who hold that dignity by antiquity of blood and not by the grace of the prince. Such barons have states and their own subjects, who recognize them as lords and hold them in natural affection. Those states that are governed by a prince and his servants hold their prince in more consideration, because in all the country there is no one who is recognized as superior to him, and if they yield obedience to another they do it as to a minister and official, and they do not bear him any particular affection. The examples of these two governments in our time are the Turk and the King of France. The entire monarchy of the Turk is governed by one lord, the others are his servants; and, dividing his kingdom into sanjaks, he sends there different administrators, and shifts and changes them as he chooses. But the King of France is placed in the midst of an ancient body of lords, acknowledged by their own subjects, and beloved by them; they have their own prerogatives, nor can the king take these away except at his peril. Therefore, he who considers both of these states will recognize great difficulties in seizing the state of the Turk, but, once it is conquered, great ease in holding it. The causes of the difficulties in seizing the kingdom of the Turk are that the usurper cannot be called in by the princes of the kingdom, nor can he hope to be assisted in his designs by the revolt of those whom the lord has around him. This arises from the reasons given above; for his ministers, being all slaves and bondmen, can only be corrupted with great difficulty, and one can expect little advantage from them when they have been corrupted, as they cannot carry the people with them, for the reasons assigned. Hence, he who attacks the Turk must bear in mind that he will find him united, and he will have to rely more on his own strength than on the revolt of others; but, if once the Turk has been conquered, and routed in the field in such a way that he cannot replace his armies, there is nothing to fear but the family of this prince, and, this being exterminated, there remains no one to fear, the others having no credit with the people; and as the conqueror did not rely on them before his victory, so he ought not to fear them after it. The contrary happens in kingdoms governed like that of France, because one can easily enter there by gaining over some baron of the kingdom, for one always finds malcontents and such as desire a change. Such men, for the reasons given, can open the way into the state and render the victory easy; but if you wish to hold it afterwards, you meet with infinite difficulties, both from those who have assisted you and from those you have crushed. Nor is it enough for you to have exterminated the family of the prince, because the lords that remain make themselves the heads of fresh movements against you, and as you are unable either to satisfy or exterminate them, that state is lost whenever time brings the opportunity. Now if you will consider what was the nature of the government of Darius, you will find it similar to the kingdom of the Turk, and therefore it was only necessary for Alexander, first to overthrow him in the field, and then to take the country from him. After which victory, Darius being killed, the state remained secure to Alexander, for the above reasons. And if his successors had been united they would have enjoyed it securely and at their ease, for there were no tumults raised in the kingdom except those they provoked themselves. But it is impossible to hold with such tranquillity states constituted like that of France. Hence arose those frequent rebellions against the Romans in Spain, France, and Greece, owing to the many principalities there were in these states, of which, as long as the memory of them endured, the Romans always held an insecure possession; but with the power and long continuance of the empire the memory of them passed away, and the Romans then became secure possessors. And when fighting afterwards amongst themselves, each one was able to attach to himself his own parts of the country, according to the authority he had assumed there; and the family of the former lord being exterminated, none other than the Romans were acknowledged. When these things are remembered no one will marvel at the ease with which Alexander held the Empire of Asia, or at the difficulties which others have had to keep an acquisition, such as Pyrrhus and many more; this is not occasioned by the little or abundance of ability in the conqueror, but by the want of uniformity in the subject state.

Chapter IV

https://web.archive.org/web/20210303115306/https://www.sparknotes.com/philosophy/prince/section2/

Why Alexander's Successors Were Able to Keep Possession of Darius' Kingdom after Alexander's Death There are two ways to govern a principality. The first involves a prince and appointed ministers. While the ministers help govern, everyone remains subservient to the prince. The second way involves a prince and nobles. Nobles are not appointed by the prince, but they benefit from their ancient lineage and have subjects of their own. Of both these scenarios, the prince is regarded as being much stronger if he uses ministers, since he is the only ruler in the country. It is much harder to take over a country if a prince uses ministers, because ministers have little incentive to be corrupted by foreign powers or to turn on their prince. Furthermore, even if they were to turn against the prince, they would not be able to muster support from any subjects because they hold no personal loyalties. It is easier to conquer a country governed with the cooperation of nobles, because finding a discontented noble eager for change is always possible. Moreover, nobles command the loyalty of their own subjects, so a corrupted noble will corrupt the support of his subjects. Although it is easier to take over a state ruled by nobles, it is much harder to maintain control of that state. In a state ruled by nobles, it is not enough to kill the former ruler's family, because the nobles will still be around to revolt. Holding onto a state with ministers is much easier, because it merely requires killing off the one prince and his family. Machiavelli asserts that the rules he proposes are consistent with historical evidence, such as Alexander's successful conquest of Asia and the rebellions against the Romans in Spain, France, and Greece.

Machiavelli builds his case through a combination of historical examples and methodical argument. The first step in his argument is to establish the terms and categories that he will use to make sense out of the multitude of different political situations that exist in the real world. The clear-cut distinctions Machiavelli makes between different kinds of states--beginning with principalities and republics--are very effective insofar as they enable him to present his ideas clearly and concisely. Whether his categories do justice to the complexity of political history is a different question. Machiavelli creates an impression of directness and practicality by presenting the world in simple, clearly defined terms. At the same time, Machiavelli does not rely heavily on theory or abstract thought to make his points; these chapters illustrate his reliance on history as the basis for his theory of government. He sets out to answer the question "How best can a ruler maintain control of his state. His response, a set of empirically verifiable rules and guidelines, is derived from a study of the conquests of the past, especially those of the French, the Romans, and the Greeks. One important difference between Machiavelli's philosophy and other philosophies of government lies in his description of the ordinary subject. Aristotle's political writings describe a citizenry that is by nature political and very interested in the welfare of the community. Though Aristotle disregards the majority of people who live within the Greek city-state--women and slaves--he considers the free citizens to be the very reason for the state's existence. Machiavelli, on the other hand, sees the ordinary citizen as a piddling, simpleminded creature. Such people will either love or hate their ruler, depending on whether they are harmed or injured, but as long as the prince can maintain control, he need have little concern for their welfare. Thus, the purpose of government is not the good of the people but the stability of the state and the perpetuation of the established ruler's control. Machiavelli does not concern himself with what goes on inside the state but what occurs externally. A successful prince must always be aware of foreign powers and the threat of invasion. A focus on power diplomacy and warcraft, at the expense of domestic affairs, is a distinctive element of Machiavelli's project. Finally, the guidelines set forth in The Prince have often been characterized as "amoral" because some of Machiavelli's advice--killing off the family of the former ruler, the violent suppression of revolts and insurrections--seems cruel, brutal, and perhaps downright evil. Whereas the ancient Greeks conceived of a close relationship between ethics and politics, Machiavelli seems to separate these disciplines altogether. Nonetheless, to deny that Machiavelli's political theory accommodates any form of morality and ethics would be inaccurate. For example, religion does play a role in Machiavelli's state. Moreover, although Machiavelli does not use the words "ethical" or "moral" as such, later chapters of The Prince suggest that rulers have duties or obligations that could be considered ethical or moral

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/71.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_70_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 2.chapter 41

part 2, chapter 41

{"name": "Part 2, Chapter 41", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-41", "summary": "The day of the trial arrives. Nearly the entire countryside has come out for the spectacle. The vicar-general assures Mathilde that there's no way Julien will get the death penalty. When it comes time for Julien to defend himself, though, he stands up and says all the same stuff he's been saying all along about wanting to kill Madame de Renal. And for good measure, he uses his moment in the spotlight to tell all the fashionable people of France just how superficial and empty their souls are. As you can imagine, this doesn't go over well with the jury.", "analysis": ""}

CHAPTER LXXI THE TRIAL The country will remember this celebrated case for a long time. The interest in the accused amounted to an agitation. The reason was that his crime was astonishing, and yet not atrocious. Even if it had been, this young man was so handsome. His brilliant career, that came to an end so early in his life, intensified the pathos. "Will they condemn him?" the women asked of the men of their acquaintance, and they could be seen to grow pale as they waited for the answer.--_Sainte Beuve_. The day that madame de Renal and Mathilde feared so much arrived at last. Their terror was intensified by the strange appearance of the town, which had its emotional effect even upon Fouque's sturdy soul. All the province had rushed to Besancon to see the trial of this romantic case. There had been no room left in the inns for some days. M. the president of the assizes, was besieged by requests for tickets; all the ladies in the town wanted to be present at the trial. Julien's portrait was hawked about the streets, etc., etc. Mathilde was keeping in reserve for this supreme moment a complete autograph letter from my lord, bishop of ----. This prelate, who governed the Church of France and created its bishops, was good enough to ask for Julien's acquittal. On the eve of the trial, Mathilde took this letter to the all-powerful grand vicar. When she was going away in tears at the end of the interview, M. de Frilair at last emerged from his diplomatic reserve and almost shewed some emotion himself. "I will be responsible for the jury's verdict," he said to her. "Out of the twelve persons charged with the investigation of whether your friend's crime is made out, and above all, whether there was premeditation, I can count six friends who are devoted to my fortunes, and I have given them to understand that they have it in their power to promote me to the episcopate. Baron Valenod, whom I have made mayor of Verrieres, can do just as he likes with two of his officials, MM. de Moirod, and de Cholin. As a matter of fact, fate has given us for this business two jurymen of extremely loose views; but, although ultra-Liberals, they are faithful to my orders on great occasions, and I have requested them to vote like M. Valenod. I have learnt that a sixth juryman, a manufacturer, who is immensely rich, and a garrulous Liberal into the bargain, has secret aspirations for a contract with the War Office, and doubtless he would not like to displease me. I have had him told that M. de Valenod knows my final injunctions." "And who is this M. Valenod?" said Mathilde, anxiously. "If you knew him, you could not doubt our success. He is an audacious speaker, coarse, impudent, with a natural gift for managing fools. 1814 saw him in low water, and I am going to make a prefect of him. He is capable of beating the other jurymen if they do not vote his way." Mathilde felt a little reassured. Another discussion awaited her in the evening. To avoid the prolongation of an unpleasant scene, the result of which, in his view, was absolutely certain, Julien had resolved not to make a speech. "My advocate will speak," he said to Mathilde. "I shall figure too long anyway as a laughing-stock to all my enemies. These provincials have been shocked by the rapidity of my success, for which I have to thank you, and believe me, there is not one of them who does not desire my conviction, though he would be quite ready to cry like an idiot when I am taken to my death." "They desire to see you humiliated. That is only too true," answered Mathilde, "but I do not think they are at all cruel. My presence at Besancon, and the sight of my sufferings have interested all the women; your handsome face will do the rest. If you say a few words to your judges, the whole audience will be on your side, etc., etc." At nine o'clock on the following day, when Julien left his prison for the great hall of the Palais de Justice, the gendarmes had much difficulty in driving away the immense crowd that was packed in the courtyard. Julien had slept well. He was very calm, and experienced no other sentiment except a sense of philosophic pity towards that crowd of jealous creatures who were going to applaud his death sentence, though without cruelty. He was very surprised when, having been detained in the middle of the crowd more than a quarter of an hour, he was obliged to admit that his presence affected the public with a tender pity. He did not hear a single unpleasant remark. "These provincials are less evil than I thought," he said to himself. As he entered the courtroom, he was struck by the elegance of the architecture. It was real Gothic, with a number of pretty little columns hewn out of stone with the utmost care. He thought himself in England. But his attention was soon engrossed by twelve or fifteen pretty women, who sat exactly opposite the prisoner's seat and filled the three balconies above the judges and the jury. As he turned round towards the public, he saw that the circular gallery that dominated the amphitheatre was filled with women, the majority were young and seemed very pretty, their eyes were shining and full of interest. The crowd was enormous throughout the rest of the room. People were knocking against the door, and the janitors could not obtain silence. When all the eyes that were looking for Julien observed where he was, and saw him occupying the slightly raised place which is reserved for the prisoner, he was greeted by a murmur of astonishment and tender interest. You would have taken him for under twenty on this day. He was dressed very simply, but with a perfect grace. His hair and his forehead were charming. Mathilde had insisted on officiating personally at his toilette. Julien's pallor was extreme. Scarcely was he seated in this place than he heard people say all over the room, "Great heavens! how young he is!... But he's quite a child!... He is much better than his portrait." "Prisoner," said the gendarme who was sitting on his right, "do you see those six ladies in that balcony?" The gendarme pointed out a little gallery that jutted out over the amphitheatre where the jury were placed. "That's madame, the prefect's wife," continued the gendarme. "Next to her, madame the marquise de M----. She likes you well: I have heard her speak to the judge of first instance. Next to her is madame Derville." "Madame Derville!" exclaimed Julien, and a vivid blush spread over his forehead. "When she leaves here," he thought, "she will write to madame de Renal." He was ignorant of madame de Renal's arrival at Besancon. The witnesses were quickly heard. After the first words of the opening of the prosecution by the advocate-general, two of the ladies in the little balcony just opposite Julien burst into tears. Julien noticed that madame Derville did not break down at all. He remarked, however, that she was very red. The advocate-general was indulging in melodrama in bad French over the barbarity of the crime that had been perpetrated. Julien noticed that madame Derville's neighbours seemed to manifest a keen disapproval. Several jurors, who were apparently acquainted with the ladies, spoke to them and seemed to reassure them. "So far as it goes, that is certainly a good omen," thought Julien. Up to the present, he had felt himself steeped in an unadulterated contempt for all the persons who were present at the trial. This sentiment of disgust was intensified by the stale eloquence of the advocate-general. But the coldness of Julien's soul gradually disappeared before the marks of interest of which he was evidently the object. He was satisfied with the sturdy demeanour of his advocate. "No phrases," he said to him in a whisper, as he was about to commence his speech. "All the bombast which our opponent has stolen from Bossuet and lavished upon you," said the advocate, "has done you good." As a matter of fact, he had scarcely spoken for five minutes before practically all the women had their handkerchiefs in their hands. The advocate was encouraged, and addressed some extremely strong remarks to the jury. Julien shuddered. He felt on the point of breaking into tears. "My God," he thought, "what would my enemies say?" He was on the point of succumbing to the emotion which was overcoming him, when, luckily for him, he surprised an insolent look from M. the baron de Valenod. "That rogue's eyes are gleaming," he said to himself "What a triumph for that base soul! If my crime had only produced this one result, it would be my duty to curse it. God knows what he will say about it to madame de Renal." This idea effaced all others. Shortly afterwards Julien was brought back to reality by the public's manifestation of applause. The advocate had just finished his speech. Julien remembered that it was good form to shake hands with him. The time had passed rapidly. They brought in refreshments for the advocate and the prisoner. It was only then that Julien was struck by the fact that none of the women had left the audience to go and get dinner. "Upon my word, I am dying of hunger," said the advocate. "And you?" "I, too," answered Julien. "See, there's madame, the prefect's wife, who is also getting her dinner," said the advocate, as he pointed out the little balcony. "Keep up your courage; everything is going all right." The court sat again. Midnight struck as the president was summing up. The president was obliged to pause in his remarks. Amid the silence and the anxiety of all present, the reverberation of the clock filled the hall. "So my last day is now beginning," thought Julien. He soon felt inflamed by the idea of his duty. Up to the present he had controlled his emotion and had kept his resolution not to speak. When the president of the assizes asked him if he had anything to add, he got up. He saw in front of him the eyes of madame Derville, which seemed very brilliant in the artificial light. "Can she by any chance be crying?" he thought. "Gentlemen of the jury! "I am induced to speak by my fear of that contempt which I thought, at the very moment of my death, I should be able to defy. Gentlemen, I have not the honour of belonging to your class. You behold in me a peasant who has rebelled against the meanness of his fortune. "I do not ask you for any pardon," continued Julien, with a firmer note in his voice. "I am under no illusions. Death awaits me; it will be just. I have brought myself to make an attempt on the life of the woman who is most worthy of all reverence and all respect. Madame de Renal was a mother to me. My crime was atrocious, and it was premeditated. Consequently, I have deserved death, gentlemen of the jury. But even if I were not so guilty, I see among you men who, without a thought for any pity that may be due to my youth, would like to use me as a means for punishing and discouraging for ever that class of young man who, though born in an inferior class, and to some extent oppressed by poverty, have none the less been fortunate enough to obtain a good education, and bold enough to mix with what the pride of the rich calls Society. "That is my crime, gentlemen, and it will be punished with even more severity, inasmuch as, in fact, I am very far from being judged by my peers. I do not see on the jury benches any peasant who has made money, but only indignant bourgeois...." Julien talked in this strain for twenty minutes. He said everything he had on his mind. The advocate-general, who aspired to the favours of the aristocracy, writhed in his seat. But in spite of the somewhat abstract turn which Julien had given to his speech, all the women burst out into tears. Even madame Derville put her handkerchief to her eyes. Before finishing, Julien alluded again to the fact of his premeditation, to his repentance, and to the respect and unbounded filial admiration which, in happier days, he had entertained for madame de Renal.... Madame Derville gave a cry and fainted. One o'clock was striking when the jury retired to their room. None of the women had left their places; several men had tears in their eyes. The conversations were at first very animated, but, as there was a delay in the verdict of the jury, their general fatigue gradually began to invest the gathering with an atmosphere of calm. It was a solemn moment; the lights grew less brilliant. Julien, who was very tired, heard people around him debating the question of whether this delay was a good or a bad omen. He was pleased to see that all the wishes were for him. The jury did not come back, and yet not a woman left the court. When two o'clock had struck, a great movement was heard. The little door of the jury room opened. M. the baron de Valenod advanced with a slow and melodramatic step. He was followed by all the jurors. He coughed, and then declared on his soul and conscience that the jury's unanimous verdict was that Julien Sorel was guilty of murder, and of murder with premeditation. This verdict involved the death penalty, which was pronounced a moment afterwards. Julien looked at his watch, and remembered M. de Lavalette. It was a quarter past two. "To-day is Friday," he thought. "Yes, but this day is lucky for the Valenod who has got me convicted.... I am watched too well for Mathilde to manage to save me like madame de Lavalette saved her husband.... So in three days' time, at this very hour, I shall know what view to take about the great perhaps." At this moment he heard a cry and was called back to the things of this world. The women around him were sobbing: he saw that all faces were turned towards a little gallery built into the crowning of a Gothic pilaster. He knew later that Mathilde had concealed herself there. As the cry was not repeated, everybody began to look at Julien again, as the gendarmes were trying to get him through the crowd. "Let us try not to give that villain Valenod any chance of laughing at me," thought Julien. "With what a contrite sycophantic expression he pronounced the verdict which entails the death penalty, while that poor president of the assizes, although he has been a judge for years and years, had tears in his eyes as he sentenced me. What a joy the Valenod must find in revenging himself for our former rivalry for madame de Renal's favors! ... So I shall never see her again! The thing is finished.... A last good-bye between us is impossible--I feel it.... How happy I should have been to have told her all the horror I feel for my crime! "Mere words. I consider myself justly convicted."

Part 2, Chapter 41

https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-41

The day of the trial arrives. Nearly the entire countryside has come out for the spectacle. The vicar-general assures Mathilde that there's no way Julien will get the death penalty. When it comes time for Julien to defend himself, though, he stands up and says all the same stuff he's been saying all along about wanting to kill Madame de Renal. And for good measure, he uses his moment in the spotlight to tell all the fashionable people of France just how superficial and empty their souls are. As you can imagine, this doesn't go over well with the jury.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/04.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_3_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 4

chapter 4

{"name": "Chapter 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-4", "summary": "Let's fastforward folks. Sometime later, we find Jim in a courtroom at an inquest, or trial. Our man is on the stand, and he's testifying about what happened the night the Patna hit whatever it was that it hit in Chapter 3. He explains that he examined the ship after impact and found a hole. That doesn't sound promising. The poor Jim starts to ramble, so the judges have to cut him off. Answer \"yes\" or \"no,\" they tell him. An embarrassed Jim shuts up right quick. That's when he notices a white man in the courtroom who keeps watching him. Who is this guy? And why does he keep showing up? As it turns out, this dude is Marlow, who will be taking over the storytelling shortly.", "analysis": ""}

A month or so afterwards, when Jim, in answer to pointed questions, tried to tell honestly the truth of this experience, he said, speaking of the ship: 'She went over whatever it was as easy as a snake crawling over a stick.' The illustration was good: the questions were aiming at facts, and the official Inquiry was being held in the police court of an Eastern port. He stood elevated in the witness-box, with burning cheeks in a cool lofty room: the big framework of punkahs moved gently to and fro high above his head, and from below many eyes were looking at him out of dark faces, out of white faces, out of red faces, out of faces attentive, spellbound, as if all these people sitting in orderly rows upon narrow benches had been enslaved by the fascination of his voice. It was very loud, it rang startling in his own ears, it was the only sound audible in the world, for the terribly distinct questions that extorted his answers seemed to shape themselves in anguish and pain within his breast,--came to him poignant and silent like the terrible questioning of one's conscience. Outside the court the sun blazed--within was the wind of great punkahs that made you shiver, the shame that made you burn, the attentive eyes whose glance stabbed. The face of the presiding magistrate, clean shaved and impassible, looked at him deadly pale between the red faces of the two nautical assessors. The light of a broad window under the ceiling fell from above on the heads and shoulders of the three men, and they were fiercely distinct in the half-light of the big court-room where the audience seemed composed of staring shadows. They wanted facts. Facts! They demanded facts from him, as if facts could explain anything! 'After you had concluded you had collided with something floating awash, say a water-logged wreck, you were ordered by your captain to go forward and ascertain if there was any damage done. Did you think it likely from the force of the blow?' asked the assessor sitting to the left. He had a thin horseshoe beard, salient cheek-bones, and with both elbows on the desk clasped his rugged hands before his face, looking at Jim with thoughtful blue eyes; the other, a heavy, scornful man, thrown back in his seat, his left arm extended full length, drummed delicately with his finger-tips on a blotting-pad: in the middle the magistrate upright in the roomy arm-chair, his head inclined slightly on the shoulder, had his arms crossed on his breast and a few flowers in a glass vase by the side of his inkstand. 'I did not,' said Jim. 'I was told to call no one and to make no noise for fear of creating a panic. I thought the precaution reasonable. I took one of the lamps that were hung under the awnings and went forward. After opening the forepeak hatch I heard splashing in there. I lowered then the lamp the whole drift of its lanyard, and saw that the forepeak was more than half full of water already. I knew then there must be a big hole below the water-line.' He paused. 'Yes,' said the big assessor, with a dreamy smile at the blotting-pad; his fingers played incessantly, touching the paper without noise. 'I did not think of danger just then. I might have been a little startled: all this happened in such a quiet way and so very suddenly. I knew there was no other bulkhead in the ship but the collision bulkhead separating the forepeak from the forehold. I went back to tell the captain. I came upon the second engineer getting up at the foot of the bridge-ladder: he seemed dazed, and told me he thought his left arm was broken; he had slipped on the top step when getting down while I was forward. He exclaimed, "My God! That rotten bulkhead'll give way in a minute, and the damned thing will go down under us like a lump of lead." He pushed me away with his right arm and ran before me up the ladder, shouting as he climbed. His left arm hung by his side. I followed up in time to see the captain rush at him and knock him down flat on his back. He did not strike him again: he stood bending over him and speaking angrily but quite low. I fancy he was asking him why the devil he didn't go and stop the engines, instead of making a row about it on deck. I heard him say, "Get up! Run! fly!" He swore also. The engineer slid down the starboard ladder and bolted round the skylight to the engine-room companion which was on the port side. He moaned as he ran. . . .' He spoke slowly; he remembered swiftly and with extreme vividness; he could have reproduced like an echo the moaning of the engineer for the better information of these men who wanted facts. After his first feeling of revolt he had come round to the view that only a meticulous precision of statement would bring out the true horror behind the appalling face of things. The facts those men were so eager to know had been visible, tangible, open to the senses, occupying their place in space and time, requiring for their existence a fourteen-hundred-ton steamer and twenty-seven minutes by the watch; they made a whole that had features, shades of expression, a complicated aspect that could be remembered by the eye, and something else besides, something invisible, a directing spirit of perdition that dwelt within, like a malevolent soul in a detestable body. He was anxious to make this clear. This had not been a common affair, everything in it had been of the utmost importance, and fortunately he remembered everything. He wanted to go on talking for truth's sake, perhaps for his own sake also; and while his utterance was deliberate, his mind positively flew round and round the serried circle of facts that had surged up all about him to cut him off from the rest of his kind: it was like a creature that, finding itself imprisoned within an enclosure of high stakes, dashes round and round, distracted in the night, trying to find a weak spot, a crevice, a place to scale, some opening through which it may squeeze itself and escape. This awful activity of mind made him hesitate at times in his speech. . . . 'The captain kept on moving here and there on the bridge; he seemed calm enough, only he stumbled several times; and once as I stood speaking to him he walked right into me as though he had been stone-blind. He made no definite answer to what I had to tell. He mumbled to himself; all I heard of it were a few words that sounded like "confounded steam!" and "infernal steam!"--something about steam. I thought . . .' He was becoming irrelevant; a question to the point cut short his speech, like a pang of pain, and he felt extremely discouraged and weary. He was coming to that, he was coming to that--and now, checked brutally, he had to answer by yes or no. He answered truthfully by a curt 'Yes, I did'; and fair of face, big of frame, with young, gloomy eyes, he held his shoulders upright above the box while his soul writhed within him. He was made to answer another question so much to the point and so useless, then waited again. His mouth was tastelessly dry, as though he had been eating dust, then salt and bitter as after a drink of sea-water. He wiped his damp forehead, passed his tongue over parched lips, felt a shiver run down his back. The big assessor had dropped his eyelids, and drummed on without a sound, careless and mournful; the eyes of the other above the sunburnt, clasped fingers seemed to glow with kindliness; the magistrate had swayed forward; his pale face hovered near the flowers, and then dropping sideways over the arm of his chair, he rested his temple in the palm of his hand. The wind of the punkahs eddied down on the heads, on the dark-faced natives wound about in voluminous draperies, on the Europeans sitting together very hot and in drill suits that seemed to fit them as close as their skins, and holding their round pith hats on their knees; while gliding along the walls the court peons, buttoned tight in long white coats, flitted rapidly to and fro, running on bare toes, red-sashed, red turban on head, as noiseless as ghosts, and on the alert like so many retrievers. Jim's eyes, wandering in the intervals of his answers, rested upon a white man who sat apart from the others, with his face worn and clouded, but with quiet eyes that glanced straight, interested and clear. Jim answered another question and was tempted to cry out, 'What's the good of this! what's the good!' He tapped with his foot slightly, bit his lip, and looked away over the heads. He met the eyes of the white man. The glance directed at him was not the fascinated stare of the others. It was an act of intelligent volition. Jim between two questions forgot himself so far as to find leisure for a thought. This fellow--ran the thought--looks at me as though he could see somebody or something past my shoulder. He had come across that man before--in the street perhaps. He was positive he had never spoken to him. For days, for many days, he had spoken to no one, but had held silent, incoherent, and endless converse with himself, like a prisoner alone in his cell or like a wayfarer lost in a wilderness. At present he was answering questions that did not matter though they had a purpose, but he doubted whether he would ever again speak out as long as he lived. The sound of his own truthful statements confirmed his deliberate opinion that speech was of no use to him any longer. That man there seemed to be aware of his hopeless difficulty. Jim looked at him, then turned away resolutely, as after a final parting. And later on, many times, in distant parts of the world, Marlow showed himself willing to remember Jim, to remember him at length, in detail and audibly. Perhaps it would be after dinner, on a verandah draped in motionless foliage and crowned with flowers, in the deep dusk speckled by fiery cigar-ends. The elongated bulk of each cane-chair harboured a silent listener. Now and then a small red glow would move abruptly, and expanding light up the fingers of a languid hand, part of a face in profound repose, or flash a crimson gleam into a pair of pensive eyes overshadowed by a fragment of an unruffled forehead; and with the very first word uttered Marlow's body, extended at rest in the seat, would become very still, as though his spirit had winged its way back into the lapse of time and were speaking through his lips from the past.

Chapter 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-4

Let's fastforward folks. Sometime later, we find Jim in a courtroom at an inquest, or trial. Our man is on the stand, and he's testifying about what happened the night the Patna hit whatever it was that it hit in Chapter 3. He explains that he examined the ship after impact and found a hole. That doesn't sound promising. The poor Jim starts to ramble, so the judges have to cut him off. Answer "yes" or "no," they tell him. An embarrassed Jim shuts up right quick. That's when he notices a white man in the courtroom who keeps watching him. Who is this guy? And why does he keep showing up? As it turns out, this dude is Marlow, who will be taking over the storytelling shortly.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Lord Jim/section_12_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 13

chapter 13

{"name": "Chapter 13", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim21.asp", "summary": "This chapter shifts its emphasis to the rescue of the Patna by a French gunboat. Marlow met the French lieutenant in charge of the gunboat three years after the incident and learned the details of the rescue. The lieutenant had boarded the Patna and stayed to oversee the towing procedure, which lasted thirty hours. Throughout the ordeal, he was aware that the ship could sink at any moment, and he would have been forced to go down with it and the 800 pilgrims. Fortunately, the Patna was towed to shore without incident. Surprisingly, the French lieutenant does not condemn Jim for his desertion. He says that even the bravest of men have some element of fear, for \"all men are weak.\" Marlow thinks about Bob Stanton, a small man he once knew. Even though he performed menial labor, he died a hero. He once tried to rescue a woman who refused to vacate a drowning ship. Bob tried to pull her off, but the large woman refused to budge. Finally when the boat went down, both Bob and the woman went down with it. Marlow then returns to the story of Jim and tells of the night before Jim is sentenced. Marlow offers to loan the young sailor some money and give him a letter of recommendation so that he can escape. Jim refuses the offer; he will not \"clear out.\" Although he jumped from the Patna, he will not run away from the trial. He already feels tortured by abandoning the 800 pilgrims; he must fact the inquiry and sentencing in order to restore some faith in himself. Jim then departs, and Marlow is amazed once again at the young sailor's romanticism. He thinks if he were in Jim's shoes he probably would have taken the money and left.", "analysis": "Notes This chapter is one of the more difficult ones to follow in the book, for Marlow jumps around in time and place. It also introduces several new characters. Three years after Jim's desertion, the French lieutenant tells Marlow about rescuing the Patna. For thirty hours he stayed on board the broken ship that was being towed, fearing it might sink at any moment. In spite of what he himself did to save the pilgrims, the lieutenant does not condemn Jim, for he knows that all men are fearful and weak. This philosophy voiced by the lieutenant presents a basic theme of the novel. Bob Stanton is also introduced in the chapter and presented as a stark contrast to Jim. Stanton's heroism in going down with one stubborn lady is contrasted with the cowardice of Jim, who left 800 pilgrims to die on the Patna. Jim, however, redeems himself to some degree by the end of the chapter. When Marlow offers him a means of escape, the young, idealistic sailor refuses. He knows that he must not run away from the inquiry like he ran away from the pilgrims. Jim is determined to regain some sense of self-worth. It is important to notice that when Jim tells Marlow his story, he is always nervous and uncomfortable. He does not like to face up to his weaknesses. Since he is portrayed as 'every man' throughout the novel, Jim's discomfort highlights the fact that every individual tries to shy away from her/his own negative deeds or traits; mankind finds it uncomfortable to face the truth."}

'After these words, and without a change of attitude, he, so to speak, submitted himself passively to a state of silence. I kept him company; and suddenly, but not abruptly, as if the appointed time had arrived for his moderate and husky voice to come out of his immobility, he pronounced, "Mon Dieu! how the time passes!" Nothing could have been more commonplace than this remark; but its utterance coincided for me with a moment of vision. It's extraordinary how we go through life with eyes half shut, with dull ears, with dormant thoughts. Perhaps it's just as well; and it may be that it is this very dullness that makes life to the incalculable majority so supportable and so welcome. Nevertheless, there can be but few of us who had never known one of these rare moments of awakening when we see, hear, understand ever so much--everything--in a flash--before we fall back again into our agreeable somnolence. I raised my eyes when he spoke, and I saw him as though I had never seen him before. I saw his chin sunk on his breast, the clumsy folds of his coat, his clasped hands, his motionless pose, so curiously suggestive of his having been simply left there. Time had passed indeed: it had overtaken him and gone ahead. It had left him hopelessly behind with a few poor gifts: the iron-grey hair, the heavy fatigue of the tanned face, two scars, a pair of tarnished shoulder-straps; one of those steady, reliable men who are the raw material of great reputations, one of those uncounted lives that are buried without drums and trumpets under the foundations of monumental successes. "I am now third lieutenant of the Victorieuse" (she was the flagship of the French Pacific squadron at the time), he said, detaching his shoulders from the wall a couple of inches to introduce himself. I bowed slightly on my side of the table, and told him I commanded a merchant vessel at present anchored in Rushcutters' Bay. He had "remarked" her,--a pretty little craft. He was very civil about it in his impassive way. I even fancy he went the length of tilting his head in compliment as he repeated, breathing visibly the while, "Ah, yes. A little craft painted black--very pretty--very pretty (tres coquet)." After a time he twisted his body slowly to face the glass door on our right. "A dull town (triste ville)," he observed, staring into the street. It was a brilliant day; a southerly buster was raging, and we could see the passers-by, men and women, buffeted by the wind on the sidewalks, the sunlit fronts of the houses across the road blurred by the tall whirls of dust. "I descended on shore," he said, "to stretch my legs a little, but . . ." He didn't finish, and sank into the depths of his repose. "Pray--tell me," he began, coming up ponderously, "what was there at the bottom of this affair--precisely (au juste)? It is curious. That dead man, for instance--and so on." '"There were living men too," I said; "much more curious." '"No doubt, no doubt," he agreed half audibly, then, as if after mature consideration, murmured, "Evidently." I made no difficulty in communicating to him what had interested me most in this affair. It seemed as though he had a right to know: hadn't he spent thirty hours on board the Patna--had he not taken the succession, so to speak, had he not done "his possible"? He listened to me, looking more priest-like than ever, and with what--probably on account of his downcast eyes--had the appearance of devout concentration. Once or twice he elevated his eyebrows (but without raising his eyelids), as one would say "The devil!" Once he calmly exclaimed, "Ah, bah!" under his breath, and when I had finished he pursed his lips in a deliberate way and emitted a sort of sorrowful whistle. 'In any one else it might have been an evidence of boredom, a sign of indifference; but he, in his occult way, managed to make his immobility appear profoundly responsive, and as full of valuable thoughts as an egg is of meat. What he said at last was nothing more than a "Very interesting," pronounced politely, and not much above a whisper. Before I got over my disappointment he added, but as if speaking to himself, "That's it. That _is_ it." His chin seemed to sink lower on his breast, his body to weigh heavier on his seat. I was about to ask him what he meant, when a sort of preparatory tremor passed over his whole person, as a faint ripple may be seen upon stagnant water even before the wind is felt. "And so that poor young man ran away along with the others," he said, with grave tranquillity. 'I don't know what made me smile: it is the only genuine smile of mine I can remember in connection with Jim's affair. But somehow this simple statement of the matter sounded funny in French. . . . "S'est enfui avec les autres," had said the lieutenant. And suddenly I began to admire the discrimination of the man. He had made out the point at once: he did get hold of the only thing I cared about. I felt as though I were taking professional opinion on the case. His imperturbable and mature calmness was that of an expert in possession of the facts, and to whom one's perplexities are mere child's-play. "Ah! The young, the young," he said indulgently. "And after all, one does not die of it." "Die of what?" I asked swiftly. "Of being afraid." He elucidated his meaning and sipped his drink. 'I perceived that the three last fingers of his wounded hand were stiff and could not move independently of each other, so that he took up his tumbler with an ungainly clutch. "One is always afraid. One may talk, but . . ." He put down the glass awkwardly. . . . "The fear, the fear--look you--it is always there." . . . He touched his breast near a brass button, on the very spot where Jim had given a thump to his own when protesting that there was nothing the matter with his heart. I suppose I made some sign of dissent, because he insisted, "Yes! yes! One talks, one talks; this is all very fine; but at the end of the reckoning one is no cleverer than the next man--and no more brave. Brave! This is always to be seen. I have rolled my hump (roule ma bosse)," he said, using the slang expression with imperturbable seriousness, "in all parts of the world; I have known brave men--famous ones! Allez!" . . . He drank carelessly. . . . "Brave--you conceive--in the Service--one has got to be--the trade demands it (le metier veut ca). Is it not so?" he appealed to me reasonably. "Eh bien! Each of them--I say each of them, if he were an honest man--bien entendu--would confess that there is a point--there is a point--for the best of us--there is somewhere a point when you let go everything (vous lachez tout). And you have got to live with that truth--do you see? Given a certain combination of circumstances, fear is sure to come. Abominable funk (un trac epouvantable). And even for those who do not believe this truth there is fear all the same--the fear of themselves. Absolutely so. Trust me. Yes. Yes. . . . At my age one knows what one is talking about--que diable!" . . . He had delivered himself of all this as immovably as though he had been the mouthpiece of abstract wisdom, but at this point he heightened the effect of detachment by beginning to twirl his thumbs slowly. "It's evident--parbleu!" he continued; "for, make up your mind as much as you like, even a simple headache or a fit of indigestion (un derangement d'estomac) is enough to . . . Take me, for instance--I have made my proofs. Eh bien! I, who am speaking to you, once . . ." 'He drained his glass and returned to his twirling. "No, no; one does not die of it," he pronounced finally, and when I found he did not mean to proceed with the personal anecdote, I was extremely disappointed; the more so as it was not the sort of story, you know, one could very well press him for. I sat silent, and he too, as if nothing could please him better. Even his thumbs were still now. Suddenly his lips began to move. "That is so," he resumed placidly. "Man is born a coward (L'homme est ne poltron). It is a difficulty--parbleu! It would be too easy other vise. But habit--habit--necessity--do you see?--the eye of others--voila. One puts up with it. And then the example of others who are no better than yourself, and yet make good countenance. . . ." 'His voice ceased. '"That young man--you will observe--had none of these inducements--at least at the moment," I remarked. 'He raised his eyebrows forgivingly: "I don't say; I don't say. The young man in question might have had the best dispositions--the best dispositions," he repeated, wheezing a little. '"I am glad to see you taking a lenient view," I said. "His own feeling in the matter was--ah!--hopeful, and . . ." 'The shuffle of his feet under the table interrupted me. He drew up his heavy eyelids. Drew up, I say--no other expression can describe the steady deliberation of the act--and at last was disclosed completely to me. I was confronted by two narrow grey circlets, like two tiny steel rings around the profound blackness of the pupils. The sharp glance, coming from that massive body, gave a notion of extreme efficiency, like a razor-edge on a battle-axe. "Pardon," he said punctiliously. His right hand went up, and he swayed forward. "Allow me . . . I contended that one may get on knowing very well that one's courage does not come of itself (ne vient pas tout seul). There's nothing much in that to get upset about. One truth the more ought not to make life impossible. . . . But the honour--the honour, monsieur! . . . The honour . . . that is real--that is! And what life may be worth when" . . . he got on his feet with a ponderous impetuosity, as a startled ox might scramble up from the grass . . . "when the honour is gone--ah ca! par exemple--I can offer no opinion. I can offer no opinion--because--monsieur--I know nothing of it." 'I had risen too, and, trying to throw infinite politeness into our attitudes, we faced each other mutely, like two china dogs on a mantelpiece. Hang the fellow! he had pricked the bubble. The blight of futility that lies in wait for men's speeches had fallen upon our conversation, and made it a thing of empty sounds. "Very well," I said, with a disconcerted smile; "but couldn't it reduce itself to not being found out?" He made as if to retort readily, but when he spoke he had changed his mind. "This, monsieur, is too fine for me--much above me--I don't think about it." He bowed heavily over his cap, which he held before him by the peak, between the thumb and the forefinger of his wounded hand. I bowed too. We bowed together: we scraped our feet at each other with much ceremony, while a dirty specimen of a waiter looked on critically, as though he had paid for the performance. "Serviteur," said the Frenchman. Another scrape. "Monsieur" . . . "Monsieur." . . . The glass door swung behind his burly back. I saw the southerly buster get hold of him and drive him down wind with his hand to his head, his shoulders braced, and the tails of his coat blown hard against his legs. 'I sat down again alone and discouraged--discouraged about Jim's case. If you wonder that after more than three years it had preserved its actuality, you must know that I had seen him only very lately. I had come straight from Samarang, where I had loaded a cargo for Sydney: an utterly uninteresting bit of business,--what Charley here would call one of my rational transactions,--and in Samarang I had seen something of Jim. He was then working for De Jongh, on my recommendation. Water-clerk. "My representative afloat," as De Jongh called him. You can't imagine a mode of life more barren of consolation, less capable of being invested with a spark of glamour--unless it be the business of an insurance canvasser. Little Bob Stanton--Charley here knew him well--had gone through that experience. The same who got drowned afterwards trying to save a lady's-maid in the Sephora disaster. A case of collision on a hazy morning off the Spanish coast--you may remember. All the passengers had been packed tidily into the boats and shoved clear of the ship, when Bob sheered alongside again and scrambled back on deck to fetch that girl. How she had been left behind I can't make out; anyhow, she had gone completely crazy--wouldn't leave the ship--held to the rail like grim death. The wrestling-match could be seen plainly from the boats; but poor Bob was the shortest chief mate in the merchant service, and the woman stood five feet ten in her shoes and was as strong as a horse, I've been told. So it went on, pull devil, pull baker, the wretched girl screaming all the time, and Bob letting out a yell now and then to warn his boat to keep well clear of the ship. One of the hands told me, hiding a smile at the recollection, "It was for all the world, sir, like a naughty youngster fighting with his mother." The same old chap said that "At the last we could see that Mr. Stanton had given up hauling at the gal, and just stood by looking at her, watchful like. We thought afterwards he must've been reckoning that, maybe, the rush of water would tear her away from the rail by-and-by and give him a show to save her. We daren't come alongside for our life; and after a bit the old ship went down all on a sudden with a lurch to starboard--plop. The suck in was something awful. We never saw anything alive or dead come up." Poor Bob's spell of shore-life had been one of the complications of a love affair, I believe. He fondly hoped he had done with the sea for ever, and made sure he had got hold of all the bliss on earth, but it came to canvassing in the end. Some cousin of his in Liverpool put up to it. He used to tell us his experiences in that line. He made us laugh till we cried, and, not altogether displeased at the effect, undersized and bearded to the waist like a gnome, he would tiptoe amongst us and say, "It's all very well for you beggars to laugh, but my immortal soul was shrivelled down to the size of a parched pea after a week of that work." I don't know how Jim's soul accommodated itself to the new conditions of his life--I was kept too busy in getting him something to do that would keep body and soul together--but I am pretty certain his adventurous fancy was suffering all the pangs of starvation. It had certainly nothing to feed upon in this new calling. It was distressing to see him at it, though he tackled it with a stubborn serenity for which I must give him full credit. I kept my eye on his shabby plodding with a sort of notion that it was a punishment for the heroics of his fancy--an expiation for his craving after more glamour than he could carry. He had loved too well to imagine himself a glorious racehorse, and now he was condemned to toil without honour like a costermonger's donkey. He did it very well. He shut himself in, put his head down, said never a word. Very well; very well indeed--except for certain fantastic and violent outbreaks, on the deplorable occasions when the irrepressible Patna case cropped up. Unfortunately that scandal of the Eastern seas would not die out. And this is the reason why I could never feel I had done with Jim for good. 'I sat thinking of him after the French lieutenant had left, not, however, in connection with De Jongh's cool and gloomy backshop, where we had hurriedly shaken hands not very long ago, but as I had seen him years before in the last flickers of the candle, alone with me in the long gallery of the Malabar House, with the chill and the darkness of the night at his back. The respectable sword of his country's law was suspended over his head. To-morrow--or was it to-day? (midnight had slipped by long before we parted)--the marble-faced police magistrate, after distributing fines and terms of imprisonment in the assault-and-battery case, would take up the awful weapon and smite his bowed neck. Our communion in the night was uncommonly like a last vigil with a condemned man. He was guilty too. He was guilty--as I had told myself repeatedly, guilty and done for; nevertheless, I wished to spare him the mere detail of a formal execution. I don't pretend to explain the reasons of my desire--I don't think I could; but if you haven't got a sort of notion by this time, then I must have been very obscure in my narrative, or you too sleepy to seize upon the sense of my words. I don't defend my morality. There was no morality in the impulse which induced me to lay before him Brierly's plan of evasion--I may call it--in all its primitive simplicity. There were the rupees--absolutely ready in my pocket and very much at his service. Oh! a loan; a loan of course--and if an introduction to a man (in Rangoon) who could put some work in his way . . . Why! with the greatest pleasure. I had pen, ink, and paper in my room on the first floor And even while I was speaking I was impatient to begin the letter--day, month, year, 2.30 A.M. . . . for the sake of our old friendship I ask you to put some work in the way of Mr. James So-and-so, in whom, &c., &c. . . . I was even ready to write in that strain about him. If he had not enlisted my sympathies he had done better for himself--he had gone to the very fount and origin of that sentiment he had reached the secret sensibility of my egoism. I am concealing nothing from you, because were I to do so my action would appear more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and--in the second place--to-morrow you will forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of execution, and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. "Clear out! Couldn't think of it," he said, with a shake of the head. "I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude," I said; "you shall repay the money when convenient, and . . ." "Awfully good of you," he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry--not for the first time that night. "The whole wretched business," I said, "is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind . . ." "It is, it is," he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. "Yes," I said; "and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you can expect from this licking of the dregs." "Advantage!" he murmured out of his stillness. "I am dashed if I do," I said, enraged. "I've been trying to tell you all there is in it," he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. "But after all, it is _my_ trouble." I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. "Went away . . . went into hospitals. . . . Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . ." He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. "But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or . . . I won't shirk any of it." He was silent. He gazed as though he had been haunted. His unconscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution--reflected them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. "Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow," I began. He had a movement of impatience. "You don't seem to understand," he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, "I may have jumped, but I don't run away." "I meant no offence," I said; and added stupidly, "Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times." He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. "Perhaps so," he said at last, "I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing down--I am fighting it now." I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, "I had no idea it was so late," in an airy tone. . . . "I dare say you have had enough of this," he said brusquely: "and to tell you the truth"--he began to look round for his hat--"so have I." 'Well! he had refused this unique offer. He had struck aside my helping hand; he was ready to go now, and beyond the balustrade the night seemed to wait for him very still, as though he had been marked down for its prey. I heard his voice. "Ah! here it is." He had found his hat. For a few seconds we hung in the wind. "What will you do after--after . . ." I asked very low. "Go to the dogs as likely as not," he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. "Pray remember," I said, "that I should like very much to see you again before you go." "I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible," he said with intense bitterness,--"no such luck." And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him--me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet four-and-twenty.'

Chapter 13

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim21.asp

This chapter shifts its emphasis to the rescue of the Patna by a French gunboat. Marlow met the French lieutenant in charge of the gunboat three years after the incident and learned the details of the rescue. The lieutenant had boarded the Patna and stayed to oversee the towing procedure, which lasted thirty hours. Throughout the ordeal, he was aware that the ship could sink at any moment, and he would have been forced to go down with it and the 800 pilgrims. Fortunately, the Patna was towed to shore without incident. Surprisingly, the French lieutenant does not condemn Jim for his desertion. He says that even the bravest of men have some element of fear, for "all men are weak." Marlow thinks about Bob Stanton, a small man he once knew. Even though he performed menial labor, he died a hero. He once tried to rescue a woman who refused to vacate a drowning ship. Bob tried to pull her off, but the large woman refused to budge. Finally when the boat went down, both Bob and the woman went down with it. Marlow then returns to the story of Jim and tells of the night before Jim is sentenced. Marlow offers to loan the young sailor some money and give him a letter of recommendation so that he can escape. Jim refuses the offer; he will not "clear out." Although he jumped from the Patna, he will not run away from the trial. He already feels tortured by abandoning the 800 pilgrims; he must fact the inquiry and sentencing in order to restore some faith in himself. Jim then departs, and Marlow is amazed once again at the young sailor's romanticism. He thinks if he were in Jim's shoes he probably would have taken the money and left.

Notes This chapter is one of the more difficult ones to follow in the book, for Marlow jumps around in time and place. It also introduces several new characters. Three years after Jim's desertion, the French lieutenant tells Marlow about rescuing the Patna. For thirty hours he stayed on board the broken ship that was being towed, fearing it might sink at any moment. In spite of what he himself did to save the pilgrims, the lieutenant does not condemn Jim, for he knows that all men are fearful and weak. This philosophy voiced by the lieutenant presents a basic theme of the novel. Bob Stanton is also introduced in the chapter and presented as a stark contrast to Jim. Stanton's heroism in going down with one stubborn lady is contrasted with the cowardice of Jim, who left 800 pilgrims to die on the Patna. Jim, however, redeems himself to some degree by the end of the chapter. When Marlow offers him a means of escape, the young, idealistic sailor refuses. He knows that he must not run away from the inquiry like he ran away from the pilgrims. Jim is determined to regain some sense of self-worth. It is important to notice that when Jim tells Marlow his story, he is always nervous and uncomfortable. He does not like to face up to his weaknesses. Since he is portrayed as 'every man' throughout the novel, Jim's discomfort highlights the fact that every individual tries to shy away from her/his own negative deeds or traits; mankind finds it uncomfortable to face the truth.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/37.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_36_part_0.txt

Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 37

chapter 37

{"name": "Chapter 37", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-37", "summary": "A series of flashes and rumblings signaled the closeness of the storm. After the second peal of thunder, a candle was lit in Bathsheba's room. The fourth flash of lightning struck Oak's ricking-rod, and he paused momentarily to improvise a lightning rod. The fifth flash brought Bathsheba into the fields. Once she learned that Troy was asleep, she tried to help stow the sheaves. When a flash frightened her, Gabriel steadied her. Another \"dance of death\" split trees, and the pair realized they had had a narrow escape. Gabriel told Bathsheba to leave, but she replied, \"You are kinder than I deserve! I will stay and help you.\" When Gabriel would not explain the absence of the other men, Bathsheba said slowly, \"I know it all -- all. . . . They are . . . in a drunken sleep, and my husband among them.\" Bathsheba followed Gabriel to the barn and looked through the chinks: \"All was in total darkness, as he had left it, and there still arose, as at the former time, the steady buzz of many snores.\" As Oak returned to his work, Bathsheba abruptly confessed the reason for her trip to Bath. She had intended to break off with Troy, but jealousy of a possible rival and her own distraction had led her to marry him instead. The pair continued working in silence until Gabriel sent Bathsheba away because of her fatigue. He worked on, finally \"disturbed . . . by a grating noise from the coach-house. It was the vane on the roof turning round, and this change in the wind was the signal for a disastrous rain.\"", "analysis": "This chapter deserves careful reading for its appeal to the senses. The structure, punctuated by flashes of lightning, shows nature in anger, illuminating character, and calling for self-realization and truthfulness."}

THE STORM--THE TWO TOGETHER A light flapped over the scene, as if reflected from phosphorescent wings crossing the sky, and a rumble filled the air. It was the first move of the approaching storm. The second peal was noisy, with comparatively little visible lightning. Gabriel saw a candle shining in Bathsheba's bedroom, and soon a shadow swept to and fro upon the blind. Then there came a third flash. Manoeuvres of a most extraordinary kind were going on in the vast firmamental hollows overhead. The lightning now was the colour of silver, and gleamed in the heavens like a mailed army. Rumbles became rattles. Gabriel from his elevated position could see over the landscape at least half-a-dozen miles in front. Every hedge, bush, and tree was distinct as in a line engraving. In a paddock in the same direction was a herd of heifers, and the forms of these were visible at this moment in the act of galloping about in the wildest and maddest confusion, flinging their heels and tails high into the air, their heads to earth. A poplar in the immediate foreground was like an ink stroke on burnished tin. Then the picture vanished, leaving the darkness so intense that Gabriel worked entirely by feeling with his hands. He had stuck his ricking-rod, or poniard, as it was indifferently called--a long iron lance, polished by handling--into the stack, used to support the sheaves instead of the support called a groom used on houses. A blue light appeared in the zenith, and in some indescribable manner flickered down near the top of the rod. It was the fourth of the larger flashes. A moment later and there was a smack--smart, clear, and short. Gabriel felt his position to be anything but a safe one, and he resolved to descend. Not a drop of rain had fallen as yet. He wiped his weary brow, and looked again at the black forms of the unprotected stacks. Was his life so valuable to him after all? What were his prospects that he should be so chary of running risk, when important and urgent labour could not be carried on without such risk? He resolved to stick to the stack. However, he took a precaution. Under the staddles was a long tethering chain, used to prevent the escape of errant horses. This he carried up the ladder, and sticking his rod through the clog at one end, allowed the other end of the chain to trail upon the ground. The spike attached to it he drove in. Under the shadow of this extemporized lightning-conductor he felt himself comparatively safe. Before Oak had laid his hands upon his tools again out leapt the fifth flash, with the spring of a serpent and the shout of a fiend. It was green as an emerald, and the reverberation was stunning. What was this the light revealed to him? In the open ground before him, as he looked over the ridge of the rick, was a dark and apparently female form. Could it be that of the only venturesome woman in the parish--Bathsheba? The form moved on a step: then he could see no more. "Is that you, ma'am?" said Gabriel to the darkness. "Who is there?" said the voice of Bathsheba. "Gabriel. I am on the rick, thatching." "Oh, Gabriel!--and are you? I have come about them. The weather awoke me, and I thought of the corn. I am so distressed about it--can we save it anyhow? I cannot find my husband. Is he with you?" "He is not here." "Do you know where he is?" "Asleep in the barn." "He promised that the stacks should be seen to, and now they are all neglected! Can I do anything to help? Liddy is afraid to come out. Fancy finding you here at such an hour! Surely I can do something?" "You can bring up some reed-sheaves to me, one by one, ma'am; if you are not afraid to come up the ladder in the dark," said Gabriel. "Every moment is precious now, and that would save a good deal of time. It is not very dark when the lightning has been gone a bit." "I'll do anything!" she said, resolutely. She instantly took a sheaf upon her shoulder, clambered up close to his heels, placed it behind the rod, and descended for another. At her third ascent the rick suddenly brightened with the brazen glare of shining majolica--every knot in every straw was visible. On the slope in front of him appeared two human shapes, black as jet. The rick lost its sheen--the shapes vanished. Gabriel turned his head. It had been the sixth flash which had come from the east behind him, and the two dark forms on the slope had been the shadows of himself and Bathsheba. Then came the peal. It hardly was credible that such a heavenly light could be the parent of such a diabolical sound. "How terrible!" she exclaimed, and clutched him by the sleeve. Gabriel turned, and steadied her on her aerial perch by holding her arm. At the same moment, while he was still reversed in his attitude, there was more light, and he saw, as it were, a copy of the tall poplar tree on the hill drawn in black on the wall of the barn. It was the shadow of that tree, thrown across by a secondary flash in the west. The next flare came. Bathsheba was on the ground now, shouldering another sheaf, and she bore its dazzle without flinching--thunder and all--and again ascended with the load. There was then a silence everywhere for four or five minutes, and the crunch of the spars, as Gabriel hastily drove them in, could again be distinctly heard. He thought the crisis of the storm had passed. But there came a burst of light. "Hold on!" said Gabriel, taking the sheaf from her shoulder, and grasping her arm again. Heaven opened then, indeed. The flash was almost too novel for its inexpressibly dangerous nature to be at once realized, and they could only comprehend the magnificence of its beauty. It sprang from east, west, north, south, and was a perfect dance of death. The forms of skeletons appeared in the air, shaped with blue fire for bones--dancing, leaping, striding, racing around, and mingling altogether in unparalleled confusion. With these were intertwined undulating snakes of green, and behind these was a broad mass of lesser light. Simultaneously came from every part of the tumbling sky what may be called a shout; since, though no shout ever came near it, it was more of the nature of a shout than of anything else earthly. In the meantime one of the grisly forms had alighted upon the point of Gabriel's rod, to run invisibly down it, down the chain, and into the earth. Gabriel was almost blinded, and he could feel Bathsheba's warm arm tremble in his hand--a sensation novel and thrilling enough; but love, life, everything human, seemed small and trifling in such close juxtaposition with an infuriated universe. Oak had hardly time to gather up these impressions into a thought, and to see how strangely the red feather of her hat shone in this light, when the tall tree on the hill before mentioned seemed on fire to a white heat, and a new one among these terrible voices mingled with the last crash of those preceding. It was a stupefying blast, harsh and pitiless, and it fell upon their ears in a dead, flat blow, without that reverberation which lends the tones of a drum to more distant thunder. By the lustre reflected from every part of the earth and from the wide domical scoop above it, he saw that the tree was sliced down the whole length of its tall, straight stem, a huge riband of bark being apparently flung off. The other portion remained erect, and revealed the bared surface as a strip of white down the front. The lightning had struck the tree. A sulphurous smell filled the air; then all was silent, and black as a cave in Hinnom. "We had a narrow escape!" said Gabriel, hurriedly. "You had better go down." Bathsheba said nothing; but he could distinctly hear her rhythmical pants, and the recurrent rustle of the sheaf beside her in response to her frightened pulsations. She descended the ladder, and, on second thoughts, he followed her. The darkness was now impenetrable by the sharpest vision. They both stood still at the bottom, side by side. Bathsheba appeared to think only of the weather--Oak thought only of her just then. At last he said-- "The storm seems to have passed now, at any rate." "I think so too," said Bathsheba. "Though there are multitudes of gleams, look!" The sky was now filled with an incessant light, frequent repetition melting into complete continuity, as an unbroken sound results from the successive strokes on a gong. "Nothing serious," said he. "I cannot understand no rain falling. But Heaven be praised, it is all the better for us. I am now going up again." "Gabriel, you are kinder than I deserve! I will stay and help you yet. Oh, why are not some of the others here!" "They would have been here if they could," said Oak, in a hesitating way. "O, I know it all--all," she said, adding slowly: "They are all asleep in the barn, in a drunken sleep, and my husband among them. That's it, is it not? Don't think I am a timid woman and can't endure things." "I am not certain," said Gabriel. "I will go and see." He crossed to the barn, leaving her there alone. He looked through the chinks of the door. All was in total darkness, as he had left it, and there still arose, as at the former time, the steady buzz of many snores. He felt a zephyr curling about his cheek, and turned. It was Bathsheba's breath--she had followed him, and was looking into the same chink. He endeavoured to put off the immediate and painful subject of their thoughts by remarking gently, "If you'll come back again, miss--ma'am, and hand up a few more; it would save much time." Then Oak went back again, ascended to the top, stepped off the ladder for greater expedition, and went on thatching. She followed, but without a sheaf. "Gabriel," she said, in a strange and impressive voice. Oak looked up at her. She had not spoken since he left the barn. The soft and continual shimmer of the dying lightning showed a marble face high against the black sky of the opposite quarter. Bathsheba was sitting almost on the apex of the stack, her feet gathered up beneath her, and resting on the top round of the ladder. "Yes, mistress," he said. "I suppose you thought that when I galloped away to Bath that night it was on purpose to be married?" "I did at last--not at first," he answered, somewhat surprised at the abruptness with which this new subject was broached. "And others thought so, too?" "Yes." "And you blamed me for it?" "Well--a little." "I thought so. Now, I care a little for your good opinion, and I want to explain something--I have longed to do it ever since I returned, and you looked so gravely at me. For if I were to die--and I may die soon--it would be dreadful that you should always think mistakenly of me. Now, listen." Gabriel ceased his rustling. "I went to Bath that night in the full intention of breaking off my engagement to Mr. Troy. It was owing to circumstances which occurred after I got there that--that we were married. Now, do you see the matter in a new light?" "I do--somewhat." "I must, I suppose, say more, now that I have begun. And perhaps it's no harm, for you are certainly under no delusion that I ever loved you, or that I can have any object in speaking, more than that object I have mentioned. Well, I was alone in a strange city, and the horse was lame. And at last I didn't know what to do. I saw, when it was too late, that scandal might seize hold of me for meeting him alone in that way. But I was coming away, when he suddenly said he had that day seen a woman more beautiful than I, and that his constancy could not be counted on unless I at once became his.... And I was grieved and troubled--" She cleared her voice, and waited a moment, as if to gather breath. "And then, between jealousy and distraction, I married him!" she whispered with desperate impetuosity. Gabriel made no reply. "He was not to blame, for it was perfectly true about--about his seeing somebody else," she quickly added. "And now I don't wish for a single remark from you upon the subject--indeed, I forbid it. I only wanted you to know that misunderstood bit of my history before a time comes when you could never know it.--You want some more sheaves?" She went down the ladder, and the work proceeded. Gabriel soon perceived a languor in the movements of his mistress up and down, and he said to her, gently as a mother-- "I think you had better go indoors now, you are tired. I can finish the rest alone. If the wind does not change the rain is likely to keep off." "If I am useless I will go," said Bathsheba, in a flagging cadence. "But O, if your life should be lost!" "You are not useless; but I would rather not tire you longer. You have done well." "And you better!" she said, gratefully. "Thank you for your devotion, a thousand times, Gabriel! Goodnight--I know you are doing your very best for me." She diminished in the gloom, and vanished, and he heard the latch of the gate fall as she passed through. He worked in a reverie now, musing upon her story, and upon the contradictoriness of that feminine heart which had caused her to speak more warmly to him to-night than she ever had done whilst unmarried and free to speak as warmly as she chose. He was disturbed in his meditation by a grating noise from the coach-house. It was the vane on the roof turning round, and this change in the wind was the signal for a disastrous rain.

Chapter 37

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-37

A series of flashes and rumblings signaled the closeness of the storm. After the second peal of thunder, a candle was lit in Bathsheba's room. The fourth flash of lightning struck Oak's ricking-rod, and he paused momentarily to improvise a lightning rod. The fifth flash brought Bathsheba into the fields. Once she learned that Troy was asleep, she tried to help stow the sheaves. When a flash frightened her, Gabriel steadied her. Another "dance of death" split trees, and the pair realized they had had a narrow escape. Gabriel told Bathsheba to leave, but she replied, "You are kinder than I deserve! I will stay and help you." When Gabriel would not explain the absence of the other men, Bathsheba said slowly, "I know it all -- all. . . . They are . . . in a drunken sleep, and my husband among them." Bathsheba followed Gabriel to the barn and looked through the chinks: "All was in total darkness, as he had left it, and there still arose, as at the former time, the steady buzz of many snores." As Oak returned to his work, Bathsheba abruptly confessed the reason for her trip to Bath. She had intended to break off with Troy, but jealousy of a possible rival and her own distraction had led her to marry him instead. The pair continued working in silence until Gabriel sent Bathsheba away because of her fatigue. He worked on, finally "disturbed . . . by a grating noise from the coach-house. It was the vane on the roof turning round, and this change in the wind was the signal for a disastrous rain."

This chapter deserves careful reading for its appeal to the senses. The structure, punctuated by flashes of lightning, shows nature in anger, illuminating character, and calling for self-realization and truthfulness.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1526-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Twelfth Night, or What You Will/section_3_part_0.txt

Twelfth Night, or What You Will.act 1.scene 4

act 1, scene 4

{"name": "Act 1, Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210415161814/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/twelfth-night/summary/act-1-scene-4", "summary": "Back at Duke Orsino's pad, Valentine gives props to \"Cesario\" for making a name for \"himself\" in such a short time in the Duke's service. Viola , who has clearly spent a lot of time with Orsino in the past three days, asks Valentine if the Duke has mood swings. Just then, Orsino enters looking for \"Cesario\"--he wants his boy to trot on over to Olivia's place to chat her up for him. Orsino says that \"Cesario\" is the man for the job since \"he\" already knows how Orsino feels about Olivia and that \"he\" shouldn't take no for an answer if Olivia's servants try to shoo \"him\" away. \"Cesario\" is skeptical since it sounds like Olivia is really upset about her dead brother. Orsino tells \"Cesario\" to do whatever it takes to get the job done, even if he has to cause a big scene at Olivia's house. Okay, fine, agrees \"Cesario,\" who asks what \"he\" is supposed to do if \"he\" actually makes it inside Olivia's pad. Duke Orsino seems to think that Olivia will be so moved by \"Cesario's\" youth and girlish beauty that she'll want to hook up with the Duke. Orsino then proceeds to describe \"Cesario's\" luscious ruby red lips and high pitched voice, all of which he believes will get Olivia in the mood for some lovin'. Viola agrees to do this but then she drops a bombshell on the audience: it's going to be brutal for her to be Orsino's wingman because she is falling for the Duke. The situation stinks because she wants to be the Duke's wife, but now she has to try to convince Olivia to marry the Duke.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE IV. A Room in the DUKE'S Palace. [Enter VALENTINE, and VIOLA in man's attire.] VALENTINE. If the duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanced; he hath known you but three days, and already you are no stranger. VIOLA. You either fear his humour or my negligence, that you call in question the continuance of his love. Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours? VALENTINE. No, believe me. [Enter DUKE, CURIO, and Attendants.] VIOLA. I thank you. Here comes the count. DUKE. Who saw Cesario, ho? VIOLA. On your attendance, my lord; here. DUKE. Stand you awhile aloof.--Cesario, Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd To thee the book even of my secret soul: Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her; Be not denied access, stand at her doors, And tell them there thy fixed foot shall grow Till thou have audience. VIOLA. Sure, my noble lord, If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow As it is spoke, she never will admit me. DUKE. Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds, Rather than make unprofited return. VIOLA. Say I do speak with her, my lord. What then? DUKE. O, then unfold the passion of my love, Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith: It shall become thee well to act my woes; She will attend it better in thy youth Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect. VIOLA. I think not so, my lord. DUKE. Dear lad, believe it, For they shall yet belie thy happy years That say thou art a man: Diana's lip Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound, And all is semblative a woman's part. I know thy constellation is right apt For this affair:--some four or five attend him: All, if you will; for I myself am best When least in company:--prosper well in this, And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord, To call his fortunes thine. VIOLA. I'll do my best To woo your lady. [Aside] Yet, a barful strife! Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.

Act 1, Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20210415161814/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/twelfth-night/summary/act-1-scene-4

Back at Duke Orsino's pad, Valentine gives props to "Cesario" for making a name for "himself" in such a short time in the Duke's service. Viola , who has clearly spent a lot of time with Orsino in the past three days, asks Valentine if the Duke has mood swings. Just then, Orsino enters looking for "Cesario"--he wants his boy to trot on over to Olivia's place to chat her up for him. Orsino says that "Cesario" is the man for the job since "he" already knows how Orsino feels about Olivia and that "he" shouldn't take no for an answer if Olivia's servants try to shoo "him" away. "Cesario" is skeptical since it sounds like Olivia is really upset about her dead brother. Orsino tells "Cesario" to do whatever it takes to get the job done, even if he has to cause a big scene at Olivia's house. Okay, fine, agrees "Cesario," who asks what "he" is supposed to do if "he" actually makes it inside Olivia's pad. Duke Orsino seems to think that Olivia will be so moved by "Cesario's" youth and girlish beauty that she'll want to hook up with the Duke. Orsino then proceeds to describe "Cesario's" luscious ruby red lips and high pitched voice, all of which he believes will get Olivia in the mood for some lovin'. Viola agrees to do this but then she drops a bombshell on the audience: it's going to be brutal for her to be Orsino's wingman because she is falling for the Duke. The situation stinks because she wants to be the Duke's wife, but now she has to try to convince Olivia to marry the Duke.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/43.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_42_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 43

chapter 43

{"name": "Chapter 43", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-43", "summary": "Jim's huffy ultimatum strikes a chord, and Doramin comes around to his viewpoint. He agrees to give Brown safe passage off the island, so Jim arranges for the pirate's departure. Understandably, he feels a lot of pressure because everyone is letting Brown go on his suggestion. When Tamb' Itam goes to let Dain Waris know about the change of plans, Jim gives his servant his silver ring to give to Dain Waris, so he'll know the message can be trusted. Then, Jim sends Cornelius, who has rejoined the group, to let Brown know that he and his men can leave. He suggests a route, and tells them to be careful. Worst idea ever. We mean it. In the grand tradition of bad ideas, this ranks right up there with New Coke. The devious Cornelius tells Brown he can leave, but he fails to tell him that Dain Waris isn't planning to attack. Instead, he lets Brown know exactly where to find Dain Waris's armed party. Soon, Brown and his group head out to find Dain Waris, thinking that the war is still on.", "analysis": ""}

'Tamb' Itam behind his chair was thunderstruck. The declaration produced an immense sensation. "Let them go because this is best in my knowledge which has never deceived you," Jim insisted. There was a silence. In the darkness of the courtyard could be heard the subdued whispering, shuffling noise of many people. Doramin raised his heavy head and said that there was no more reading of hearts than touching the sky with the hand, but--he consented. The others gave their opinion in turn. "It is best," "Let them go," and so on. But most of them simply said that they "believed Tuan Jim." 'In this simple form of assent to his will lies the whole gist of the situation; their creed, his truth; and the testimony to that faithfulness which made him in his own eyes the equal of the impeccable men who never fall out of the ranks. Stein's words, "Romantic!--Romantic!" seem to ring over those distances that will never give him up now to a world indifferent to his failings and his virtues, and to that ardent and clinging affection that refuses him the dole of tears in the bewilderment of a great grief and of eternal separation. From the moment the sheer truthfulness of his last three years of life carries the day against the ignorance, the fear, and the anger of men, he appears no longer to me as I saw him last--a white speck catching all the dim light left upon a sombre coast and the darkened sea--but greater and more pitiful in the loneliness of his soul, that remains even for her who loved him best a cruel and insoluble mystery. 'It is evident that he did not mistrust Brown; there was no reason to doubt the story, whose truth seemed warranted by the rough frankness, by a sort of virile sincerity in accepting the morality and the consequences of his acts. But Jim did not know the almost inconceivable egotism of the man which made him, when resisted and foiled in his will, mad with the indignant and revengeful rage of a thwarted autocrat. But if Jim did not mistrust Brown, he was evidently anxious that some misunderstanding should not occur, ending perhaps in collision and bloodshed. It was for this reason that directly the Malay chiefs had gone he asked Jewel to get him something to eat, as he was going out of the fort to take command in the town. On her remonstrating against this on the score of his fatigue, he said that something might happen for which he would never forgive himself. "I am responsible for every life in the land," he said. He was moody at first; she served him with her own hands, taking the plates and dishes (of the dinner-service presented him by Stein) from Tamb' Itam. He brightened up after a while; told her she would be again in command of the fort for another night. "There's no sleep for us, old girl," he said, "while our people are in danger." Later on he said jokingly that she was the best man of them all. "If you and Dain Waris had done what you wanted, not one of these poor devils would be alive to-day." "Are they very bad?" she asked, leaning over his chair. "Men act badly sometimes without being much worse than others," he said after some hesitation. 'Tamb' Itam followed his master to the landing-stage outside the fort. The night was clear but without a moon, and the middle of the river was dark, while the water under each bank reflected the light of many fires "as on a night of Ramadan," Tamb' Itam said. War-boats drifted silently in the dark lane or, anchored, floated motionless with a loud ripple. That night there was much paddling in a canoe and walking at his master's heels for Tamb' Itam: up and down the street they tramped, where the fires were burning, inland on the outskirts of the town where small parties of men kept guard in the fields. Tuan Jim gave his orders and was obeyed. Last of all they went to the Rajah's stockade, which a detachment of Jim's people manned on that night. The old Rajah had fled early in the morning with most of his women to a small house he had near a jungle village on a tributary stream. Kassim, left behind, had attended the council with his air of diligent activity to explain away the diplomacy of the day before. He was considerably cold-shouldered, but managed to preserve his smiling, quiet alertness, and professed himself highly delighted when Jim told him sternly that he proposed to occupy the stockade on that night with his own men. After the council broke up he was heard outside accosting this and that deputing chief, and speaking in a loud, gratified tone of the Rajah's property being protected in the Rajah's absence. 'About ten or so Jim's men marched in. The stockade commanded the mouth of the creek, and Jim meant to remain there till Brown had passed below. A small fire was lit on the flat, grassy point outside the wall of stakes, and Tamb' Itam placed a little folding-stool for his master. Jim told him to try and sleep. Tamb' Itam got a mat and lay down a little way off; but he could not sleep, though he knew he had to go on an important journey before the night was out. His master walked to and fro before the fire with bowed head and with his hands behind his back. His face was sad. Whenever his master approached him Tamb' Itam pretended to sleep, not wishing his master to know he had been watched. At last his master stood still, looking down on him as he lay, and said softly, "It is time." 'Tamb' Itam arose directly and made his preparations. His mission was to go down the river, preceding Brown's boat by an hour or more, to tell Dain Waris finally and formally that the whites were to be allowed to pass out unmolested. Jim would not trust anybody else with that service. Before starting, Tamb' Itam, more as a matter of form (since his position about Jim made him perfectly known), asked for a token. "Because, Tuan," he said, "the message is important, and these are thy very words I carry." His master first put his hand into one pocket, then into another, and finally took off his forefinger Stein's silver ring, which he habitually wore, and gave it to Tamb' Itam. When Tamb' Itam left on his mission, Brown's camp on the knoll was dark but for a single small glow shining through the branches of one of the trees the white men had cut down. 'Early in the evening Brown had received from Jim a folded piece of paper on which was written, "You get the clear road. Start as soon as your boat floats on the morning tide. Let your men be careful. The bushes on both sides of the creek and the stockade at the mouth are full of well-armed men. You would have no chance, but I don't believe you want bloodshed." Brown read it, tore the paper into small pieces, and, turning to Cornelius, who had brought it, said jeeringly, "Good-bye, my excellent friend." Cornelius had been in the fort, and had been sneaking around Jim's house during the afternoon. Jim chose him to carry the note because he could speak English, was known to Brown, and was not likely to be shot by some nervous mistake of one of the men as a Malay, approaching in the dusk, perhaps might have been. 'Cornelius didn't go away after delivering the paper. Brown was sitting up over a tiny fire; all the others were lying down. "I could tell you something you would like to know," Cornelius mumbled crossly. Brown paid no attention. "You did not kill him," went on the other, "and what do you get for it? You might have had money from the Rajah, besides the loot of all the Bugis houses, and now you get nothing." "You had better clear out from here," growled Brown, without even looking at him. But Cornelius let himself drop by his side and began to whisper very fast, touching his elbow from time to time. What he had to say made Brown sit up at first, with a curse. He had simply informed him of Dain Waris's armed party down the river. At first Brown saw himself completely sold and betrayed, but a moment's reflection convinced him that there could be no treachery intended. He said nothing, and after a while Cornelius remarked, in a tone of complete indifference, that there was another way out of the river which he knew very well. "A good thing to know, too," said Brown, pricking up his ears; and Cornelius began to talk of what went on in town and repeated all that had been said in council, gossiping in an even undertone at Brown's ear as you talk amongst sleeping men you do not wish to wake. "He thinks he has made me harmless, does he?" mumbled Brown very low. . . . "Yes. He is a fool. A little child. He came here and robbed me," droned on Cornelius, "and he made all the people believe him. But if something happened that they did not believe him any more, where would he be? And the Bugis Dain who is waiting for you down the river there, captain, is the very man who chased you up here when you first came." Brown observed nonchalantly that it would be just as well to avoid him, and with the same detached, musing air Cornelius declared himself acquainted with a backwater broad enough to take Brown's boat past Waris's camp. "You will have to be quiet," he said as an afterthought, "for in one place we pass close behind his camp. Very close. They are camped ashore with their boats hauled up." "Oh, we know how to be as quiet as mice; never fear," said Brown. Cornelius stipulated that in case he were to pilot Brown out, his canoe should be towed. "I'll have to get back quick," he explained. 'It was two hours before the dawn when word was passed to the stockade from outlying watchers that the white robbers were coming down to their boat. In a very short time every armed man from one end of Patusan to the other was on the alert, yet the banks of the river remained so silent that but for the fires burning with sudden blurred flares the town might have been asleep as if in peace-time. A heavy mist lay very low on the water, making a sort of illusive grey light that showed nothing. When Brown's long-boat glided out of the creek into the river, Jim was standing on the low point of land before the Rajah's stockade--on the very spot where for the first time he put his foot on Patusan shore. A shadow loomed up, moving in the greyness, solitary, very bulky, and yet constantly eluding the eye. A murmur of low talking came out of it. Brown at the tiller heard Jim speak calmly: "A clear road. You had better trust to the current while the fog lasts; but this will lift presently." "Yes, presently we shall see clear," replied Brown. 'The thirty or forty men standing with muskets at ready outside the stockade held their breath. The Bugis owner of the prau, whom I saw on Stein's verandah, and who was amongst them, told me that the boat, shaving the low point close, seemed for a moment to grow big and hang over it like a mountain. "If you think it worth your while to wait a day outside," called out Jim, "I'll try to send you down something--a bullock, some yams--what I can." The shadow went on moving. "Yes. Do," said a voice, blank and muffled out of the fog. Not one of the many attentive listeners understood what the words meant; and then Brown and his men in their boat floated away, fading spectrally without the slightest sound. 'Thus Brown, invisible in the mist, goes out of Patusan elbow to elbow with Cornelius in the stern-sheets of the long-boat. "Perhaps you shall get a small bullock," said Cornelius. "Oh yes. Bullock. Yam. You'll get it if he said so. He always speaks the truth. He stole everything I had. I suppose you like a small bullock better than the loot of many houses." "I would advise you to hold your tongue, or somebody here may fling you overboard into this damned fog," said Brown. The boat seemed to be standing still; nothing could be seen, not even the river alongside, only the water-dust flew and trickled, condensed, down their beards and faces. It was weird, Brown told me. Every individual man of them felt as though he were adrift alone in a boat, haunted by an almost imperceptible suspicion of sighing, muttering ghosts. "Throw me out, would you? But I would know where I was," mumbled Cornelius surlily. "I've lived many years here." "Not long enough to see through a fog like this," Brown said, lolling back with his arm swinging to and fro on the useless tiller. "Yes. Long enough for that," snarled Cornelius. "That's very useful," commented Brown. "Am I to believe you could find that backway you spoke of blindfold, like this?" Cornelius grunted. "Are you too tired to row?" he asked after a silence. "No, by God!" shouted Brown suddenly. "Out with your oars there." There was a great knocking in the fog, which after a while settled into a regular grind of invisible sweeps against invisible thole-pins. Otherwise nothing was changed, and but for the slight splash of a dipped blade it was like rowing a balloon car in a cloud, said Brown. Thereafter Cornelius did not open his lips except to ask querulously for somebody to bale out his canoe, which was towing behind the long-boat. Gradually the fog whitened and became luminous ahead. To the left Brown saw a darkness as though he had been looking at the back of the departing night. All at once a big bough covered with leaves appeared above his head, and ends of twigs, dripping and still, curved slenderly close alongside. Cornelius, without a word, took the tiller from his hand.'

Chapter 43

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-43

Jim's huffy ultimatum strikes a chord, and Doramin comes around to his viewpoint. He agrees to give Brown safe passage off the island, so Jim arranges for the pirate's departure. Understandably, he feels a lot of pressure because everyone is letting Brown go on his suggestion. When Tamb' Itam goes to let Dain Waris know about the change of plans, Jim gives his servant his silver ring to give to Dain Waris, so he'll know the message can be trusted. Then, Jim sends Cornelius, who has rejoined the group, to let Brown know that he and his men can leave. He suggests a route, and tells them to be careful. Worst idea ever. We mean it. In the grand tradition of bad ideas, this ranks right up there with New Coke. The devious Cornelius tells Brown he can leave, but he fails to tell him that Dain Waris isn't planning to attack. Instead, he lets Brown know exactly where to find Dain Waris's armed party. Soon, Brown and his group head out to find Dain Waris, thinking that the war is still on.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/1200-chapters/book_5.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Gargantua and Pantagruel/section_6_part_0.txt

Gargantua and Pantagruel.book 5.chapter 1-chapter 45

book 5

{"name": "Book 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180420203406/http://www.gradesaver.com/gargantua-and-pantagruel/study-guide/summary-book-5", "summary": "Pantagruel and his companions arrive at the Ringing Island where they meet an old hermit by the name of Braguibus. According to the hermit, it is written that anyone who wishes to enter the island must first fast for four days; otherwise, they will be burned as a heretic. Although all of Pantagruel's companions complain about fasting, they do so in order to gain access to the island. After completing their four-day fast, the hermit gives them a letter that recommends them to Albian Camar, Master Aedituus of the Ringing Island. After meeting Master Aedituus, Pantagruel and his entourage feast before they find out the history of the island. According to Master Aedituus, the past inhabitants of the island, the Siticines, became birds long ago. Now the island is covered in all manner of birds, and the caretakers, including Master Aedituus, have built giant cages to house the birds. The tops of the cages have bells, and ringing the bells makes different birds sing or cry out. There are many different species of birds, and some species have been named after the different orders within the church, including a pope-hawk. Apparently, just as the Pope rules over the Catholic religion by himself, there's only ever one pope-hawk at any one time. Master Aedituus explains that the only reported instance where there was more than one pope-hawk was a time of much chaos, for the birds did not know whom to follow. Master Aedituus points out that many birds have come to the island from other places, including birds from Africa. Master Aedituus suspects that a lot of the birds come to the island, because their families are too large, their families were poor, or because they felt it was their duty to visit the island. All of these reasons are identical to the reasons that people go into the church as a profession. Master Aedituus tells Pantagruel and his friends about the knight-hawks, making an allegory of how they act noble and try to fight larger birds, but more often than not, the nobility is an act, since they look and act like mongrel birds. Master Aedituus then explains how he will reward Pantagruel and his friends with a four-day feast, since they all fasted for four days to gain entrance into this place. During which time, everyone ate excessively well and wandered around the bird paradise. Panurge then told the fable of the horse and the ass to Master Aedituus. In short, a horse sees an ass in the field and starts to talk to him, expressing how sorry he is that the ass must work so hard and yet never receive the rewards of being kept in a stable and fed well. The horse then offers the ass a chance to come with him in his stables so that he may be fed well and groomed. The ass takes the horse's offer, and experiences the horse's luxurious way life. After being groomed and well fed, the ass asks the horse how often they are allowed to have sexual relations with the female horses. The horse explains that they never do such actions in the sanctity of the stables, to which the ass replies that he would rather live in squalor and be able to have sex as often as he pleases than to live in such luxury for the rest of his life. During the four days, Pantagruel requests to see the pope-hawk. Master Aedituus explains, however, that it would prove difficult to find him. Nevertheless, Master Aedituus promises to try and locate the pope-hawk. Upon doing so, Master Aedituus arranges a viewing of the bird. Upon seeing the bird, Panurge comments that the bird looks grizzly, which results in Master Aedituus chastising Panurge for his comment. While Pantagruel and the others continue to look at the pope-hawk, Panurge notices that there is an egg underneath the bird in his cage, implying that the supposed only pope-hawk was female, which Master Aedituus claims could not be so. Pantagruel and his companions leave the pope-hawk and go to listen to the other birds, which they find amusing. At one point they try to gain the attention of a particular bird, so Panurge picks up a stone as if he was going to throw it at the bird. Master Aedituus begs Panurge never to do such an action, for the birds in this location were holy and must be treated as such. Pantagruel and his friends then decide that it was time to leave, and so they bid farewell to their host. Master Aedituus gives them many gifts and makes them promise that they will come back and visit. As Pantagruel and his companions sail on, they find themselves at the island of Tools. Supposedly, this was an island where no people lived. Instead, all manner of tools for daily laboring and for war were just scattered all over the place, and some of the tools even grew out of the earth or fell from trees. The narrator implies that the tools were alive, similar to plants, and that these tool-plant hybrids would breed with one another to create strange looking tools. Sailing onward, Pantagruel and his companions arrive at the island of Sharping. On this island, the rocks break through the surface of the land and poke upward. There were even two large cube-shaped rocks that looked like giant dice. The surfaces of these cubes looked white, as if they were covered in snow, but the pilot of Pantagruel's ship assures everyone that they are covered in bones. He then explains how devils live on these rocks and are summoned whenever anyone plays gambling games. Supposedly, the island also houses a holy relic. The narrator explains how Pantagruel and his friends decide to brave the island and see the relic. Unfortunately, the relic itself isn't very impressive, although the keepers of the relic have done a marvelous job at decorating the holding place of the relic to make it appear grander. Pantagruel and the others claim to be thankful for seeing the relic, and they even purchase items from the keepers of the relic, including hats. On a barren island near the Sharpening Island, Pantagruel and his companions go through a wicket and are captured by the workers of Gripe-men-all, Archduke of the Furred Law-cats. They have captured Pantagruel and his companions, because one of Pantagruel's servants was wearing a hat purchased from the people of the Sharpening Island. Pantagruel and his companions are put on trial, and Gripe-men-all offers them a riddle that they must solve to prove their innocence. They do not know the answer to the actual riddle, and Friar John curses them for putting good men on trial for no reason and making a mockery out of the legal system. Panurge then realizes that the answer to the riddle is no answer at all, but a bride. He throws gold to Gripe-men-all and all the Furred Law-cats, and surely enough they decide that all of the prisoners not guilty, and thus they are allowed to leave the island. Prior to getting onto their boats, Pantagruel and his companions are warned by dockworkers that they had best leave gifts for not only the Furred Law-cats and Gripe-men-all, but also for the wives of all of these individuals. It becomes clear that the entire population of the island is corrupt, and that the legal system does not function on equality. These Furred Law-cats use the guise of justice to extort money out of their victims. Friar John and Panurge get into an argument about what to do with these Furred Law-cats. Friar John believes they are devils and sinners, and that all of the Pantagruelists, as they have come to call themselves, should cleanse the earth of such filth - that is, they should kill the Furred Law-cats. Panurge has no desire to fight these monsters. He is satisfied that he has paid them off with gold, and he wishes to have nothing else to do with them. Friar John pulls out his cutlass and walks off in a huff, angry that the others will not stand by his side and fight these sinful beasts. As he walks, he comes across a landlady complaining to a police officer about some of Pantagruel's crewmembers who did not pay for services rendered. Friar John starts waving his cutlass and throwing around angry words, which makes the police officer flee; but the landlady stands her ground. She explains that all she wants is payment for services rendered, and Friar John agrees to do so, but only after he sees the state of the rooms where the crewmen stayed. The landlady shows Friar John the rooms, and he agrees that the cost is fair, so he pays the woman her money. After he pays her, though, he starts ripping open the pillows and creating a storm of feathers. The landlady runs off screaming, and Friar John steals the remaining pillows and blankets and gives them to some of the men on the ship. Pantagruel and his companions quickly leave the island and immediately set sail for some other place. Unfortunately, a storm turns their ship around and makes them almost land back on the island of the Furred Law-cats. Panurge begs the pilot to turn the ship around, for he never wishes to see that island again. Somehow they manage to once again sail away from the island and make their way toward another place. The new place they find is the island of the Apedefers. On this strange island, Pantagruel and his companions find all manner of small and gigantic wine presses. The rulers of the wine presses judge everything through the act of pressing grapes, but they will also press any object that fits within their presses. Through this metaphor made real, they have transformed the wine press processes into a legal system. The people of the island find their methodology quite suitable, since the masters of the presses are all ignorant people, and therefore cannot be corrupted. Great monsters also live on the island, but they are chained up. The masters of the wine presses feed the juices of this strange vineyard-legal system to these monsters. Whereas Friar John was bent on destroying the Furred Law-cats, he and Panurge are far more supportive of this legal system, for not only does it create wine, but they claim that the ignorant people in charge are by far more intelligent for their use of such a fair and unbiased system. Next, they came to an island where the people would slit their skin to let the fat out, much like people slit their clothes to let the under layers of fabric show through. Pantagruel and his companions arrive in time for what they initially believe is a happy ceremony, the bursting of an older man, but they find out that the bursting is actually akin to death, and that everyone has gathered for a funeral-like scene. Panurge mourns the situation and begs that they find some other way to heal the man, but alas the man dies as Panurge laments. A storm hits, and they are caught aground. As they wait for the tides to swell and help them get off of the sandbanks, a passing ship spots them and calls out to them. The man calling out to them is a friend of the narrator. This friend goes by the name of Harry Cotiral, and he is described as a man who wears a greasy hat, who holds the stump of a cabbage in one hand, and who has attached a horse's penis to his belt. As Harry's ship gets closer, Harry and the narrator have a brief conversation, and the narrator learns that Harry's ship is sailing from the Queen of Whims' land and that it is making its way home to Pantagruel's country. The cargo on Harry's ship includes alchemy products, and the passengers traveling on the ship are all manner of people: \"Astrologers, fortune-tellers, alchemists, rhymers, poets, painters, projectors, mathematicians, watchmakers, sing-songs, musicians,\" . Panurge insists that the narrator and Harry quit chatting long enough so that they can negotiate a way for Harry's ship to help their ship get off the sandbank. Harry explains that he was steering his ship closer to them just for that purpose, and he orders his crewmen to start throwing over cables to assist in pulling the ship free. Pantagruel and all his companions give thanks to Harry and his ship for their assistance. Pantagruel also make certain that they are paid well for their aid. Although Pantagruel's ships are no longer stuck on the sandbanks, the storm still damaged the ships pretty significantly, so Pantagruel and his companions decide that the only way to find their way to the Queen of Whims' kingdom is to let the winds and currents push them toward their destination. Pantagruel and his companions finally arrive at the Queen of Whims' domain and are greeted by soldiers who make sure that Pantagruel and his friends are good and noble people. Upon proving so, they are admitted to see the Queen. Although she is nearly 2,000 years old, she looks young, beautiful, and regal. Within her castle are many sick people, but as soon as she plays a song on the organ, all those within the vicinity are healed completely. She then meets with Pantagruel and his friends and delivers the most beautiful and eloquent speech they have ever heard. All of them stand speechless as a result, for they are too afraid to answer her ladyship. She interprets their inability to speak to imply that they are grateful for her services. She then gives them full leisure to explore her kingdom. Upon their exploration, Pantagruel and his friends learn that the Queen's servants also have the ability to heal people, but each servant has only been trained to cure one type of ailment. Of the servants, Pantagruel and his friends find someone who can turn old women into young women, so that they can be married to young suitors. Pantagruel asks if there is a person who turns old men into young men. One of the Queen's servants replies that it is not necessary for anyone to perform that feat. The servant elaborates that the only thing to do to turn an old man young again is to place him with a young woman as his lover. As Pantagruel and his companions continue to explore, they soon discover that the people who serve the Queen perform miracles and impossible acts on a regular basis. These people also dedicate themselves to improving their skills through continuous studies. The Queen once again speaks to Pantagruel and his companions, and once again they find themselves speechless after hearing her words. She honors them by making them abstractors and tells them that her principal Tabachin, Geber, will provide them with guidance on their new callings. Next, the Queen, all of her court, Pantagruel, and his companions go to the main hall for a large feast. As they eat, they notice that the Queen never chews any food herself, and instead she has servants who chew her food for her, and those servants feed her through a golden funnel. The narrator also states that since the Queen does not chew her own food, she also does not use the bathroom on her own, and he comments that the Queen has someone else use the bathroom for her by proxy. After dinner, they are entertained by a tilting tournament, which in actuality is a live-action game of chess with dancers dressed up as the gold and silver chess pieces. Around the chessboard is an orchestra, and as the music plays, different chess pieces move in accordance with the music. By the end of the first bout, the silver king claims victory over the gold king. The silver king also wins the second bout, but the gold king claims the third bout's victory. Sometime during the chess matches, the Queen of Whims disappears. Pantagruel and his companions never see her again, for they too left shortly after the chess matches had completed. Sailing away from the Queen of Whims' country, the group arrives next at the island of Odes, which is where ways are created. Some ways are beautiful, some ways are treacherous, some ways are well traveled, and so forth. Pantagruel and the others discuss the different ways they get from place to place, but it is unclear if they are speaking metaphorically. They meet a local man who tells them that no matter which one of the ways they examine, all the ways start and end in the water. At the island of Sandals, the third king of the island, Benius, entertains Pantagruel and his companions. He brings them to see the order of Semiquaver Friars. Unlike other orders of friars, these monks wear cowls that cover their faces and expose the back of their heads, which are completely shaven. They also wear codpieces on both their fronts and their backs, and they walk backwards as normally as they walk forwards. They dress and act so strangely, because they wish to avoid fortune, for they believe fortune to be a horrible thing. Panurge, Friar John, and Epistemon get into a strange conversation with one of the friars. Panurge does most of the talking, and the friar answers his question with monosyllable answers. From the conversation, they learn that the friar and all the monks in the order regularly engage in sex. They also masturbate profusely and fornicate on a regular basis. This monk claims to be the most virile of the bunch, and states that he prefers to copulate in March. Epistemon comments that March is the same month as Lent. Epistemon discusses how Catholics are hypocritical with Lent, since it is the time when they are supposed to give up certain luxuries, yet it ends up being the time when Catholics give in to sin far more easily. After Epistemon criticizes Lent, Panurge questions the friar, who continues to give monosyllabic answers. Panurge asks the friar if he believes that Epistemon is a heretic and if he should be burned at the stake, to which the friar answers yes to both questions. Panurge then comments how he would like to take this friar home, after Panurge has found a wife, that is, so that the friar could be his wife's fool. Moving on, Pantagruel and his companions find themselves in the land of Satin. Within this land is the country of Tapestry. In this place, there are no living animals or plants, and instead tapestries hang everywhere. Pantagruel and his friends walk through and examine the images on the tapestries. The narrator makes a list of all the animals, creatures, beings, and scenes that he sees portrayed on these tapestries. The narrator also relays poignant information about some of the images. For instance, according to the tapestries, the horn of a unicorn is only erect when the unicorn was in battle or purifying toxic waters. Panurge makes the comparison between the unicorn's horn and his own penis, explaining that his penis has purified all the women he has slept with. Friar John jokes that Panurge's ability will prove quite useful to keep his wife clean, implying that she will no doubt cuckold him and bring home diseases. Panurge does not like the joke, but he does not start an argument over it, as he has done before. As they travel further into the country of tapestries, the narrator notes seeing all manner of different people walking amidst the tapestries. All these people are surrounding one particular figure, which is a monstrous-looking small man by the name of Hearsay. This small man smiles from ear to ear, and within his mouth he has seven tongues that each speak multiple languages all at once. His whole head is covered in ears, so he can hear everything, but his eyes are blind. Thus, all the great philosophers, artists, and professionals come to Hearsay and learn through him instead of learning the truth. After much travel, Pantagruel and his companions finally arrive in Lantern-land. They make port, explain their purpose for being there to the local authorities, and then they request to see the Queen of the land to ask permission to travel to the Oracle of the Holy Bottle. They visit with the Queen, and she gives them permission to travel. She also offers a Lantern to guide the way. By Lantern, the Queen implies a person with the designation of \"Lantern,\" and this person will guide travelers to any chosen destination within Lantern-land. Before they go, they have dinner with the Queen, and as they go to dinner they see all of the great lanterns of legends, myths, and antiquity.The following day, they have their Lantern guide them to the destination of the oracle. Before they reach the entrance to the oracle, though, they must pass through a vineyard, and the Lantern explains that the vineyard was planted by Bacchus himself. While passing through the vineyard, they are each instructed to eat three grapes, place grape leaves inside of their shoes, and each person must hold a vine branch in their left hand. Everyone does as the Lantern instructs, and so they make their way to the entrance of the oracle. The Lantern leads Pantagruel and his companions into the entrance of the temple, which is underground. There is some discussion between the narrator and Pantagruel about the paintings on the underground cellar walls, which remind them about the cellars in Chinon, or Cainon, which is supposedly the oldest city in the world, as Cain built it. As they move further underground, they take a spiral staircase down over 100 steps toward the place where Priestess Bacbuc resides. As they go down, Panurge begins to panic and fears that he is walking down into hell. He thinks that they should turn around and go back, but Pantagruel and Friar John do not let him run away. Instead, they urge him downward. At the bottom of the steps, the Lantern explains that she can go no further than the temple gates. She will be there to lead them back out, but she must leave them at the gates. Everyone seems to understand, so she unlocks the temple gates, and leaves them there. On the right temple gate is carved the following words: \"Fate leads the willing, and th' unwilling draws\" . On the left temple gate is carved these words: \"All things tend to their end\" . Inside the temple, Pantagruel and his companions find that it is adored and decorated in the most elegant fashion imaginable. Beautiful mosaics portray the tale of how Bacchus, followed by women warriors, drunken men, satyrs, centaurs, and all other manner of creatures, went to battle against the Indians and won the day. Although the temple is deep underground, in the center of the temple is an enormous golden lantern that provides ample light. Chains suspend this golden lantern, and it is adorned with four smaller lanterns made of precious stones. The light created from these lanterns illuminates the space to make it appear as bright as day. After they pass the golden lantern, Pantagruel and his companions meet the priestess Bacbuc and her handmaidens. The priestess leads Pantagruel and his followers into the central area of the temple to see the great fountain. The narrator describes the fountain as heptagonal with seven pillars that reach up to the ceiling and join in archways to form a cupola above the fountain. Each of the seven pillars is made of the most precious stones, and each pillar is assigned to one of the seven celestial bodies. In accordance with the seven celestial bodies, each pillar also has a corresponding metal attached to it. On the inside of the cupola is engraved astronomical symbols, including symbols from the zodiac. The priestess encourages Pantagruel and his followers to drink from the fountain, which they do. After their first taste of the fountain's waters, they claim they cannot taste anything special, so the priestess orders her handmaidens to bring in palate cleansers for the guests. After sufficiently eating enough foods to cleanse their pallets, the priestess invites them to drink again. This time each man swears that the water tastes like a different flavor of wine. With each taste of the fountain, they can let their imaginations change the flavors, which proves the power of these waters. Bacbuc prepares Panurge to hear the words of the Holy Bottle, known as the Goddess-Bottle. Before he can hear the words, though, she warns him that he can only hear the truth in one ear. She then dresses him in a strange manner of clothing, and then has him dance about the temple, twirling, jumping up and down, singing strange words, and then she finally leads him into an adjacent chamber known as the chapel. In this chapel there is a second heptagonal fountain, although all the pillars are made of the same alabaster material. The side of the fountain is where the Goddess-Bottle sits. Bacbuc places Panurge to where he would be able to place one ear to the bottle. Bacbuc then throws something into the fountain water to make it instantly boil. As it does so, a buzzing noise can be heard from the bottle, and then a voice comes out of it saying, \"Trinc.\" At first, Panurge worries that the oracle is fraudulent, but then Bacbuc explains that the meaning of the word can be found in the book of the oracle. She brings Panurge to where the book is kept, but unlike traditional books that are read, this book must be drunk in order for individuals to understand the true meaning behind the words spoken by the Goddess-Bottle. Panurge drinks the book, and he claims instantly to know the true meaning behind the message. He then begins to chant uncontrollably in rhyming verse. As he chants, he reveals that he will get married, he will drink and be happy, and he will keep his wife happy and satisfied. Pantagruel and Friar John also begin to chant in rhyme. Friar John reveals that nothing will ever make him get married, for he does not want to feel restricted. Panurge chastises Friar John, implying that he will go to hell for not getting married, whereas he, Panurge, will go to paradise. After a while, Pantagruel, Panurge, and Friar John stop talking in rhyme, and they are ready to leave. The priestess requests that they give her servants their names, so that they can be written on a roster. She then bids them farewell and hopes that they have been given the answers they sought. The priestess insists that many great answers can be found underground, for that is where the truth is often concealed.", "analysis": "One of the main points of contention for this fifth and final book is whether Rabelais wrote it. Arthur Augustus Tilley has thoroughly researched the publication of the multiple versions of the fifth book. He points out that the first version only contained the first 15 chapters of the book, but this version had no printer name on the publication, which is peculiar. Stranger still is the fact that the book came out nearly nine years after Rabelais had passed away. After this first publication appeared in 1562, the second publication appeared in 1564, and this version included 47 chapters, but Tilley notes that this version omitted the chapter about the island of the Apedefts. Additional versions and manuscripts surfaced thereafter, some with omitted portions, others with extended scenes that are not considered part of the original text. Tilley points out that the written manuscripts are \"written in the same hand throughout, which is certainly not Rabelais's,\" as he contests that the handwriting does not match previous known samples of Rabelais's writing . Other than handwriting samples, Tilley explains that several of Rabelais's contemporaries also argued that Rabelais could not have written the fifth book, at least not completely. According to Tilley's research, Rabelais's contemporaries posit that the excessive anti-Catholic sentiments presented in the fifth book is proof that Rabelais could not have been the author. With that point made, the anti-Catholic propaganda throughout the fifth book creates a much different tone compared to the previous four books. One of the most blatant anti-Catholic acts includes the dark satirical mockery of reliquary and idol worship. During the Renaissance, Reformists argued that the glorified worship of reliquaries, statues of saints, statues of Christ, and other idol-like images predominant in the Catholic religion were in clear violation of one of the 10 Commandments. Within this fifth book, Pantagruel and his companion's visit several sites that contain reliquaries or other holy items. More often than not, the narrator presents the items as being unimpressive or the narrator displays the caretakers as hypocrites and liars. For instance, on the Ringing Island, Master Aedituus claims that there is only ever one pope-hawk at any one time. When he arranges a viewing of the bird for Pantagruel and his companions, though, Panurge notices that the one and only pope-hawk has laid an egg, implying that it is female and not male, and that another pope-hawk impregnated it. Master Aedituus denies such allegations and refuses to see the factual evidence. Likewise, on the island of Sandals, Panurge, Epistemon, and Friar John interview one of the Semiquaver Friars. Through this discussion, they discover that all the friars in this order engage in sex, masturbation, and other acts unbecoming a member of the clergy. As the structure of the fifth book includes blatant anti-Catholic statements, it also includes a high amount of metaphors made real through allegory or personification. The fifth book starts off with an allegory designed primarily to set up the anti-Catholic structure. On the Ringing Island, Master Aedituus tells Pantagruel and his companions that many of the birds currently on the island were once humans who transformed. A large portion of the transformed birds has been named after different parts of the clergy. Thus, the allegory of the previous island dwellers' transformation implies both transmogrification and transcendence from human to bird, which could stand for transcendence from human to angel. In an allegorical presentation, it may represent the transformation a regular person undergoes when they take on the vows of the clergy. Beyond just members of the clergy, though, some of the birds have been named after social classes, which expands the allegory outside of just the ecclesiastical transmogrification. However, by including the other classes, such as the mongrel knight-hawk pointed out by Master Aedituus, the narrator makes his allegory less about the idea of transcendence. Instead, the allegory becomes more of a simple comparison between humans and birds. One of the most visual sustained allegories happens on the island of Satin in the country of Tapestry where all manner of people have come to learn from Hearsay. Much like the practice in medieval storytelling, the abstract concept of hearsay has been personified into the form of \"a diminutive, monstrous, misshapen old fellow\" whose \"mouth was slit up to his ears, and in it were seven tongues, each of them cleft into seven parts. However, he chattered, tattled, and prated with all the seven at once, of different matters, and in divers languages . . . He had as many ears all over his head and the rest of his body as Argus formerly had eyes, and was as blind as a beetle\" . The narrator explains how all manner of great people, including some of the greatest thinkers throughout history, were gathered around Hearsay for his infinite knowledge. Of course, through the sustained allegory, the narrator implies that people who only learn from Hearsay are blinded from the truth. At an attempt to maintain the satire, the narrator explains how Pantagruel and his companions mingled with the students of Hearsay, joked with them, ate their rich foods, and were \"scurvily entertained\" . By showing that Pantagruel and his companions found the entire episode amusing and nothing more, the narrator, therefore, expects the reader to believe that Pantagruel and his friends did not take the students of Hearsay seriously, which further underscores the concept of hearsay as something to be ignored. Moving away from subjects of authenticity, anti-Catholic sentiments, and allegorical representations, one cannot discuss this final book without examining the full cycle of development, or lack thereof, of the main characters. On their journey portrayed in the fifth book, Pantagruel almost disappears as a character for most of the story, allowing Panurge and Friar John to take center stage with Epistemon as their supporting character. The entire voyage from the start of the fourth book to the end of the fifth book shows Panurge going back and forth between absolute cowardice and absolute arrogance; the sea and the elements bring out his cowardice, but standing on dry land allows his arrogance to shine. Curious enough, when Panurge finally reaches the oracle and goes underground, getting ever closer to his answer, his cowardice returns temporarily. Friar John serves as little more than a pseudo-parental figure in these last two books. He chastises Panurge for his cowardice, and threatens to hurt him, but he never does more than verbally shame him. Epistemon lightens the mood between Panurge and Friar John, but his character serves as a mask for mocking the Catholic Church through a vaguely scholarly discourse. At the end of the fifth book, Pantagruel once again becomes more involved in the story, if only just. Of course, he only seems to get involved to push Panurge into following through with his search for answers. Thus, though the story is named after Pantagruel, his character neither grows nor changes much within the last three books. He serves as more of a presence or regal figurehead that provides the other characters, mainly Panurge, with the money and means to live out their adventures. In the end of this final book, it truly is all about Panurge's quest for answers. Unhappy with the answers he acquired in the third book, namely that he would be cuckolded, Panurge convinces Pantagruel, Epistemon, Friar John, and the other companions to go on an epic voyage to find the ultimate answer. Throughout this voyage that takes two books to complete, the whole purpose behind the quest seems an afterthought at best. Although Panurge occasionally gets mocked or mocks himself about the idea of becoming a cuckold, the characters involved in the last two books seem fairly unconcerned with Panurge's fate. Nevertheless, they do all keep moving toward Lantern Land in support of Panurge, so perhaps they are all merely enjoying the ride, since they know the end of their journey will be met with all seriousness as they encounter the oracle. However, the level of seriousness in the final chapters of the fifth book is questionable. While the characters go through various ceremonies and act solemnly, the non-Christian elements serve to make a mockery of the entire ordeal. For Panurge to get his answer, the priestess must dress him up in a fool's garb, and then she orders him to dance about the temple like a madman. After he finally hears the one word answer from the Goddess-Bottle, the word makes no sense to him until he drinks a magical elixir referred to as the book. Only then does he understand the meaning of the word, but he can only verbalize or translate the meaning by speaking through rhyme. With his newfound knowledge, Panurge's character transforms into a man confident that his marriage will end well, provided that he treats his wife well. Panurge then turns the tables and chastises Friar John, explaining to Friar John that he will never make it to Paradise, for as a member of the clergy he cannot get married, which serves as the final anti-Catholic remark. During these final scenes, Pantagruel uses rhymed verse to tell Friar John to let Panurge make a fool out of himself. Pantagruel's remarks on the matter make the ending of the story seem false and pointless, as if the entire voyage was nothing more than just a way to humor Panurge. While Pantagruel's statements may have been chosen to emphasize the satirical nature of the entire Gargantua and Pantagruel series, his comments feel out of place, given that the fifth book itself does not contain the clever type of satire that made Rabelais famous, but rather it contains a malicious type of satire used predominately as a propaganda machine against the Catholic Church."}

Indefatigable topers, and you, thrice precious martyrs of the smock, give me leave to put a serious question to your worships while you are idly striking your codpieces, and I myself not much better employed. Pray, why is it that people say that men are not such sots nowadays as they were in the days of yore? Sot is an old word that signifies a dunce, dullard, jolthead, gull, wittol, or noddy, one without guts in his brains, whose cockloft is unfurnished, and, in short, a fool. Now would I know whether you would have us understand by this same saying, as indeed you logically may, that formerly men were fools and in this generation are grown wise? How many and what dispositions made them fools? How many and what dispositions were wanting to make 'em wise? Why were they fools? How should they be wise? Pray, how came you to know that men were formerly fools? How did you find that they are now wise? Who the devil made 'em fools? Who a God's name made 'em wise? Who d'ye think are most, those that loved mankind foolish, or those that love it wise? How long has it been wise? How long otherwise? Whence proceeded the foregoing folly? Whence the following wisdom? Why did the old folly end now, and no later? Why did the modern wisdom begin now, and no sooner? What were we the worse for the former folly? What the better for the succeeding wisdom? How should the ancient folly be come to nothing? How should this same new wisdom be started up and established? Now answer me, an't please you. I dare not adjure you in stronger terms, reverend sirs, lest I make your pious fatherly worships in the least uneasy. Come, pluck up a good heart; speak the truth and shame the devil. Be cheery, my lads; and if you are for me, take me off three or five bumpers of the best, while I make a halt at the first part of the sermon; then answer my question. If you are not for me, avaunt! avoid, Satan! For I swear by my great-grandmother's placket (and that's a horrid oath), that if you don't help me to solve that puzzling problem, I will, nay, I already do repent having proposed it; for still I must remain nettled and gravelled, and a devil a bit I know how to get off. Well, what say you? I'faith, I begin to smell you out. You are not yet disposed to give me an answer; nor I neither, by these whiskers. Yet to give some light into the business, I'll e'en tell you what had been anciently foretold in the matter by a venerable doctor, who, being moved by the spirit in a prophetic vein, wrote a book ycleped the Prelatical Bagpipe. What d'ye think the old fornicator saith? Hearken, you old noddies, hearken now or never. The jubilee's year, when all like fools were shorn, Is about thirty supernumerary. O want of veneration! fools they seemed, But, persevering, with long breves, at last No more they shall be gaping greedy fools. For they shall shell the shrub's delicious fruit, Whose flower they in the spring so much had feared. Now you have it, what do you make on't? The seer is ancient, the style laconic, the sentences dark like those of Scotus, though they treat of matters dark enough in themselves. The best commentators on that good father take the jubilee after the thirtieth to be the years that are included in this present age till 1550 (there being but one jubilee every fifty years). Men shall no longer be thought fools next green peas season. The fools, whose number, as Solomon certifies, is infinite, shall go to pot like a parcel of mad bedlamites as they are; and all manner of folly shall have an end, that being also numberless, according to Avicenna, maniae infinitae sunt species. Having been driven back and hidden towards the centre during the rigour of the winter, 'tis now to be seen on the surface, and buds out like the trees. This is as plain as a nose in a man's face; you know it by experience; you see it. And it was formerly found out by that great good man Hippocrates, Aphorism Verae etenim maniae, &c. This world therefore wisifying itself, shall no longer dread the flower and blossoms of every coming spring, that is, as you may piously believe, bumper in hand and tears in eyes, in the woeful time of Lent, which used to keep them company. Whole cartloads of books that seemed florid, flourishing, and flowery, gay, and gaudy as so many butterflies, but in the main were tiresome, dull, soporiferous, irksome, mischievous, crabbed, knotty, puzzling, and dark as those of whining Heraclitus, as unintelligible as the numbers of Pythagoras, that king of the bean, according to Horace; those books, I say, have seen their best days and shall soon come to nothing, being delivered to the executing worms and merciless petty chandlers; such was their destiny, and to this they were predestinated. In their stead beans in cod are started up; that is, these merry and fructifying Pantagruelian books, so much sought nowadays in expectation of the following jubilee's period; to the study of which writings all people have given their minds, and accordingly have gained the name of wise. Now I think I have fairly solved and resolved your problem; then reform, and be the better for it. Hem once or twice like hearts of oak; stand to your pan-puddings, and take me off your bumpers, nine go-downs, and huzza! since we are like to have a good vintage, and misers hang themselves. Oh! they will cost me an estate in hempen collars if fair weather hold. For I hereby promise to furnish them with twice as much as will do their business on free cost, as often as they will take the pains to dance at a rope's end providently to save charges, to the no small disappointment of the finisher of the law. Now, my friends, that you may put in for a share of this new wisdom, and shake off the antiquated folly this very moment, scratch me out of your scrolls and quite discard the symbol of the old philosopher with the golden thigh, by which he has forbidden you to eat beans; for you may take it for a truth granted among all professors in the science of good eating, that he enjoined you not to taste of them only with the same kind intent that a certain fresh-water physician had when he did forbid to Amer, late Lord of Camelotiere, kinsman to the lawyer of that name, the wing of the partridge, the rump of the chicken, and the neck of the pigeon, saying, Ala mala, rumpum dubium, collum bonum, pelle remota. For the duncical dog-leech was so selfish as to reserve them for his own dainty chops, and allowed his poor patients little more than the bare bones to pick, lest they should overload their squeamish stomachs. To the heathen philosopher succeeded a pack of Capuchins, monks who forbid us the use of beans, that is, Pantagruelian books. They seem to follow the example of Philoxenus and Gnatho, one of whom was a Sicilian of fulsome memory, the ancient master-builders of their monastic cram-gut voluptuousness, who, when some dainty bit was served up at a feast, filthily used to spit on it, that none but their nasty selves might have the stomach to eat of it, though their liquorish chops watered never so much after it. So those hideous, snotty, phthisicky, eaves-dropping, musty, moving forms of mortification, both in public and private, curse those dainty books, and like toads spit their venom upon them. Now, though we have in our mother-tongue several excellent works in verse and prose, and, heaven be praised! but little left of the trash and trumpery stuff of those duncical mumblers of ave-maries and the barbarous foregoing Gothic age, I have made bold to choose to chirrup and warble my plain ditty, or, as they say, to whistle like a goose among the swans, rather than be thought deaf among so many pretty poets and eloquent orators. And thus I am prouder of acting the clown, or any other under-part, among the many ingenious actors in that noble play, than of herding among those mutes, who, like so many shadows and ciphers, only serve to fill up the house and make up a number, gaping and yawning at the flies, and pricking up their lugs, like so many Arcadian asses, at the striking up of the music; thus silently giving to understand that their fopships are tickled in the right place. Having taken this resolution, I thought it would not be amiss to move my Diogenical tub, that you might not accuse me of living without example. I see a swarm of our modern poets and orators, your Colinets, Marots, Drouets, Saint Gelais, Salels, Masuels, and many more, who, having commenced masters in Apollo's academy on Mount Parnassus, and drunk brimmers at the Caballin fountain among the nine merry Muses, have raised our vulgar tongue, and made it a noble and everlasting structure. Their works are all Parian marble, alabaster, porphyry, and royal cement; they treat of nothing but heroic deeds, mighty things, grave and difficult matters, and this in a crimson, alamode, rhetorical style. Their writings are all divine nectar, rich, racy, sparkling, delicate, and luscious wine. Nor does our sex wholly engross this honour; ladies have had their share of the glory; one of them, of the royal blood of France, whom it were a profanation but to name here, surprises the age at once by the transcendent and inventive genius in her writings and the admirable graces of her style. Imitate those great examples if you can; for my part I cannot. Everyone, you know, cannot go to Corinth. When Solomon built the temple, all could not give gold by handfuls. Since then 'tis not in my power to improve our architecture as much as they, I am e'en resolved to do like Renault of Montauban: I'll wait on the masons, set on the pot for the masons, cook for the stone-cutters; and since it was not my good luck to be cut out for one of them, I will live and die the admirer of their divine writings. As for you, little envious prigs, snarling bastards, puny critics, you'll soon have railed your last; go hang yourselves, and choose you out some well-spread oak, under whose shade you may swing in state, to the admiration of the gaping mob; you shall never want rope enough. While I here solemnly protest before my Helicon, in the presence of my nine mistresses the Muses, that if I live yet the age of a dog, eked out with that of three crows, sound wind and limbs, like the old Hebrew captain Moses, Xenophilus the musician, and Demonax the philosopher, by arguments no ways impertinent, and reasons not to be disputed, I will prove, in the teeth of a parcel of brokers and retailers of ancient rhapsodies and such mouldy trash, that our vulgar tongue is not so mean, silly, inept, poor, barren, and contemptible as they pretend. Nor ought I to be afraid of I know not what botchers of old threadbare stuff, a hundred and a hundred times clouted up and pieced together; wretched bunglers that can do nothing but new-vamp old rusty saws; beggarly scavengers that rake even the muddiest canals of antiquity for scraps and bits of Latin as insignificant as they are often uncertain. Beseeching our grandees of Witland that, as when formerly Apollo had distributed all the treasures of his poetical exchequer to his favourites, little hulchbacked Aesop got for himself the office of apologue-monger; in the same manner, since I do not aspire higher, they would not deny me that of puny rhyparographer, or riffraff follower of the sect of Pyreicus. I dare swear they will grant me this; for they are all so kind, so good-natured, and so generous, that they'll ne'er boggle at so small a request. Therefore, both dry and hungry souls, pot and trenchermen, fully enjoying those books, perusing, quoting them in their merry conventicles, and observing the great mysteries of which they treat, shall gain a singular profit and fame; as in the like case was done by Alexander the Great with the books of prime philosophy composed by Aristotle. O rare! belly on belly! what swillers, what twisters will there be! Then be sure all you that take care not to die of the pip, be sure, I say, you take my advice, and stock yourselves with good store of such books as soon as you meet with them at the booksellers; and do not only shell those beans, but e'en swallow them down like an opiate cordial, and let them be in you; I say, let them be within you; then you shall find, my beloved, what good they do to all clever shellers of beans. Here is a good handsome basketful of them, which I here lay before your worships; they were gathered in the very individual garden whence the former came. So I beseech you, reverend sirs, with as much respect as was ever paid by dedicating author, to accept of the gift, in hopes of somewhat better against next visit the swallows give us. How Pantagruel arrived at the Ringing Island, and of the noise that we heard. Pursuing our voyage, we sailed three days without discovering anything; on the fourth we made land. Our pilot told us that it was the Ringing Island, and indeed we heard a kind of a confused and often repeated noise, that seemed to us at a great distance not unlike the sound of great, middle-sized, and little bells rung all at once, as 'tis customary at Paris, Tours, Gergeau, Nantes, and elsewhere on high holidays; and the nearer we came to the land the louder we heard that jangling. Some of us doubted that it was the Dodonian kettle, or the portico called Heptaphone in Olympia, or the eternal humming of the colossus raised on Memnon's tomb in Thebes of Egypt, or the horrid din that used formerly to be heard about a tomb at Lipara, one of the Aeolian islands. But this did not square with chorography. I do not know, said Pantagruel, but that some swarms of bees hereabouts may be taking a ramble in the air, and so the neighbourhood make this dingle-dangle with pans, kettles, and basins, the corybantine cymbals of Cybele, grandmother of the gods, to call them back. Let's hearken. When we were nearer, among the everlasting ringing of these indefatigable bells we heard the singing, as we thought, of some men. For this reason, before we offered to land on the Ringing Island, Pantagruel was of opinion that we should go in the pinnace to a small rock, near which we discovered an hermitage and a little garden. There we found a diminutive old hermit, whose name was Braguibus, born at Glenay. He gave us a full account of all the jangling, and regaled us after a strange sort of fashion--four livelong days did he make us fast, assuring us that we should not be admitted into the Ringing Island otherwise, because it was then one of the four fasting, or ember weeks. As I love my belly, quoth Panurge, I by no means understand this riddle. Methinks this should rather be one of the four windy weeks; for while we fast we are only puffed up with wind. Pray now, good father hermit, have not you here some other pastime besides fasting? Methinks it is somewhat of the leanest; we might well enough be without so many palace holidays and those fasting times of yours. In my Donatus, quoth Friar John, I could find yet but three times or tenses, the preterit, the present, and the future; doubtless here the fourth ought to be a work of supererogation. That time or tense, said Epistemon, is aorist, derived from the preter-imperfect tense of the Greeks, admitted in war (?) and odd cases. Patience perforce is a remedy for a mad dog. Saith the hermit: It is, as I told you, fatal to go against this; whosoever does it is a rank heretic, and wants nothing but fire and faggot, that's certain. To deal plainly with you, my dear pater, cried Panurge, being at sea, I much more fear being wet than being warm, and being drowned than being burned. Well, however, let us fast, a God's name; yet I have fasted so long that it has quite undermined my flesh, and I fear that at last the bastions of this bodily fort of mine will fall to ruin. Besides, I am much more afraid of vexing you in this same trade of fasting; for the devil a bit I understand anything in it, and it becomes me very scurvily, as several people have told me, and I am apt to believe them. For my part, I have no great stomach to fasting; for alas! it is as easy as pissing a bed, and a trade of which anybody may set up; there needs no tools. I am much more inclined not to fast for the future; for to do so there is some stock required, and some tools are set a-work. No matter, since you are so steadfast, and would have us fast, let us fast as fast as we can, and then breakfast in the name of famine. Now we are come to these esurial idle days. I vow I had quite put them out of my head long ago. If we must fast, said Pantagruel, I see no other remedy but to get rid of it as soon as we can, as we would out of a bad way. I'll in that space of time somewhat look over my papers, and examine whether the marine study be as good as ours at land. For Plato, to describe a silly, raw, ignorant fellow, compares him to those that are bred on shipboard, as we would do one bred up in a barrel, who never saw anything but through the bung-hole. To tell you the short and the long of the matter, our fasting was most hideous and terrible; for the first day we fasted on fisticuffs, the second at cudgels, the third at sharps, and the fourth at blood and wounds: such was the order of the fairies. How the Ringing Island had been inhabited by the Siticines, who were become birds. Having fasted as aforesaid, the hermit gave us a letter for one whom he called Albian Camar, Master Aedituus of the Ringing Island; but Panurge greeting him called him Master Antitus. He was a little queer old fellow, bald-pated, with a snout whereat you might easily have lighted a card-match, and a phiz as red as a cardinal's cap. He made us all very welcome, upon the hermit's recommendation, hearing that we had fasted, as I have told you. When we had well stuffed our puddings, he gave us an account of what was remarkable in the island, affirming that it had been at first inhabited by the Siticines; but that, according to the course of nature--as all things, you know, are subject to change--they were become birds. There I had a full account of all that Atteius Capito, Paulus, Marcellus, A. Gellius, Athenaeus, Suidas, Ammonius, and others had writ of the Siticines and Sicinnists; and then we thought we might as easily believe the transmutations of Nectymene, Progne, Itys, Alcyone, Antigone, Tereus, and other birds. Nor did we think it more reasonable to doubt of the transmogrification of the Macrobian children into swans, or that of the men of Pallene in Thrace into birds, as soon as they had bathed themselves in the Tritonic lake. After this the devil a word could we get out of him but of birds and cages. The cages were spacious, costly, magnificent, and of an admirable architecture. The birds were large, fine, and neat accordingly, looking as like the men in my country as one pea does like another; for they ate and drank like men, muted like men, endued or digested like men, farted like men, but stunk like devils; slept, billed, and trod their females like men, but somewhat oftener: in short, had you seen and examined them from top to toe, you would have laid your head to a turnip that they had been mere men. However, they were nothing less, as Master Aedituus told us; assuring us, at the same time, that they were neither secular nor laic; and the truth is, the diversity of their feathers and plumes did not a little puzzle us. Some of them were all over as white as swans, others as black as crows, many as grey as owls, others black and white like magpies, some all red like red-birds, and others purple and white like some pigeons. He called the males clerg-hawks, monk-hawks, priest-hawks, abbot-hawks, bish-hawks, cardin-hawks, and one pope-hawk, who is a species by himself. He called the females clerg-kites, nun-kites, priest-kites, abbess-kites, bish-kites, cardin-kites, and pope-kites. However, said he, as hornets and drones will get among the bees, and there do nothing but buzz, eat, and spoil everything; so, for these last three hundred years, a vast swarm of bigottelloes flocked, I do not know how, among these goodly birds every fifth full moon, and have bemuted, berayed, and conskited the whole island. They are so hard-favoured and monstrous that none can abide them. For their wry necks make a figure like a crooked billet; their paws are hairy, like those of rough-footed pigeons; their claws and pounces, belly and breech, like those of the Stymphalid harpies. Nor is it possible to root them out, for if you get rid of one, straight four-and-twenty new ones fly thither. There had been need of another monster-hunter such as was Hercules; for Friar John had like to have run distracted about it, so much he was nettled and puzzled in the matter. As for the good Pantagruel, he was even served as was Messer Priapus, contemplating the sacrifices of Ceres, for want of skin. How there is but one pope-hawk in the Ringing Island. We then asked Master Aedituus why there was but one pope-hawk among such venerable birds multiplied in all their species. He answered that such was the first institution and fatal destiny of the stars that the clerg-hawks begot the priest-hawks and monk-hawks without carnal copulation, as some bees are born of a young bull; the priest-hawks begat the bish-hawks, the bish-hawks the stately cardin-hawks, and the stately cardin-hawks, if they live long enough, at last come to be pope-hawk. Of this last kind there never is more than one at a time, as in a beehive there is but one king, and in the world is but one sun. When the pope-hawk dies, another arises in his stead out of the whole brood of cardin-hawks, that is, as you must understand it all along, without carnal copulation. So that there is in that species an individual unity, with a perpetuity of succession, neither more or less than in the Arabian phoenix. 'Tis true that, about two thousand seven hundred and sixty moons ago, two pope-hawks were seen upon the face of the earth; but then you never saw in your lives such a woeful rout and hurly-burly as was all over this island. For all these same birds did so peck, clapperclaw, and maul one another all that time, that there was the devil and all to do, and the island was in a fair way of being left without inhabitants. Some stood up for this pope-hawk, some for t'other. Some, struck with a dumbness, were as mute as so many fishes; the devil a note was to be got out of them; part of the merry bells here were as silent as if they had lost their tongues, I mean their clappers. During these troublesome times they called to their assistance the emperors, kings, dukes, earls, barons, and commonwealths of the world that live on t'other side the water; nor was this schism and sedition at an end till one of them died, and the plurality was reduced to a unity. We then asked what moved those birds to be thus continually chanting and singing. He answered that it was the bells that hung on the top of their cages. Then he said to us, Will you have me make these monk-hawks whom you see bardocuculated with a bag such as you use to still brandy, sing like any woodlarks? Pray do, said we. He then gave half-a-dozen pulls to a little rope, which caused a diminutive bell to give so many ting-tangs; and presently a parcel of monk-hawks ran to him as if the devil had drove 'em, and fell a-singing like mad. Pray, master, cried Panurge, if I also rang this bell could I make those other birds yonder, with red-herring-coloured feathers, sing? Ay, marry would you, returned Aedituus. With this Panurge hanged himself (by the hands, I mean) at the bell-rope's end, and no sooner made it speak but those smoked birds hied them thither and began to lift up their voices and make a sort of untowardly hoarse noise, which I grudge to call singing. Aedituus indeed told us that they fed on nothing but fish, like the herns and cormorants of the world, and that they were a fifth kind of cucullati newly stamped. He added that he had been told by Robert Valbringue, who lately passed that way in his return from Africa, that a sixth kind was to fly hither out of hand, which he called capus-hawks, more grum, vinegar-faced, brain-sick, froward, and loathsome than any kind whatsoever in the whole island. Africa, said Pantagruel, still uses to produce some new and monstrous thing. How the birds of the Ringing Island were all passengers. Since you have told us, said Pantagruel, how the pope-hawk is begot by the cardin-hawks, the cardin-hawks by the bish-hawks, and the bish-hawks by the priest-hawks, and the priest-hawks by the clerg-hawks, I would gladly know whence you have these same clerg-hawks. They are all of them passengers, or travelling birds, returned Aedituus, and come hither from t'other world; part out of a vast country called Want-o'-bread, the rest out of another toward the west, which they style Too-many-of-'em. From these two countries flock hither, every year, whole legions of these clerg-hawks, leaving their fathers, mothers, friends, and relations. This happens when there are too many children, whether male or female, in some good family of the latter country; insomuch that the house would come to nothing if the paternal estate were shared among them all (as reason requires, nature directs, and God commands). For this cause parents use to rid themselves of that inconveniency by packing off the younger fry, and forcing them to seek their fortune in this isle Bossart (Crooked Island). I suppose he means L'Isle Bouchart, near Chinon, cried Panurge. No, replied t'other, I mean Bossart (Crooked), for there is not one in ten among them but is either crooked, crippled, blinking, limping, ill-favoured, deformed, or an unprofitable load to the earth. 'Twas quite otherwise among the heathens, said Pantagruel, when they used to receive a maiden among the number of vestals; for Leo Antistius affirms that it was absolutely forbidden to admit a virgin into that order if she had any vice in her soul or defect in her body, though it were but the smallest spot on any part of it. I can hardly believe, continued Aedituus, that their dams on t'other side the water go nine months with them; for they cannot endure them nine years, nay, scarce seven sometimes, in the house, but by putting only a shirt over the other clothes of the young urchins, and lopping off I don't well know how many hairs from their crowns, mumbling certain apostrophized and expiatory words, they visibly, openly, and plainly, by a Pythagorical metempsychosis, without the least hurt, transmogrify them into such birds as you now see; much after the fashion of the Egyptian heathens, who used to constitute their isiacs by shaving them and making them put on certain linostoles, or surplices. However, I don't know, my good friends, but that these she-things, whether clerg-kites, monk-kites, and abbess-kites, instead of singing pleasant verses and charisteres, such as used to be sung to Oromasis by Zoroaster's institution, may be bellowing out such catarates and scythropys (cursed lamentable and wretched imprecations) as were usually offered to the Arimanian demon; being thus in devotion for their kind friends and relations that transformed them into birds, whether when they were maids, or thornbacks, in their prime, or at their last prayers. But the greatest numbers of our birds came out of Want-o'-bread, which, though a barren country, where the days are of a most tedious lingering length, overstocks this whole island with the lower class of birds. For hither fly the asapheis that inhabit that land, either when they are in danger of passing their time scurvily for want of belly-timber, being unable, or, what's more likely, unwilling to take heart of grace and follow some honest lawful calling, or too proud-hearted and lazy to go to service in some sober family. The same is done by your frantic inamoradoes, who, when crossed in their wild desires, grow stark staring mad, and choose this life suggested to them by their despair, too cowardly to make them swing, like their brother Iphis of doleful memory. There is another sort, that is, your gaol-birds, who, having done some rogue's trick or other heinous villainy, and being sought up and down to be trussed up and made to ride the two or three-legged mare that groans for them, warily scour off and come here to save their bacon; because all these sorts of birds are here provided for, and grow in an instant as fat as hogs, though they came as lean as rakes; for having the benefit of the clergy, they are as safe as thieves in a mill within this sanctuary. But, asked Pantagruel, do these birds never return to the world where they were hatched? Some do, answered Aedituus; formerly very few, very seldom, very late, and very unwillingly; however, since some certain eclipses, by the virtue of the celestial constellations, a great crowd of them fled back to the world. Nor do we fret or vex ourselves a jot about it; for those that stay wisely sing, The fewer the better cheer; and all those that fly away, first cast off their feathers here among these nettles and briars. Accordingly we found some thrown by there; and as we looked up and down, we chanced to light on what some people will hardly thank us for having discovered; and thereby hangs a tale. Of the dumb Knight-hawks of the Ringing Island. These words were scarce out of his mouth when some five-and-twenty or thirty birds flew towards us; they were of a hue and feather like which we had not seen anything in the whole island. Their plumes were as changeable as the skin of the chameleon, and the flower of tripolion, or teucrion. They had all under the left wing a mark like two diameters dividing a circle into equal parts, or, if you had rather have it so, like a perpendicular line falling on a right line. The marks which each of them bore were much of the same shape, but of different colours; for some were white, others green, some red, others purple, and some blue. Who are those? asked Panurge; and how do you call them? They are mongrels, quoth Aedituus. We call them knight-hawks, and they have a great number of rich commanderies (fat livings) in your world. Good your worship, said I, make them give us a song, an't please you, that we may know how they sing. They scorn your words, cried Aedituus; they are none of your singing-birds; but, to make amends, they feed as much as the best two of them all. Pray where are their hens? where are their females? said I. They have none, answered Aedituus. How comes it to pass then, asked Panurge, that they are thus bescabbed, bescurfed, all embroidered o'er the phiz with carbuncles, pushes, and pock-royals, some of which undermine the handles of their faces? This same fashionable and illustrious disease, quoth Aedituus, is common among that kind of birds, because they are pretty apt to be tossed on the salt deep. He then acquainted us with the occasion of their coming. This next to us, said he, looks so wistfully upon you to see whether he may not find among your company a stately gaudy kind of huge dreadful birds of prey, which yet are so untoward that they ne'er could be brought to the lure nor to perch on the glove. They tell us that there are such in your world, and that some of them have goodly garters below the knee with an inscription about them which condemns him (qui mal y pense) who shall think ill of it to be berayed and conskited. Others are said to wear the devil in a string before their paunches; and others a ram's skin. All that's true enough, good Master Aedituus, quoth Panurge; but we have not the honour to be acquainted with their knightships. Come on, cried Aedituus in a merry mood, we have had chat enough o' conscience! let's e'en go drink. And eat, quoth Panurge. Eat, replied Aedituus, and drink bravely, old boy; twist like plough-jobbers and swill like tinkers. Pull away and save tide, for nothing is so dear and precious as time; therefore we will be sure to put it to a good use. He would fain have carried us first to bathe in the bagnios of the cardin-hawks, which are goodly delicious places, and have us licked over with precious ointments by the alyptes, alias rubbers, as soon as we should come out of the bath. But Pantagruel told him that he could drink but too much without that. He then led us into a spacious delicate refectory, or fratery-room, and told us: Braguibus the hermit made you fast four days together; now, contrariwise, I'll make you eat and drink of the best four days through stitch before you budge from this place. But hark ye me, cried Panurge, may not we take a nap in the mean time? Ay, ay, answered Aedituus; that is as you shall think good; for he that sleeps, drinks. Good Lord! how we lived! what good bub! what dainty cheer! O what a honest cod was this same Aedituus! How the birds are crammed in the Ringing Island. Pantagruel looked I don't know howish, and seemed not very well pleased with the four days' junketting which Aedituus enjoined us. Aedituus, who soon found it out, said to him, You know, sir, that seven days before winter, and seven days after, there is no storm at sea; for then the elements are still out of respect for the halcyons, or king-fishers, birds sacred to Thetis, which then lay their eggs and hatch their young near the shore. Now here the sea makes itself amends for this long calm; and whenever any foreigners come hither it grows boisterous and stormy for four days together. We can give no other reason for it but that it is a piece of its civility, that those who come among us may stay whether they will or no, and be copiously feasted all the while with the incomes of the ringing. Therefore pray don't think your time lost; for, willing, nilling, you'll be forced to stay, unless you are resolved to encounter Juno, Neptune, Doris, Aeolus, and his fluster-busters, and, in short, all the pack of ill-natured left-handed godlings and vejoves. Do but resolve to be cheery, and fall-to briskly. After we had pretty well stayed our stomachs with some tight snatches, Friar John said to Aedituus, For aught I see, you have none but a parcel of birds and cages in this island of yours, and the devil a bit of one of them all that sets his hand to the plough, or tills the land whose fat he devours; their whole business is to be frolic, to chirp it, to whistle it, to warble it, tossing it, and roar it merrily night and day. Pray then, if I may be so bold, whence comes this plenty and overflowing of all dainty bits and good things which we see among you? From all the other world, returned Aedituus, if you except some part of the northern regions, who of late years have stirred up the jakes. Mum! they may chance ere long to rue the day they did so; their cows shall have porridge, and their dogs oats; there will be work made among them, that there will. Come, a fig for't, let's drink. But pray what countrymen are you? Touraine is our country, answered Panurge. Cod so, cried Aedituus, you were not then hatched of an ill bird, I will say that for you, since the blessed Touraine is your mother; for from thence there comes hither every year such a vast store of good things, that we were told by some folks of the place that happened to touch at this island, that your Duke of Touraine's income will not afford him to eat his bellyful of beans and bacon (a good dish spoiled between Moses and Pythagoras) because his predecessors have been more than liberal to these most holy birds of ours, that we might here munch it, twist it, cram it, gorge it, craw it, riot it, junket it, and tickle it off, stuffing our puddings with dainty pheasants, partridges, pullets with eggs, fat capons of Loudunois, and all sorts of venison and wild fowl. Come, box it about; tope on, my friends. Pray do you see yon jolly birds that are perched together, how fat, how plump, and in good case they look, with the income that Touraine yields us! And in faith they sing rarely for their good founders, that is the truth on't. You never saw any Arcadian birds mumble more fairly than they do over a dish when they see these two gilt batons, or when I ring for them those great bells that you see above their cages. Drink on, sirs, whip it away. Verily, friends, 'tis very fine drinking to-day, and so 'tis every day o' the week; then drink on, toss it about, here's to you with all my soul. You are most heartily welcome; never spare it, I pray you; fear not we should ever want good bub and belly-timber; for, look here, though the sky were of brass, and the earth of iron, we should not want wherewithal to stuff the gut, though they were to continue so seven or eight years longer than the famine in Egypt. Let us then, with brotherly love and charity, refresh ourselves here with the creature. Woons, man, cried Panurge, what a rare time you have on't in this world! Psha, returned Aedituus, this is nothing to what we shall have in t'other; the Elysian fields will be the least that can fall to our lot. Come, in the meantime let us drink here; come, here's to thee, old fuddlecap. Your first Siticines, said I, were superlatively wise in devising thus a means for you to compass whatever all men naturally covet so much, and so few, or, to speak more properly, none can enjoy together--I mean, a paradise in this life, and another in the next. Sure you were born wrapt in your mother's smickets! O happy creatures! O more than men! Would I had the luck to fare like you! (Motteux inserts Chapter XVI. after Chapter VI.) How Panurge related to Master Aedituus the fable of the horse and the ass. When we had crammed and crammed again, Aedituus took us into a chamber that was well furnished, hung with tapestry, and finely gilt. Thither he caused to be brought store of mirobolans, cashou, green ginger preserved, with plenty of hippocras, and delicious wine. With those antidotes, that were like a sweet Lethe, he invited us to forget the hardships of our voyage; and at the same time he sent plenty of provisions on board our ship that rid in the harbour. After this, we e'en jogged to bed for that night; but the devil a bit poor pilgarlic could sleep one wink--the everlasting jingle-jangle of the bells kept me awake whether I would or no. About midnight Aedituus came to wake us that we might drink. He himself showed us the way, saying: You men of t'other world say that ignorance is the mother of all evil, and so far you are right; yet for all that you do not take the least care to get rid of it, but still plod on, and live in it, with it, and by it; for which a plaguy deal of mischief lights on you every day, and you are right enough served--you are perpetually ailing somewhat, making a moan, and never right. It is what I was ruminating upon just now. And, indeed, ignorance keeps you here fastened in bed, just as that bully-rock Mars was detained by Vulcan's art; for all the while you do not mind that you ought to spare some of your rest, and be as lavish as you can of the goods of this famous island. Come, come, you should have eaten three breakfasts already; and take this from me for a certain truth, that if you would consume the mouth-ammunition of this island, you must rise betimes; eat them, they multiply; spare them, they diminish. For example, mow a field in due season, and the grass will grow thicker and better; don't mow it, and in a short time 'twill be floored with moss. Let's drink, and drink again, my friends; come, let's all carouse it. The leanest of our birds are now singing to us all; we'll drink to them, if you please. Let's take off one, two, three, nine bumpers. Non zelus, sed caritas. When day, peeping in the east, made the sky turn from black to red like a boiling lobster, he waked us again to take a dish of monastical brewis. From that time we made but one meal, that only lasted the whole day; so that I cannot well tell how I may call it, whether dinner, supper, nunchion, or after-supper; only, to get a stomach, we took a turn or two in the island, to see and hear the blessed singing-birds. At night Panurge said to Aedituus: Give me leave, sweet sir, to tell you a merry story of something that happened some three and twenty moons ago in the country of Chastelleraud. One day in April, a certain gentleman's groom, Roger by name, was walking his master's horses in some fallow ground. There 'twas his good fortune to find a pretty shepherdess feeding her bleating sheep and harmless lambkins on the brow of a neighbouring mountain, in the shade of an adjacent grove; near her, some frisking kids tripped it over a green carpet of nature's own spreading, and, to complete the landscape, there stood an ass. Roger, who was a wag, had a dish of chat with her, and after some ifs, ands, and buts, hems and heighs on her side, got her in the mind to get up behind him, to go and see his stable, and there take a bit by the bye in a civil way. While they were holding a parley, the horse, directing his discourse to the ass (for all brute beasts spoke that year in divers places), whispered these words in his ear: Poor ass, how I pity thee! thou slavest like any hack, I read it on thy crupper. Thou dost well, however, since God has created thee to serve mankind; thou art a very honest ass, but not to be better rubbed down, currycombed, trapped, and fed than thou art, seems to me indeed to be too hard a lot. Alas! thou art all rough-coated, in ill plight, jaded, foundered, crestfallen, and drooping, like a mooting duck, and feedest here on nothing but coarse grass, or briars and thistles. Therefore do but pace it along with me, and thou shalt see how we noble steeds, made by nature for war, are treated. Come, thou'lt lose nothing by coming; I'll get thee a taste of my fare. I' troth, sir, I can but love you and thank you, returned the ass; I'll wait on you, good Mr. Steed. Methinks, gaffer ass, you might as well have said Sir Grandpaw Steed. O! cry mercy, good Sir Grandpaw, returned the ass; we country clowns are somewhat gross, and apt to knock words out of joint. However, an't please you, I will come after your worship at some distance, lest for taking this run my side should chance to be firked and curried with a vengeance, as it is but too often, the more is my sorrow. The shepherdess being got behind Roger, the ass followed, fully resolved to bait like a prince with Roger's steed; but when they got to the stable, the groom, who spied the grave animal, ordered one of his underlings to welcome him with a pitchfork and currycomb him with a cudgel. The ass, who heard this, recommended himself mentally to the god Neptune, and was packing off, thinking and syllogizing within himself thus: Had not I been an ass, I had not come here among great lords, when I must needs be sensible that I was only made for the use of the small vulgar. Aesop had given me a fair warning of this in one of his fables. Well, I must e'en scamper or take what follows. With this he fell a-trotting, and wincing, and yerking, and calcitrating, alias kicking, and farting, and funking, and curvetting, and bounding, and springing, and galloping full drive, as if the devil had come for him in propria persona. The shepherdess, who saw her ass scour off, told Roger that it was her cattle, and desired he might be kindly used, or else she would not stir her foot over the threshold. Friend Roger no sooner knew this but he ordered him to be fetched in, and that my master's horses should rather chop straw for a week together than my mistress's beast should want his bellyful of corn. The most difficult point was to get him back; for in vain the youngsters complimented and coaxed him to come. I dare not, said the ass; I am bashful. And the more they strove by fair means to bring him with them, the more the stubborn thing was untoward, and flew out at the heels; insomuch that they might have been there to this hour, had not his mistress advised them to toss oats in a sieve or in a blanket, and call him; which was done, and made him wheel about and say, Oats, with a witness! oats shall go to pot. Adveniat; oats will do, there's evidence in the case; but none of the rubbing down, none of the firking. Thus melodiously singing (for, as you know, that Arcadian bird's note is very harmonious) he came to the young gentleman of the horse, alias black garb, who brought him to the stable. When he was there, they placed him next to the great horse his friend, rubbed him down, currycombed him, laid clean straw under him up to the chin, and there he lay at rack and manger, the first stuffed with sweet hay, the latter with oats; which when the horse's valet-dear-chambre sifted, he clapped down his lugs, to tell them by signs that he could eat it but too well without sifting, and that he did not deserve so great an honour. When they had well fed, quoth the horse to the ass; Well, poor ass, how is it with thee now? How dost thou like this fare? Thou wert so nice at first, a body had much ado to get thee hither. By the fig, answered the ass, which, one of our ancestors eating, Philemon died laughing, this is all sheer ambrosia, good Sir Grandpaw; but what would you have an ass say? Methinks all this is yet but half cheer. Don't your worships here now and then use to take a leap? What leaping dost thou mean? asked the horse; the devil leap thee! dost thou take me for an ass? In troth, Sir Grandpaw, quoth the ass, I am somewhat of a blockhead, you know, and cannot, for the heart's blood of me, learn so fast the court way of speaking of you gentlemen horses; I mean, don't you stallionize it sometimes here among your mettled fillies? Tush, whispered the horse, speak lower; for, by Bucephalus, if the grooms but hear thee they will maul and belam thee thrice and threefold, so that thou wilt have but little stomach to a leaping bout. Cod so, man, we dare not so much as grow stiff at the tip of the lowermost snout, though it were but to leak or so, for fear of being jerked and paid out of our lechery. As for anything else, we are as happy as our master, and perhaps more. By this packsaddle, my old acquaintance, quoth the ass, I have done with you; a fart for thy litter and hay, and a fart for thy oats; give me the thistles of our fields, since there we leap when we list. Eat less, and leap more, I say; it is meat, drink, and cloth to us. Ah! friend Grandpaw, it would do thy heart good to see us at a fair, when we hold our provincial chapter! Oh! how we leap it, while our mistresses are selling their goslings and other poultry! With this they parted. Dixi; I have done. Panurge then held his peace. Pantagruel would have had him to have gone on to the end of the chapter; but Aedituus said, A word to the wise is enough; I can pick out the meaning of that fable, and know who is that ass, and who the horse; but you are a bashful youth, I perceive. Well, know that there's nothing for you here; scatter no words. Yet, returned Panurge, I saw but even now a pretty kind of a cooing abbess-kite as white as a dove, and her I had rather ride than lead. May I never stir if she is not a dainty bit, and very well worth a sin or two. Heaven forgive me! I meant no more harm in it than you; may the harm I meant in it befall me presently. How with much ado we got a sight of the pope-hawk. Our junketting and banqueting held on at the same rate the third day as the two former. Pantagruel then earnestly desired to see the pope-hawk; but Aedituus told him it was not such an easy matter to get a sight of him. How, asked Pantagruel, has he Plato's helmet on his crown, Gyges's ring on his pounces, or a chameleon on his breast, to make him invisible when he pleases? No, sir, returned Aedituus; but he is naturally of pretty difficult access. However, I'll see and take care that you may see him, if possible. With this he left us piddling; then within a quarter of an hour came back, and told us the pope-hawk is now to be seen. So he led us, without the least noise, directly to the cage wherein he sat drooping, with his feathers staring about him, attended by a brace of little cardin-hawks and six lusty fusty bish-hawks. Panurge stared at him like a dead pig, examining exactly his figure, size, and motions. Then with a loud voice he said, A curse light on the hatcher of the ill bird; o' my word, this is a filthy whoop-hooper. Tush, speak softly, said Aedituus; by G--, he has a pair of ears, as formerly Michael de Matiscones remarked. What then? returned Panurge; so hath a whoopcat. So, said Aedituus; if he but hear you speak such another blasphemous word, you had as good be damned. Do you see that basin yonder in his cage? Out of it shall sally thunderbolts and lightnings, storms, bulls, and the devil and all, that will sink you down to Peg Trantum's, an hundred fathom under ground. It were better to drink and be merry, quoth Friar John. Panurge was still feeding his eyes with the sight of the pope-hawk and his attendants, when somewhere under his cage he perceived a madge-howlet. With this he cried out, By the devil's maker, master, there's roguery in the case; they put tricks upon travellers here more than anywhere else, and would make us believe that a t--d's a sugarloaf. What damned cozening, gulling, and coney-catching have we here! Do you see this madge-howlet? By Minerva, we are all beshit. Odsoons, said Aedituus, speak softly, I tell you. It is no madge-howlet, no she-thing on my honest word; but a male, and a noble bird. May we not hear the pope-hawk sing? asked Pantagruel. I dare not promise that, returned Aedituus; for he only sings and eats at his own hours. So don't I, quoth Panurge; poor pilgarlic is fain to make everybody's time his own; if they have time, I find time. Come, then, let us go drink, if you will. Now this is something like a tansy, said Aedituus; you begin to talk somewhat like; still speak in that fashion, and I'll secure you from being thought a heretic. Come on, I am of your mind. As we went back to have t'other fuddling bout, we spied an old green-headed bish-hawk, who sat moping with his mate and three jolly bittern attendants, all snoring under an arbour. Near the old cuff stood a buxom abbess-kite that sung like any linnet; and we were so mightily tickled with her singing that I vow and swear we could have wished all our members but one turned into ears, to have had more of the melody. Quoth Panurge, This pretty cherubim of cherubims is here breaking her head with chanting to this huge, fat, ugly face, who lies grunting all the while like a hog as he is. I will make him change his note presently, in the devil's name. With this he rang a bell that hung over the bish-hawk's head; but though he rang and rang again, the devil a bit bish-hawk would hear; the louder the sound, the louder his snoring. There was no making him sing. By G--, quoth Panurge, you old buzzard, if you won't sing by fair means, you shall by foul. Having said this, he took up one of St. Stephen's loaves, alias a stone, and was going to hit him with it about the middle. But Aedituus cried to him, Hold, hold, honest friend! strike, wound, poison, kill, and murder all the kings and princes in the world, by treachery or how thou wilt, and as soon as thou wouldst unnestle the angels from their cockloft. Pope-hawk will pardon thee all this. But never be so mad as to meddle with these sacred birds, as much as thou lovest the profit, welfare, and life not only of thyself, and thy friends and relations alive or dead, but also of those that may be born hereafter to the thousandth generation; for so long thou wouldst entail misery upon them. Do but look upon that basin. Catso! let us rather drink, then, quoth Panurge. He that spoke last, spoke well, Mr. Antitus, quoth Friar John; while we are looking on these devilish birds we do nothing but blaspheme; and while we are taking a cup we do nothing but praise God. Come on, then, let's go drink; how well that word sounds! The third day (after we had drank, as you must understand) Aedituus dismissed us. We made him a present of a pretty little Perguois knife, which he took more kindly than Artaxerxes did the cup of cold water that was given him by a clown. He most courteously thanked us, and sent all sorts of provisions aboard our ships, wished us a prosperous voyage and success in our undertakings, and made us promise and swear by Jupiter of stone to come back by his territories. Finally he said to us, Friends, pray note that there are many more stones in the world than men; take care you don't forget it. How we arrived at the island of Tools. Having well ballasted the holds of our human vessels, we weighed anchor, hoised up sail, stowed the boats, set the land, and stood for the offing with a fair loom gale, and for more haste unpareled the mizen-yard, and launched it and the sail over the lee-quarter, and fitted gyves to keep it steady, and boomed it out; so in three days we made the island of Tools, that is altogether uninhabited. We saw there a great number of trees which bore mattocks, pickaxes, crows, weeding-hooks, scythes, sickles, spades, trowels, hatchets, hedging-bills, saws, adzes, bills, axes, shears, pincers, bolts, piercers, augers, and wimbles. Others bore dags, daggers, poniards, bayonets, square-bladed tucks, stilettoes, poniardoes, skeans, penknives, puncheons, bodkins, swords, rapiers, back-swords, cutlasses, scimitars, hangers, falchions, glaives, raillons, whittles, and whinyards. Whoever would have any of these needed but to shake the tree, and immediately they dropped down as thick as hops, like so many ripe plums; nay, what's more, they fell on a kind of grass called scabbard, and sheathed themselves in it cleverly. But when they came down, there was need of taking care lest they happened to touch the head, feet, or other parts of the body. For they fell with the point downwards, and in they stuck, or slit the continuum of some member, or lopped it off like a twig; either of which generally was enough to have killed a man, though he were a hundred years old, and worth as many thousand spankers, spur-royals, and rose-nobles. Under some other trees, whose names I cannot justly tell you, I saw some certain sorts of weeds that grew and sprouted like pikes, lances, javelins, javelots, darts, dartlets, halberds, boar-spears, eel-spears, partizans, tridents, prongs, trout-staves, spears, half-pikes, and hunting-staves. As they sprouted up and chanced to touch the tree, straight they met with their heads, points, and blades, each suitable to its kind, made ready for them by the trees over them, as soon as every individual wood was grown up, fit for its steel; even like the children's coats, that are made for them as soon as they can wear them and you wean them of their swaddling clothes. Nor do you mutter, I pray you, at what Plato, Anaxagoras, and Democritus have said. Ods-fish! they were none of your lower-form gimcracks, were they? Those trees seemed to us terrestrial animals, in no wise so different from brute beasts as not to have skin, fat, flesh, veins, arteries, ligaments, nerves, cartilages, kernels, bones, marrow, humours, matrices, brains, and articulations; for they certainly have some, since Theophrastus will have it so. But in this point they differed from other animals, that their heads, that is, the part of their trunks next to the root, are downwards; their hair, that is, their roots, in the earth; and their feet, that is, their branches, upside down; as if a man should stand on his head with outstretched legs. And as you, battered sinners, on whom Venus has bestowed something to remember her, feel the approach of rains, winds, cold, and every change of weather, at your ischiatic legs and your omoplates, by means of the perpetual almanack which she has fixed there; so these trees have notice given them, by certain sensations which they have at their roots, stocks, gums, paps, or marrow, of the growth of the staves under them, and accordingly they prepare suitable points and blades for them beforehand. Yet as all things, except God, are sometimes subject to error, nature itself not free from it when it produceth monstrous things, likewise I observed something amiss in these trees. For a half-pike that grew up high enough to reach the branches of one of these instrumentiferous trees, happened no sooner to touch them but, instead of being joined to an iron head, it impaled a stubbed broom at the fundament. Well, no matter, 'twill serve to sweep the chimney. Thus a partizan met with a pair of garden shears. Come, all's good for something; 'twill serve to nip off little twigs and destroy caterpillars. The staff of a halberd got the blade of a scythe, which made it look like a hermaphrodite. Happy-be-lucky, 'tis all a case; 'twill serve for some mower. Oh, 'tis a great blessing to put our trust in the Lord! As we went back to our ships I spied behind I don't know what bush, I don't know what folks, doing I don't know what business, in I don't know what posture, scouring I don't know what tools, in I don't know what manner, and I don't know what place. How Pantagruel arrived at the island of Sharping. We left the island of Tools to pursue our voyage, and the next day stood in for the island of Sharping, the true image of Fontainebleau, for the land is so very lean that the bones, that is, the rocks, shoot through its skin. Besides, 'tis sandy, barren, unhealthy, and unpleasant. Our pilot showed us there two little square rocks which had eight equal points in the shape of a cube. They were so white that I might have mistaken them for alabaster or snow, had he not assured us they were made of bone. He told us that twenty chance devils very much feared in our country dwelt there in six different storeys, and that the biggest twins or braces of them were called sixes, and the smallest ambs-ace; the rest cinques, quatres, treys, and deuces. When they were conjured up, otherwise coupled, they were called either sice cinque, sice quatre, sice trey, sice deuce, and sice ace; or cinque quatre, cinque trey, and so forth. I made there a shrewd observation. Would you know what 'tis, gamesters? 'Tis that there are very few of you in the world but what call upon and invoke the devils. For the dice are no sooner thrown on the board, and the greedy gazing sparks have hardly said, Two sixes, Frank; but Six devils damn it! cry as many of them. If ambs-ace; then, A brace of devils broil me! will they say. Quatre-deuce, Tom; The deuce take it! cries another. And so on to the end of the chapter. Nay, they don't forget sometimes to call the black cloven-footed gentlemen by their Christian names and surnames; and what is stranger yet, they use them as their greatest cronies, and make them so often the executors of their wills, not only giving themselves, but everybody and everything, to the devil, that there's no doubt but he takes care to seize, soon or late, what's so zealously bequeathed him. Indeed, 'tis true Lucifer does not always immediately appear by his lawful attorneys; but, alas! 'tis not for want of goodwill; he is really to be excused for his delay; for what the devil would you have a devil do? He and his black guards are then at some other places, according to the priority of the persons that call on them; therefore, pray let none be so venturesome as to think that the devils are deaf and blind. He then told us that more wrecks had happened about those square rocks, and a greater loss of body and goods, than about all the Syrtes, Scyllas and Charybdes, Sirens, Strophades, and gulfs in the universe. I had not much ado to believe it, remembering that formerly, among the wise Egyptians, Neptune was described in hieroglyphics for the first cube, Apollo by an ace, Diana by a deuce, Minerva by seven, and so forth. He also told us that there was a phial of sanc-greal, a most divine thing, and known to a few. Panurge did so sweeten up the syndics of the place that they blessed us with the sight of 't; but it was with three times more pother and ado, with more formalities and antic tricks, than they show the pandects of Justinian at Florence, or the holy Veronica at Rome. I never saw such a sight of flambeaux, torches, and hagios, sanctified tapers, rush-lights, and farthing candles in my whole life. After all, that which was shown us was only the ill-faced countenance of a roasted coney. All that we saw there worth speaking of was a good face set upon an ill game, and the shells of the two eggs formerly laid up and hatched by Leda, out of which came Castor and Pollux, fair Helen's brothers. These same syndics sold us a piece of 'em for a song, I mean, for a morsel of bread. Before we went we bought a parcel of hats and caps of the manufacture of the place, which, I fear, will turn to no very good account; nor are those who shall take 'em off our hands more likely to commend their wearing. How we passed through the wicket inhabited by Gripe-men-all, Archduke of the Furred Law-cats. From thence Condemnation was passed by us. 'Tis another damned barren island, whereat none for the world cared to touch. Then we went through the wicket; but Pantagruel had no mind to bear us company, and 'twas well he did not, for we were nabbed there, and clapped into lob's-pound by order of Gripe-men-all, Archduke of the Furred Law-cats, because one of our company would ha' put upon a sergeant some hats of the Sharping Island. The Furred Law-cats are most terrible and dreadful monsters, they devour little children, and trample over marble stones. Pray tell me, noble topers, do they not deserve to have their snouts slit? The hair of their hides doesn't lie outward, but inwards, and every mother's son of 'em for his device wears a gaping pouch, but not all in the same manner; for some wear it tied to their neck scarfwise, others upon the breech, some on the paunch, others on the side, and all for a cause, with reason and mystery. They have claws so very strong, long, and sharp that nothing can get from 'em that is once fast between their clutches. Sometimes they cover their heads with mortar-like caps, at other times with mortified caparisons. As we entered their den, said a common mumper, to whom we had given half a teston, Worshipful culprits, God send you a good deliverance! Examine well, said he, the countenance of these stout props and pillars of this catch-coin law and iniquity; and pray observe, that if you still live but six olympiads, and the age of two dogs more, you'll see these Furred Law-cats lords of all Europe, and in peaceful possession of all the estates and dominions belonging to it; unless, by divine providence, what's got over the devil's back is spent under his belly, or the goods which they unjustly get perish with their prodigal heirs. Take this from an honest beggar. Among 'em reigns the sixth essence; by the means of which they gripe all, devour all, conskite all, burn all, draw all, hang all, quarter all, behead all, murder all, imprison all, waste all, and ruin all, without the least notice of right or wrong; for among them vice is called virtue; wickedness, piety; treason, loyalty; robbery, justice. Plunder is their motto, and when acted by them is approved by all men, except the heretics; and all this they do because they dare; their authority is sovereign and irrefragable. For a sign of the truth of what I tell you, you'll find that there the mangers are above the racks. Remember hereafter that a fool told you this; and if ever plague, famine, war, fire, earthquakes, inundations, or other judgments befall the world, do not attribute 'em to the aspects and conjunctions of the malevolent planets; to the abuses of the court of Romania, or the tyranny of secular kings and princes; to the impostures of the false zealots of the cowl, heretical bigots, false prophets, and broachers of sects; to the villainy of griping usurers, clippers, and coiners; or to the ignorance, impudence, and imprudence of physicians, surgeons, and apothecaries; nor to the lewdness of adulteresses and destroyers of by-blows; but charge them all, wholly and solely, to the inexpressible, incredible, and inestimable wickedness and ruin which is continually hatched, brewed, and practised in the den or shop of those Furred Law-cats. Yet 'tis no more known in the world than the cabala of the Jews, the more's the pity; and therefore 'tis not detested, chastised, and punished as 'tis fit it should be. But should all their villainy be once displayed in its true colours and exposed to the people, there never was, is, nor will be any spokesman so sweet-mouthed, whose fine colloguing tongue could save 'em; nor any law so rigorous and draconic that could punish 'em as they deserve; nor yet any magistrate so powerful as to hinder their being burnt alive in their coneyburrows without mercy. Even their own furred kittlings, friends, and relations would abominate 'em. For this reason, as Hannibal was solemnly sworn by his father Amilcar to pursue the Romans with the utmost hatred as long as ever he lived, so my late father has enjoined me to remain here without, till God Almighty's thunder reduce them there within to ashes, like other presumptuous Titans, profane wretches, and opposers of God; since mankind is so inured to their oppressions that they either do not remember, foresee, or have a sense of the woes and miseries which they have caused; or, if they have, either will not, dare not, or cannot root 'em out. How, said Panurge, say you so? Catch me there and hang me! Damme, let's march off! This noble beggar has scared me worse than thunder in autumn (Motteux gives 'than the thunder would do them.'). Upon this we were filing off; but, alas! we found ourselves trapped--the door was double-locked and barricadoed. Some messengers of ill news told us it was full as easy to get in there as into hell, and no less hard to get out. Ay, there indeed lay the difficulty, for there is no getting loose without a pass and discharge in due course from the bench. This for no other reason than because folks go easier out of a church than out of a sponging-house, and because they could not have our company when they would. The worst on't was when we got through the wicket; for we were carried, to get out our pass or discharge, before a more dreadful monster than ever was read of in the legends of knight-errantry. They called him Gripe-men-all. I can't tell what to compare it to better than to a Chimaera, a Sphinx, a Cerberus; or to the image of Osiris, as the Egyptians represented him, with three heads, one of a roaring lion, t'other of a fawning cur, and the last of a howling, prowling wolf, twisted about with a dragon biting his tail, surrounded with fiery rays. His hands were full of gore, his talons like those of the harpies, his snout like a hawk's bill, his fangs or tusks like those of an overgrown brindled wild boar; his eyes were flaming like the jaws of hell, all covered with mortars interlaced with pestles, and nothing of his arms was to be seen but his clutches. His hutch, and that of the warren-cats his collaterals, was a long, spick-and-span new rack, a-top of which (as the mumper told us) some large stately mangers were fixed in the reverse. Over the chief seat was the picture of an old woman holding the case or scabbard of a sickle in her right hand, a pair of scales in her left, with spectacles on her nose; the cups or scales of the balance were a pair of velvet pouches, the one full of bullion, which overpoised t'other, empty and long, hoisted higher than the middle of the beam. I'm of opinion it was the true effigies of Justice Gripe-men-all; far different from the institution of the ancient Thebans, who set up the statues of their dicasts without hands, in marble, silver, or gold, according to their merit, even after their death. When we made our personal appearance before him, a sort of I don't know what men, all clothed with I don't know what bags and pouches, with long scrolls in their clutches, made us sit down upon a cricket (such as criminals sit on when tried in France). Quoth Panurge to 'em, Good my lords, I'm very well as I am; I'd as lief stand, an't please you. Besides, this same stool is somewhat of the lowest for a man that has new breeches and a short doublet. Sit you down, said Gripe-men-all again, and look that you don't make the court bid you twice. Now, continued he, the earth shall immediately open its jaws and swallow you up to quick damnation if you don't answer as you should. How Gripe-men-all propounded a riddle to us. When we were sat, Gripe-men-all, in the middle of his furred cats, called to us in a hoarse dreadful voice, Well, come on, give me presently--an answer. Well, come on, muttered Panurge between his teeth, give, give me presently--a comforting dram. Hearken to the court, continued Gripe-men-all. An Enigma. A young tight thing, as fair as may be, Without a dad conceived a baby, And brought him forth without the pother In labour made by teeming mother. Yet the cursed brat feared not to gripe her, But gnawed, for haste, her sides like viper. Then the black upstart boldly sallies, And walks and flies o'er hills and valleys. Many fantastic sons of wisdom, Amazed, foresaw their own in his doom; And thought like an old Grecian noddy, A human spirit moved his body. Give, give me out of hand--an answer to this riddle, quoth Gripe-men-all. Give, give me--leave to tell you, good, good my lord, answered Panurge, that if I had but a sphinx at home, as Verres one of your precursors had, I might then solve your enigma presently. But verily, good my lord, I was not there; and, as I hope to be saved, am as innocent in the matter as the child unborn. Foh, give me--a better answer, cried Gripe-men-all; or, by gold, this shall not serve your turn. I'll not be paid in such coin; if you have nothing better to offer, I'll let your rascalship know that it had been better for you to have fallen into Lucifer's own clutches than into ours. Dost thou see 'em here, sirrah? hah? and dost thou prate here of thy being innocent, as if thou couldst be delivered from our racks and tortures for being so? Give me--Patience! thou widgeon. Our laws are like cobwebs; your silly little flies are stopped, caught, and destroyed therein, but your stronger ones break them, and force and carry them which way they please. Likewise, don't think we are so mad as to set up our nets to snap up your great robbers and tyrants. No, they are somewhat too hard for us, there's no meddling with them; for they would make no more of us than we make of the little ones. But you paltry, silly, innocent wretches must make us amends; and, by gold, we will innocentize your fopship with a wannion, you never were so innocentized in your days; the devil shall sing mass among ye. Friar John, hearing him run on at that mad rate, had no longer the power to remain silent, but cried to him, Heigh-day! Prithee, Mr. Devil in a coif, wouldst thou have a man tell thee more than he knows? Hasn't the fellow told you he does not know a word of the business? His name is Twyford. A plague rot you! won't truth serve your turns? Why, how now, Mr. Prate-apace, cried Gripe-men-all, taking him short, marry come up, who made you so saucy as to open your lips before you were spoken to? Give me --Patience! By gold! this is the first time since I have reigned that anyone has had the impudence to speak before he was bidden. How came this mad fellow to break loose? (Villain, thou liest, said Friar John, without stirring his lips.) Sirrah, sirrah, continued Gripe-men-all, I doubt thou wilt have business enough on thy hands when it comes to thy turn to answer. (Damme, thou liest, said Friar John, silently.) Dost thou think, continued my lord, thou art in the wilderness of your foolish university, wrangling and bawling among the idle, wandering searchers and hunters after truth? By gold, we have here other fish to fry; we go another gate's-way to work, that we do. By gold, people here must give categorical answers to what they don't know. By gold, they must confess they have done those things which they have not nor ought to have done. By gold, they must protest that they know what they never knew in their lives; and, after all, patience perforce must be their only remedy, as well as a mad dog's. Here silly geese are plucked, yet cackle not. Sirrah, give me--an account whether you had a letter of attorney, or whether you were feed or no, that you offered to bawl in another man's cause? I see you had no authority to speak, and I may chance to have you wed to something you won't like. Oh, you devils, cried Friar John, proto-devils, panto-devils, you would wed a monk, would you? Ho hu! ho hu! A heretic! a heretic! I'll give thee out for a rank heretic. How Panurge solved Gripe-men-all's riddle. Gripe-men-all, as if he had not heard what Friar John said, directed his discourse to Panurge, saying to him, Well, what have you to say for yourself, Mr. Rogue-enough, hah? Give, give me out of hand--an answer. Say? quoth Panurge; why, what would you have me say? I say that we are damnably beshit, since you give no heed at all to the equity of the plea, and the devil sings among you. Let this answer serve for all, I beseech you, and let us go out about our business; I am no longer able to hold out, as gad shall judge me. Go to, go to, cried Gripe-men-all; when did you ever hear that for these three hundred years last past anybody ever got out of this weel without leaving something of his behind him? No, no, get out of the trap if you can without losing leather, life, or at least some hair, and you will have done more than ever was done yet. For why, this would bring the wisdom of the court into question, as if we had took you up for nothing, and dealt wrongfully by you. Well, by hook or by crook, we must have something out of you. Look ye, it is a folly to make a rout for a fart and ado; one word is as good as twenty. I have no more to say to thee, but that, as thou likest thy former entertainment, thou wilt tell me more of the next; for it will go ten times worse with thee unless, by gold, you give me--a solution to the riddle I propounded. Give, give--it, without any more ado. By gold, quoth Panurge, 'tis a black mite or weevil which is born of a white bean, and sallies out at the hole which he makes gnawing it; the mite being turned into a kind of fly, sometimes walks and sometimes flies over hills and dales. Now Pythagoras, the philosopher, and his sect, besides many others, wondering at its birth in such a place (which makes some argue for equivocal generation), thought that by a metempsychosis the body of that insect was the lodging of a human soul. Now, were you men here, after your welcomed death, according to his opinion, your souls would most certainly enter into the body of mites or weevils; for in your present state of life you are good for nothing in the world but to gnaw, bite, eat, and devour all things, so in the next you'll e'en gnaw and devour your mother's very sides, as the vipers do. Now, by gold, I think I have fairly solved and resolved your riddle. May my bauble be turned into a nutcracker, quoth Friar John, if I could not almost find in my heart to wish that what comes out at my bunghole were beans, that these evil weevils might feed as they deserve. Panurge then, without any more ado, threw a large leathern purse stuffed with gold crowns (ecus au soleil) among them. The Furred Law-cats no sooner heard the jingling of the chink but they all began to bestir their claws, like a parcel of fiddlers running a division; and then fell to't, squimble, squamble, catch that catch can. They all said aloud, These are the fees, these are the gloves; now, this is somewhat like a tansy. Oh! 'twas a pretty trial, a sweet trial, a dainty trial. O' my word, they did not starve the cause. These are none of your snivelling forma pauperis's; no, they are noble clients, gentlemen every inch of them. By gold, it is gold, quoth Panurge, good old gold, I'll assure you. Saith Gripe-men-all, The court, upon a full hearing (of the gold, quoth Panurge), and weighty reasons given, finds the prisoners not guilty, and accordingly orders them to be discharged out of custody, paying their fees. Now, gentlemen, proceed, go forwards, said he to us; we have not so much of the devil in us as we have of his hue; though we are stout, we are merciful. As we came out at the wicket, we were conducted to the port by a detachment of certain highland griffins, scribere cum dashoes, who advised us before we came to our ships not to offer to leave the place until we had made the usual presents, first to the Lady Gripe-men-all, then to all the Furred Law-pusses; otherwise we must return to the place from whence we came. Well, well, said Friar John, we'll fumble in our fobs, examine every one of us his concern, and e'en give the women their due; we'll ne'er boggle or stick out on that account; as we tickled the men in the palm, we'll tickle the women in the right place. Pray, gentlemen, added they, don't forget to leave somewhat behind you for us poor devils to drink your healths. O lawd! never fear, answered Friar John, I don't remember that I ever went anywhere yet where the poor devils are not remembered and encouraged. How the Furred Law-cats live on corruption. Friar John had hardly said those words ere he perceived seventy-eight galleys and frigates just arriving at the port. So he hied him thither to learn some news; and as he asked what goods they had o' board, he soon found that their whole cargo was venison, hares, capons, turkeys, pigs, swine, bacon, kids, calves, hens, ducks, teals, geese, and other poultry and wildfowl. He also spied among these some pieces of velvet, satin, and damask. This made him ask the new-comers whither and to whom they were going to carry those dainty goods. They answered that they were for Gripe-men-all and the Furred Law-cats. Pray, asked he, what is the true name of all these things in your country language? Corruption, they replied. If they live on corruption, said the friar, they will perish with their generation. May the devil be damned, I have it now: their fathers devoured the good gentlemen who, according to their state of life, used to go much a-hunting and hawking, to be the better inured to toil in time of war; for hunting is an image of a martial life, and Xenophon was much in the right of it when he affirmed that hunting had yielded a great number of excellent warriors, as well as the Trojan horse. For my part, I am no scholar; I have it but by hearsay, yet I believe it. Now the souls of those brave fellows, according to Gripe-men-all's riddle, after their decease enter into wild boars, stags, roebucks, herns, and such other creatures which they loved, and in quest of which they went while they were men; and these Furred Law-cats, having first destroyed and devoured their castles, lands, demesnes, possessions, rents, and revenues, are still seeking to have their blood and soul in another life. What an honest fellow was that same mumper who had forewarned us of all these things, and bid us take notice of the mangers above the racks! But, said Panurge to the new-comers, how do you come by all this venison? Methinks the great king has issued out a proclamation strictly inhibiting the destroying of stags, does, wild boars, roebucks, or other royal game, on pain of death. All this is true enough, answered one for the rest, but the great king is so good and gracious, you must know, and these Furred Law-cats so curst and cruel, so mad, and thirsting after Christian blood, that we have less cause to fear in trespassing against that mighty sovereign's commands than reason to hope to live if we do not continually stop the mouths of these Furred Law-cats with such bribes and corruption. Besides, added he, to-morrow Gripe-men-all marries a furred law-puss of his to a high and mighty double-furred law-tybert. Formerly we used to call them chop-hay; but alas! they are not such neat creatures now as to eat any, or chew the cud. We call them chop-hares, chop-partridges, chop-woodcocks, chop-pheasants, chop-pullets, chop-venison, chop-coneys, chop-pigs, for they scorn to feed on coarser meat. A t--d for their chops, cried Friar John, next year we'll have 'em called chop-dung, chop-stront, chop-filth. Would you take my advice? added he to the company. What is it? answered we. Let's do two things, returned he. First, let us secure all this venison and wild fowl--I mean, paying well for them; for my part, I am but too much tired already with our salt meat, it heats my flanks so horribly. In the next place, let's go back to the wicket, and destroy all these devilish Furred Law-cats. For my part, quoth Panurge, I know better things; catch me there, and hang me. No, I am somewhat more inclined to be fearful than bold; I love to sleep in a whole skin. How Friar John talks of rooting out the Furred Law-cats. Virtue of the frock, quoth Friar John, what kind of voyage are we making? A shitten one, o' my word; the devil of anything we do but fizzling, farting, funking, squattering, dozing, raving, and doing nothing. Ods-belly, 'tisn't in my nature to lie idle; I mortally hate it. Unless I am doing some heroic feat every foot, I can't sleep one wink o' nights. Damn it, did you then take me along with you for your chaplain, to sing mass and shrive you? By Maundy Thursday, the first of ye all that comes to me on such an account shall be fitted; for the only penance I'll enjoin shall be, that he immediately throw himself headlong overboard into the sea like a base cowhearted son of ten fathers. This in deduction of the pains of purgatory. What made Hercules such a famous fellow, d'ye think? Nothing but that while he travelled he still made it his business to rid the world of tyrannies, errors, dangers, and drudgeries; he still put to death all robbers, all monsters, all venomous serpents and hurtful creatures. Why then do we not follow his example, doing as he did in the countries through which we pass? He destroyed the Stymphalides, the Lernaean hydra, Cacus, Antheus, the Centaurs, and what not; I am no clericus, those that are such tell me so. In imitation of that noble by-blow, let's destroy and root out these wicked Furred Law-cats, that are a kind of ravenous devils; thus we shall remove all manner of tyranny out of the land. Mawmet's tutor swallow me body and soul, tripes and guts, if I would stay to ask your help or advice in the matter were I but as strong as he was. Come, he that would be thought a gentleman, let him storm a town; well, then, shall we go? I dare swear we'll do their business for them with a wet finger; they'll bear it, never fear; since they could swallow down more foul language that came from us than ten sows and their babies could swill hogwash. Damn 'em, they don't value all the ill words or dishonour in the world at a rush, so they but get the coin into their purses, though they were to have it in a shitten clout. Come, we may chance to kill 'em all, as Hercules would have done had they lived in his time. We only want to be set to work by another Eurystheus, and nothing else for the present, unless it be what I heartily wish them, that Jupiter may give 'em a short visit, only some two or three hours long, and walk among their lordships in the same equipage that attended him when he came last to his Miss Semele, jolly Bacchus's mother. 'Tis a very great mercy, quoth Panurge, that you have got out of their clutches. For my part, I have no stomach to go there again; I'm hardly come to myself yet, so scared and appalled I was. My hair still stands up an end when I think on't; and most damnably troubled I was there, for three very weighty reasons. First, because I was troubled. Secondly, because I was troubled. Thirdly and lastly, because I was troubled. Hearken to me a little on thy right side, Friar John, my left cod, since thou'lt not hear at the other. Whenever the maggot bites thee to take a trip down to hell and visit the tribunal of Minos, Aeacus, Rhadamanthus, (and Dis,) do but tell me, and I'll be sure to bear thee company, and never leave thee as long as my name's Panurge, but will wade over Acheron, Styx, and Cocytus, drink whole bumpers of Lethe's water--though I mortally hate that element --and even pay thy passage to that bawling, cross-grained ferryman, Charon. But as for the damned wicket, if thou art so weary of thy life as to go thither again, thou mayst e'en look for somebody else to bear thee company, for I'll not move one step that way; e'en rest satisfied with this positive answer. By my good will I'll not stir a foot to go thither as long as I live, any more than Calpe will come over to Abyla (Here Motteux adds the following note: 'Calpe is a mountain in Spain that faces another, called Abyla, in Mauritania, both said to have been severed by Hercules.'). Was Ulysses so mad as to go back into the Cyclop's cave to fetch his sword? No, marry was he not. Now I have left nothing behind me at the wicket through forgetfulness; why then should I think of going thither? Well, quoth Friar John, as good sit still as rise up and fall; what cannot be cured must be endured. But, prithee, let's hear one another speak. Come, wert thou not a wise doctor to fling away a whole purse of gold on those mangy scoundrels? Ha! A squinsy choke thee! we were too rich, were we? Had it not been enough to have thrown the hell-hounds a few cropped pieces of white cash? How could I help it? returned Panurge. Did you not see how Gripe-men-all held his gaping velvet pouch, and every moment roared and bellowed, By gold, give me out of hand; by gold, give, give, give me presently? Now, thought I to myself, we shall never come off scot-free. I'll e'en stop their mouths with gold, that the wicket may be opened, and we may get out; the sooner the better. And I judged that lousy silver would not do the business; for, d'ye see, velvet pouches do not use to gape for little paltry clipt silver and small cash; no, they are made for gold, my friend John; that they are, my dainty cod. Ah! when thou hast been larded, basted, and roasted, as I was, thou wilt hardly talk at this rate, I doubt. But now what is to be done? We are enjoined by them to go forwards. The scabby slabberdegullions still waited for us at the port, expecting to be greased in the fist as well as their masters. Now when they perceived that we were ready to put to sea, they came to Friar John and begged that we would not forget to gratify the apparitors before we went off, according to the assessment for the fees at our discharge. Hell and damnation! cried Friar John; are ye here still, ye bloodhounds, ye citing, scribbling imps of Satan? Rot you, am I not vexed enough already, but you must have the impudence to come and plague me, ye scurvy fly-catchers you? By cob's-body, I'll gratify your ruffianships as you deserve; I'll apparitorize you presently with a wannion, that I will. With this, he lugged out his slashing cutlass, and in a mighty heat came out of the ship to cut the cozening varlets into steaks, but they scampered away and got out of sight in a trice. However, there was somewhat more to do, for some of our sailors, having got leave of Pantagruel to go ashore while we were had before Gripe-men-all, had been at a tavern near the haven to make much of themselves, and roar it, as seamen will do when they come into some port. Now I don't know whether they had paid their reckoning to the full or no, but, however it was, an old fat hostess, meeting Friar John on the quay, was making a woeful complaint before a sergeant, son-in-law to one of the furred law-cats, and a brace of bums, his assistants. The friar, who did not much care to be tired with their impertinent prating, said to them, Harkee me, ye lubberly gnat-snappers! do ye presume to say that our seamen are not honest men? I'll maintain they are, ye dotterels, and will prove it to your brazen faces, by justice--I mean, this trusty piece of cold iron by my side. With this he lugged it out and flourished with it. The forlorn lobcocks soon showed him their backs, betaking themselves to their heels; but the old fusty landlady kept her ground, swearing like any butter-whore that the tarpaulins were very honest cods, but that they only forgot to pay for the bed on which they had lain after dinner, and she asked fivepence, French money, for the said bed. May I never sup, said the friar, if it be not dog-cheap; they are sorry guests and unkind customers, that they are; they do not know when they have a pennyworth, and will not always meet with such bargains. Come, I myself will pay you the money, but I would willingly see it first. The hostess immediately took him home with her, and showed him the bed, and having praised it for all its good qualifications, said that she thought as times went she was not out of the way in asking fivepence for it. Friar John then gave her the fivepence; and she no sooner turned her back but he presently began to rip up the ticking of the feather-bed and bolster, and threw all the feathers out at the window. In the meantime the old hag came down and roared out for help, crying out murder to set all the neighbourhood in an uproar. Yet she also fell to gathering the feathers that flew up and down in the air, being scattered by the wind. Friar John let her bawl on, and, without any further ado, marched off with the blanket, quilt, and both the sheets, which he brought aboard undiscovered, for the air was darkened with the feathers, as it uses sometimes to be with snow. He gave them away to the sailors; then said to Pantagruel that beds were much cheaper at that place than in Chinnonois, though we have there the famous geese of Pautile; for the old beldam had asked him but fivepence for a bed which in Chinnonois had been worth about twelve francs. (As soon as Friar John and the rest of the company were embarked, Pantagruel set sail. But there arose a south-east wind, which blew so vehemently they lost their way, and in a manner going back to the country of the Furred Law-cats, they entered into a huge gulf, where the sea ran so high and terrible that the shipboy on the top of the mast cried out he again saw the habitation of Gripe-men-all; upon which Panurge, frightened almost out of his wits, roared out, Dear master, in spite of the wind and waves, change your course, and turn the ship's head about. O my friend, let us come no more into that cursed country where I left my purse. So the wind carried them near an island, where however they did not dare at first to land, but entered about a mile off. (Motteux omitted this passage altogether in the edition of 1694. It was restored by Ozell in the edition of 1738.)) How Pantagruel came to the island of the Apedefers, or Ignoramuses, with long claws and crooked paws, and of terrible adventures and monsters there. As soon as we had cast anchor and had moored the ship, the pinnace was put over the ship's side and manned by the coxswain's crew. When the good Pantagruel had prayed publicly, and given thanks to the Lord that had delivered him from so great a danger, he stepped into it with his whole company to go on shore, which was no ways difficult to do, for, as the sea was calm and the winds laid, they soon got to the cliffs. When they were set on shore, Epistemon, who was admiring the situation of the place and the strange shape of the rocks, discovered some of the natives. The first he met had on a short purple gown, a doublet cut in panes, like a Spanish leather jerkin, half sleeves of satin, and the upper part of them leather, a coif like a black pot tipped with tin. He was a good likely sort of a body, and his name, as we heard afterwards, was Double-fee. Epistemon asked him how they called those strange craggy rocks and deep valleys. He told them it was a colony brought out of Attorneyland, and called Process, and that if we forded the river somewhat further beyond the rocks we should come into the island of the Apedefers. By the memory of the decretals, said Friar John, tell us, I pray you, what you honest men here live on? Could not a man take a chirping bottle with you to taste your wine? I can see nothing among you but parchment, ink-horns, and pens. We live on nothing else, returned Double-fee; and all who live in this place must come through my hands. How, quoth Panurge, are you a shaver, then? Do you fleece 'em? Ay, ay, their purse, answered Double-fee; nothing else. By the foot of Pharaoh, cried Panurge, the devil a sou will you get of me. However, sweet sir, be so kind as to show an honest man the way to those Apedefers, or ignorant people, for I come from the land of the learned, where I did not learn over much. Still talking on, they got to the island of the Apedefers, for they were soon got over the ford. Pantagruel was not a little taken up with admiring the structure and habitation of the people of the place. For they live in a swingeing wine-press, fifty steps up to it. You must know there are some of all sorts, little, great, private, middle-sized, and so forth. You go through a large peristyle, alias a long entry set about with pillars, in which you see, in a kind of landscape, the ruins of almost the whole world, besides so many great robbers' gibbets, so many gallows and racks, that 'tis enough to fright you out of your seven senses. Double-fee perceiving that Pantagruel was taken up with contemplating those things, Let us go further, sir, said he to him; all this is nothing yet. Nothing, quotha, cried Friar John; by the soul of my overheated codpiece, friend Panurge and I here shake and quiver for mere hunger. I had rather be drinking than staring at these ruins. Pray come along, sir, said Double-fee. He then led us into a little wine-press that lay backwards in a blind corner, and was called Pithies in the language of the country. You need not ask whether Master John and Panurge made much of their sweet selves there; it is enough that I tell you there was no want of Bolognia sausages, turkey poots, capons, bustards, malmsey, and all other sorts of good belly-timber, very well dressed. A pimping son of ten fathers, who, for want of a better, did the office of a butler, seeing that Friar John had cast a sheep's eye at a choice bottle that stood near a cupboard by itself, at some distance from the rest of the bottellic magazine, like a jack-in-an-office said to Pantagruel, Sir, I perceive that one of your men here is making love to this bottle. He ogles it, and would fain caress it; but I beg that none offer to meddle with it; for it is reserved for their worships. How, cried Panurge, there are some grandees here then, I see. It is vintage time with you, I perceive. Then Double-fee led us up to a private staircase, and showed us into a room, whence, without being seen, out at a loophole we could see their worships in the great wine-press, where none could be admitted without their leave. Their worships, as he called them, were about a score of fusty crack-ropes and gallow-clappers, or rather more, all posted before a bar, and staring at each other like so many dead pigs. Their paws were as long as a crane's foot, and their claws four-and-twenty inches long at least; for you must know they are enjoined never to pare off the least chip of them, so that they grow as crooked as a Welsh hook or a hedging-bill. We saw a swingeing bunch of grapes that are gathered and squeezed in that country, brought in by them. As soon as it was laid down, they clapped it into the press, and there was not a bit of it out of which each of them did not squeeze some oil of gold; insomuch that the poor grape was tried with a witness, and brought off so drained and picked, and so dry, that there was not the least moisture, juice, or substance left in it; for they had pressed out its very quintessence. Double-fee told us they had not often such huge bunches; but, let the worst come to the worst, they were sure never to be without others in their press. But hark you me, master of mine, asked Panurge, have they not some of different growth? Ay, marry have they, quoth Double-fee. Do you see here this little bunch, to which they are going to give t'other wrench? It is of tithe-growth, you must know; they crushed, wrung, squeezed and strained out the very heart's blood of it but the other day; but it did not bleed freely; the oil came hard, and smelt of the priest's chest; so that they found there was not much good to be got out of it. Why then, said Pantagruel, do they put it again into the press? Only, answered Double-fee, for fear there should still lurk some juice among the husks and hullings in the mother of the grape. The devil be damned! cried Friar John; do you call these same folks illiterate lobcocks and duncical doddipolls? May I be broiled like a red herring if I do not think they are wise enough to skin a flint and draw oil out of a brick wall. So they are, said Double-fee; for they sometimes put castles, parks, and forests into the press, and out of them all extract aurum potabile. You mean portabile, I suppose, cried Epistemon, such as may be borne. I mean as I said, replied Double-fee, potabile, such as may be drunk; for it makes them drink many a good bottle more than otherwise they should. But I cannot better satisfy you as to the growth of the vine-tree sirup that is here squeezed out of grapes, than in desiring you to look yonder in that back-yard, where you will see above a thousand different growths that lie waiting to be squeezed every moment. Here are some of the public and some of the private growth; some of the builders' fortifications, loans, gifts, and gratuities, escheats, forfeitures, fines, and recoveries, penal statutes, crown lands, and demesne, privy purse, post-offices, offerings, lordships of manors, and a world of other growths, for which we want names. Pray, quoth Epistemon, tell me of what growth is that great one, with all those little grapelings about it. Oh, oh! returned Double-fee, that plump one is of the treasury, the very best growth in the whole country. Whenever anyone of that growth is squeezed, there is not one of their worships but gets juice enough of it to soak his nose six months together. When their worships were up, Pantagruel desired Double-fee to take us into that great wine-press, which he readily did. As soon as we were in, Epistemon, who understood all sorts of tongues, began to show us many devices on the press, which was large and fine, and made of the wood of the cross--at least Double-fee told us so. On each part of it were names of everything in the language of the country. The spindle of the press was called receipt; the trough, cost and damages; the hole for the vice-pin, state; the side-boards, money paid into the office; the great beam, respite of homage; the branches, radietur; the side-beams, recuperetur; the fats, ignoramus; the two-handled basket, the rolls; the treading-place, acquittance; the dossers, validation; the panniers, authentic decrees; the pailes, potentials; the funnels, quietus est. By the Queen of the Chitterlings, quoth Panurge, all the hieroglyphics of Egypt are mine a-- to this jargon. Why! here are a parcel of words full as analogous as chalk and cheese, or a cat and a cart-wheel! But why, prithee, dear Double-fee, do they call these worshipful dons of yours ignorant fellows? Only, said Double-fee, because they neither are, nor ought to be, clerks, and all must be ignorant as to what they transact here; nor is there to be any other reason given, but, The court hath said it; The court will have it so; The court has decreed it. Cop's body, quoth Pantagruel, they might full as well have called 'em necessity; for necessity has no law. From thence, as he was leading us to see a thousand little puny presses, we spied another paltry bar, about which sat four are five ignorant waspish churls, of so testy, fuming a temper, (like an ass with squibs and crackers tied to its tail,) and so ready to take pepper in the nose for yea and nay, that a dog would not have lived with 'em. They were hard at it with the lees and dregs of the grapes, which they gripped over and over again, might and main, with their clenched fists. They were called contractors in the language of the country. These are the ugliest, misshapen, grim-looking scrubs, said Friar John, that ever were beheld, with or without spectacles. Then we passed by an infinite number of little pimping wine-presses all full of vintage-mongers, who were picking, examining, and raking the grapes with some instruments called bills-of-charge. Finally we came into a hall downstairs, where we saw an overgrown cursed mangy cur with a pair of heads, a wolf's belly, and claws like the devil of hell. The son of a bitch was fed with costs, for he lived on a multiplicity of fine amonds and amerciaments by order of their worships, to each of whom the monster was worth more than the best farm in the land. In their tongue of ignorance they called him Twofold. His dam lay by him, and her hair and shape was like her whelp's, only she had four heads, two male and two female, and her name was Fourfold. She was certainly the most cursed and dangerous creature of the place, except her grandam, which we saw, and had been kept locked up in a dungeon time out of mind, and her name was Refusing-of-fees. Friar John, who had always twenty yards of gut ready empty to swallow a gallimaufry of lawyers, began to be somewhat out of humour, and desired Pantagruel to remember he had not dined, and bring Double-fee along with him. So away we went, and as we marched out at the back-gate whom should we meet but an old piece of mortality in chains. He was half ignorant and half learned, like an hermaphrodite of Satan. The fellow was all caparisoned with spectacles as a tortoise is with shells, and lived on nothing but a sort of food which, in their gibberish, was called appeals. Pantagruel asked Double-fee of what breed was that prothonotary, and what name they gave him. Double-fee told us that time out of mind he had been kept there in chains, to the great grief of their worships, who starved him, and his name was Review. By the pope's sanctified two-pounders, cried Friar John, I do not much wonder at the meagre cheer which this old chuff finds among their worships. Do but look a little on the weather-beaten scratch-toby, friend Panurge; by the sacred tip of my cowl, I'll lay five pounds to a hazel-nut the foul thief has the very looks of Gripe-me-now. These same fellows here, ignorant as they be, are as sharp and knowing as other folk. But were it my case, I would send him packing with a squib in his breech like a rogue as he is. By my oriental barnacles, quoth Panurge, honest friar, thou art in the right; for if we but examine that treacherous Review's ill-favoured phiz, we find that the filthy snudge is yet more mischievous and ignorant than these ignorant wretches here, since they (honest dunces) grapple and glean with as little harm and pother as they can, without any long fiddle-cum-farts or tantalizing in the case; nor do they dally and demur in your suit, but in two or three words, whip-stitch, in a trice, they finish the vintage of the close, bating you all these damned tedious interlocutories, examinations, and appointments which fret to the heart's blood your furred law-cats. How we went forwards, and how Panurge had like to have been killed. We put to sea that very moment, steering our course forwards, and gave Pantagruel a full account of our adventures, which so deeply struck him with compassion that he wrote some elegies on that subject to divert himself during the voyage. When we were safe in the port we took some refreshment, and took in fresh water and wood. The people of the place, who had the countenance of jolly fellows and boon companions, were all of them forward folks, bloated and puffed up with fat. And we saw some who slashed and pinked their skins to open a passage to the fat, that it might swell out at the slits and gashes which they made; neither more nor less than the shit-breech fellows in our country bepink and cut open their breeches that the taffety on the inside may stand out and be puffed up. They said that what they did was not out of pride or ostentation, but because otherwise their skins would not hold them without much pain. Having thus slashed their skin, they used to grow much bigger, like the young trees on whose barks the gardeners make incisions that they may grow the better. Near the haven there was a tavern, which forwards seemed very fine and stately. We repaired thither, and found it filled with people of the forward nation, of all ages, sexes, and conditions; so that we thought some notable feast or other was getting ready, but we were told that all that throng were invited to the bursting of mine host, which caused all his friends and relations to hasten thither. We did not understand that jargon, and therefore thought in that country by that bursting they meant some merry meeting or other, as we do in ours by betrothing, wedding, groaning, christening, churching (of women), shearing (of sheep), reaping (of corn, or harvest-home), and many other junketting bouts that end in -ing. But we soon heard that there was no such matter in hand. The master of the house, you must know, had been a good fellow in his time, loved heartily to wind up his bottom, to bang the pitcher, and lick his dish. He used to be a very fair swallower of gravy soup, a notable accountant in matter of hours, and his whole life was one continual dinner, like mine host at Rouillac (in Perigord). But now, having farted out much fat for ten years together, according to the custom of the country, he was drawing towards his bursting hour; for neither the inner thin kell wherewith the entrails are covered, nor his skin that had been jagged and mangled so many years, were able to hold and enclose his guts any longer, or hinder them from forcing their way out. Pray, quoth Panurge, is there no remedy, no help for the poor man, good people? Why don't you swaddle him round with good tight girths, or secure his natural tub with a strong sorb-apple-tree hoop? Nay, why don't you iron-bind him, if needs be? This would keep the man from flying out and bursting. The word was not yet out of his mouth when we heard something give a loud report, as if a huge sturdy oak had been split in two. Then some of the neighbours told us that the bursting was over, and that the clap or crack which we heard was the last fart, and so there was an end of mine host. This made me call to mind a saying of the venerable abbot of Castilliers, the very same who never cared to hump his chambermaids but when he was in pontificalibus. That pious person, being much dunned, teased, and importuned by his relations to resign his abbey in his old age, said and professed that he would not strip till he was ready to go to bed, and that the last fart which his reverend paternity was to utter should be the fart of an abbot. How our ships were stranded, and we were relieved by some people that were subject to Queen Whims (qui tenoient de la Quinte). We weighed and set sail with a merry westerly gale. When about seven leagues off (twenty-two miles) some gusts or scuds of wind suddenly arose, and the wind veering and shifting from point to point, was, as they say, like an old woman's breech, at no certainty; so we first got our starboard tacks aboard, and hauled off our lee-sheets. Then the gusts increased, and by fits blowed all at once from several quarters, yet we neither settled nor braided up close our sails, but only let fly the sheets, not to go against the master of the ship's direction; and thus having let go amain, lest we should spend our topsails, or the ship's quick-side should lie in the water and she be overset, we lay by and run adrift; that is, in a landloper's phrase, we temporized it. For he assured us that, as these gusts and whirlwinds would not do us much good, so they could not do us much harm, considering their easiness and pleasant strife, as also the clearness of the sky and calmness of the current. So that we were to observe the philosopher's rule, bear and forbear; that is, trim, or go according to the time. However, these whirlwinds and gusts lasted so long that we persuaded the master to let us go and lie at trie with our main course; that is, to haul the tack aboard, the sheet close aft, the bowline set up, and the helm tied close aboard; so, after a stormy gale of wind, we broke through the whirlwind. But it was like falling into Scylla to avoid Charybdis (out of the frying-pan into the fire). For we had not sailed a league ere our ships were stranded upon some sands such as are the flats of St. Maixent. All our company seemed mightily disturbed except Friar John, who was not a jot daunted, and with sweet sugar-plum words comforted now one and then another, giving them hopes of speedy assistance from above, and telling them that he had seen Castor at the main-yardarm. Oh! that I were but now ashore, cried Panurge, that is all I wish for myself at present, and that you who like the sea so well had each man of you two hundred thousand crowns. I would fairly let you set up shop on these sands, and would get a fat calf dressed and a hundred of faggots (i.e. bottles of wine) cooled for you against you come ashore. I freely consent never to mount a wife, so you but set me ashore and mount me on a horse, that I may go home. No matter for a servant, I will be contented to serve myself; I am never better treated than when I am without a man. Faith, old Plautus was in the right on't when he said the more servants the more crosses; for such they are, even supposing they could want what they all have but too much of, a tongue, that most busy, dangerous, and pernicious member of servants. Accordingly, 'twas for their sakes alone that the racks and tortures for confession were invented, though some foreign civilians in our time have drawn alogical and unreasonable consequences from it. That very moment we spied a sail that made towards us. When it was close by us, we soon knew what was the lading of the ship and who was aboard of her. She was full freighted with drums. I was acquainted with many of the passengers that came in her, who were most of 'em of good families; among the rest Harry Cotiral, an old toast, who had got a swinging ass's touch-tripe (penis) fastened to his waist, as the good women's beads are to their girdle. In his left hand he held an old overgrown greasy foul cap, such as your scald-pated fellows wear, and in the right a huge cabbage-stump. As soon as he saw me he was overjoyed, and bawled out to me, What cheer, ho? How dost like me now? Behold the true Algamana (this he said showing me the ass's tickle-gizzard). This doctor's cap is my true elixir; and this (continued he, shaking the cabbage-stump in his fist) is lunaria major, you old noddy. I have 'em, old boy, I have 'em; we'll make 'em when thou'rt come back. But pray, father, said I, whence come you? Whither are you bound? What's your lading? Have you smelt the salt deep? To these four questions he answered, From Queen Whims; for Touraine; alchemy; to the very bottom. Whom have you got o' board? said I. Said he, Astrologers, fortune-tellers, alchemists, rhymers, poets, painters, projectors, mathematicians, watchmakers, sing-songs, musicianers, and the devil and all of others that are subject to Queen Whims (Motteux gives the following footnote:--'La Quinte, This means a fantastic Humour, Maggots, or a foolish Giddiness of Brains; and also, a fifth, or the Proportion of Five in music, &c.'). They have very fair legible patents to show for't, as anybody may see. Panurge had no sooner heard this but he was upon the high-rope, and began to rail at them like mad. What o' devil d'ye mean, cried he, to sit idly here like a pack of loitering sneaksbies, and see us stranded, while you may help us, and tow us off into the current? A plague o' your whims! you can make all things whatsoever, they say, so much as good weather and little children; yet won't make haste to fasten some hawsers and cables, and get us off. I was just coming to set you afloat, quoth Harry Cotiral; by Trismegistus, I'll clear you in a trice. With this he caused 7,532,810 huge drums to be unheaded on one side, and set that open side so that it faced the end of the streamers and pendants; and having fastened them to good tacklings and our ship's head to the stern of theirs, with cables fastened to the bits abaft the manger in the ship's loof, they towed us off ground at one pull so easily and pleasantly that you'd have wondered at it had you been there. For the dub-a-dub rattling of the drums, with the soft noise of the gravel which murmuring disputed us our way, and the merry cheers and huzzas of the sailors, made an harmony almost as good as that of the heavenly bodies when they roll and are whirled round their spheres, which rattling of the celestial wheels Plato said he heard some nights in his sleep. We scorned to be behindhand with 'em in civility, and gratefully gave 'em store of our sausages and chitterlings, with which we filled their drums; and we were just a-hoisting two-and-sixty hogsheads of wine out of the hold, when two huge whirlpools with great fury made towards their ship, spouting more water than is in the river Vienne (Vigenne) from Chinon to Saumur; to make short, all their drums, all their sails, their concerns, and themselves were soused, and their very hose were watered by the collar. Panurge was so overjoyed, seeing this, and laughed so heartily, that he was forced to hold his sides, and it set him into a fit of the colic for two hours and more. I had a mind, quoth he, to make the dogs drink, and those honest whirlpools, egad, have saved me that labour and that cost. There's sauce for them; ariston men udor. Water is good, saith a poet; let 'em Pindarize upon't. They never cared for fresh water but to wash their hands or their glasses. This good salt water will stand 'em in good stead for want of sal ammoniac and nitre in Geber's kitchen. We could not hold any further discourse with 'em; for the former whirlwind hindered our ship from feeling the helm. The pilot advised us henceforwards to let her run adrift and follow the stream, not busying ourselves with anything, but making much of our carcasses. For our only way to arrive safe at the queendom of Whims was to trust to the whirlwind and be led by the current. How we arrived at the queendom of Whims or Entelechy. We did as he directed us for about twelve hours, and on the third day the sky seemed to us somewhat clearer, and we happily arrived at the port of Mateotechny, not far distant from Queen Whims, alias the Quintessence. We met full butt on the quay a great number of guards and other military men that garrisoned the arsenal, and we were somewhat frighted at first because they made us all lay down our arms, and in a haughty manner asked us whence we came. Cousin, quoth Panurge to him that asked the question, we are of Touraine, and come from France, being ambitious of paying our respects to the Lady Quintessence and visit this famous realm of Entelechy. What do you say? cried they; do you call it Entelechy or Endelechy? Truly, truly, sweet cousins, quoth Panurge, we are a silly sort of grout-headed lobcocks, an't please you; be so kind as to forgive us if we chance to knock words out of joint. As for anything else, we are downright honest fellows and true hearts. We have not asked you this question without a cause, said they; for a great number of others who have passed this way from your country of Touraine seemed as mere jolt-headed doddipolls as ever were scored o'er the coxcomb, yet spoke as correct as other folks. But there has been here from other countries a pack of I know not what overweening self-conceited prigs, as moody as so many mules and as stout as any Scotch lairds, and nothing would serve these, forsooth, but they must wilfully wrangle and stand out against us at their coming; and much they got by it after all. Troth, we e'en fitted them and clawed 'em off with a vengeance, for all they looked so big and so grum. Pray tell me, does your time lie so heavy upon you in your world that you do not know how to bestow it better than in thus impudently talking, disputing, and writing of our sovereign lady? There was much need that your Tully, the consul, should go and leave the care of his commonwealth to busy himself idly about her; and after him your Diogenes Laertius, the biographer, and your Theodorus Gaza, the philosopher, and your Argiropilus, the emperor, and your Bessario, the cardinal, and your Politian, the pedant, and your Budaeus, the judge, and your Lascaris, the ambassador, and the devil and all of those you call lovers of wisdom; whose number, it seems, was not thought great enough already, but lately your Scaliger, Bigot, Chambrier, Francis Fleury, and I cannot tell how many such other junior sneaking fly-blows must take upon 'em to increase it. A squinsy gripe the cod's-headed changelings at the swallow and eke at the cover-weasel; we shall make 'em--But the deuce take 'em! (They flatter the devil here, and smoothify his name, quoth Panurge, between his teeth.) You don't come here, continued the captain, to uphold 'em in their folly; you have no commission from 'em to this effect; well then, we will talk no more on't. Aristotle, that first of men and peerless pattern of all philosophy, was our sovereign lady's godfather, and wisely and properly gave her the name of Entelechy. Her true name then is Entelechy, and may he be in tail beshit, and entail a shit-a-bed faculty and nothing else on his family, who dares call her by any other name; for whoever he is, he does her wrong, and is a very impudent person. You are heartily welcome, gentlemen. With this they colled and clipped us about the neck, which was no small comfort to us, I'll assure you. Panurge then whispered me, Fellow-traveller, quoth he, hast thou not been somewhat afraid this bout? A little, said I. To tell you the truth of it, quoth he, never were the Ephraimites in a greater fear and quandary when the Gileadites killed and drowned them for saying sibboleth instead of shibboleth; and among friends, let me tell you that perhaps there is not a man in the whole country of Beauce but might easily have stopped my bunghole with a cartload of hay. The captain afterwards took us to the queen's palace, leading us silently with great formality. Pantagruel would have said something to him, but the other, not being able to come up to his height, wished for a ladder or a very long pair of stilts; then said, Patience, if it were our sovereign lady's will, we would be as tall as you; well, we shall when she pleases. In the first galleries we saw great numbers of sick persons, differently placed according to their maladies. The leprous were apart; those that were poisoned on one side; those that had got the plague on another; those that had the pox in the first rank, and the rest accordingly. How the Quintessence cured the sick with a song. The captain showed us the queen, attended with her ladies and gentlemen, in the second gallery. She looked young, though she was at least eighteen hundred years old, and was handsome, slender, and as fine as a queen, that is, as hands could make her. He then said to us: It is not yet a fit time to speak to the queen; be you but mindful of her doings in the meanwhile. You have kings in your world that fantastically pretend to cure some certain diseases, as, for example, scrofula or wens, swelled throats, nicknamed the king's evil, and quartan agues, only with a touch; now our queen cures all manner of diseases without so much as touching the sick, but barely with a song, according to the nature of the distemper. He then showed us a set of organs, and said that when it was touched by her those miraculous cures were performed. The organ was indeed the strangest that ever eyes beheld; for the pipes were of cassia fistula in the cod; the top and cornice of guiacum; the bellows of rhubarb; the pedas of turbith, and the clavier or keys of scammony. While we were examining this wonderful new make of an organ, the leprous were brought in by her abstractors, spodizators, masticators, pregustics, tabachins, chachanins, neemanins, rabrebans, nercins, rozuins, nebidins, tearins, segamions, perarons, chasinins, sarins, soteins, aboth, enilins, archasdarpenins, mebins, chabourins, and other officers, for whom I want names; so she played 'em I don't know what sort of a tune or song, and they were all immediately cured. Then those who were poisoned were had in, and she had no sooner given them a song but they began to find a use for their legs, and up they got. Then came on the deaf, the blind, and the dumb, and they too were restored to their lost faculties and senses with the same remedy; which did so strangely amaze us (and not without reason, I think) that down we fell on our faces, remaining prostrate, like men ravished in ecstasy, and were not able to utter one word through the excess of our admiration, till she came, and having touched Pantagruel with a fine fragrant nosegay of white roses which she held in her hand, thus made us recover our senses and get up. Then she made us the following speech in byssin words, such as Parisatis desired should be spoken to her son Cyrus, or at least of crimson alamode: The probity that scintillizes in the superfices of your persons informs my ratiocinating faculty, in a most stupendous manner, of the radiant virtues latent within the precious caskets and ventricles of your minds. For, contemplating the mellifluous suavity of your thrice discreet reverences, it is impossible not to be persuaded with facility that neither your affections nor your intellects are vitiated with any defect or privation of liberal and exalted sciences. Far from it, all must judge that in you are lodged a cornucopia and encyclopaedia, an unmeasurable profundity of knowledge in the most peregrine and sublime disciplines, so frequently the admiration, and so rarely the concomitants of the imperite vulgar. This gently compels me, who in preceding times indefatigably kept my private affections absolutely subjugated, to condescend to make my application to you in the trivial phrase of the plebeian world, and assure you that you are well, more than most heartily welcome. I have no hand at making of speeches, quoth Panurge to me privately; prithee, man, make answer to her for us, if thou canst. This would not work with me, however; neither did Pantagruel return a word. So that Queen Whims, or Queen Quintessence (which you please), perceiving that we stood as mute as fishes, said: Your taciturnity speaks you not only disciples of Pythagoras, from whom the venerable antiquity of my progenitors in successive propagation was emaned and derives its original, but also discovers, that through the revolution of many retrograde moons, you have in Egypt pressed the extremities of your fingers with the hard tenants of your mouths, and scalptized your heads with frequent applications of your unguicules. In the school of Pythagoras, taciturnity was the symbol of abstracted and superlative knowledge, and the silence of the Egyptians was agnited as an expressive manner of divine adoration; this caused the pontiffs of Hierapolis to sacrifice to the great deity in silence, impercussively, without any vociferous or obstreperous sound. My design is not to enter into a privation of gratitude towards you, but by a vivacious formality, though matter were to abstract itself from me, excentricate to you my cogitations. Having spoken this, she only said to her officers, Tabachins, a panacea; and straight they desired us not to take it amiss if the queen did not invite us to dine with her; for she never ate anything at dinner but some categories, jecabots, emnins, dimions, abstractions, harborins, chelemins, second intentions, carradoths, antitheses, metempsychoses, transcendent prolepsies, and such other light food. Then they took us into a little closet lined through with alarums, where we were treated God knows how. It is said that Jupiter writes whatever is transacted in the world on the dipthera or skin of the Amalthaean goat that suckled him in Crete, which pelt served him instead of a shield against the Titans, whence he was nicknamed Aegiochos. Now, as I hate to drink water, brother topers, I protest it would be impossible to make eighteen goatskins hold the description of all the good meat they brought before us, though it were written in characters as small as those in which were penned Homer's Iliads, which Tully tells us he saw enclosed in a nutshell. For my part, had I one hundred mouths, as many tongues, a voice of iron, a heart of oak, and lungs of leather, together with the mellifluous abundance of Plato, yet I never could give you a full account of a third part of a second of the whole. Pantagruel was telling me that he believed the queen had given the symbolic word used among her subjects to denote sovereign good cheer, when she said to her tabachins, A panacea; just as Lucullus used to say, In Apollo, when he designed to give his friends a singular treat; though sometimes they took him at unawares, as, among the rest, Cicero and Hortensius sometimes used to do. How the Queen passed her time after dinner. When we had dined, a chachanin led us into the queen's hall, and there we saw how, after dinner, with the ladies and the princes of her court, she used to sift, searce, bolt, range, and pass away time with a fine large white and blue silk sieve. We also perceived how they revived ancient sports, diverting themselves together at-- 1. Cordax. 6. Phrygia. 11. Monogas. 2. Emmelia. 7. Thracia. 12. Terminalia. 3. Sicinnia. 8. Calabrisme. 13. Floralia. 4. Jambics. 9. Molossia. 14. Pyrrhice. 5. Persica. 10. Cernophorum. 15. (Nicatism.) And a thousand other dances. (Motteux has the following footnote:--'1. A sort of country-dance. 2. A still tragic dance. 3. Dancing and singing used at funerals. 4. Cutting sarcasms and lampoons. 5. The Persian dance. 6. Tunes, whose measure inspired men with a kind of divine fury. 7. The Thracian movement. 8. Smutty verses. 9. A measure to which the Molossi of Epirus danced a certain morrice. 10. A dance with bowls or pots in their hands. 11. A song where one sings alone. 12. Sports at the holidays of the god of bounds. 13. Dancing naked at Flora's holidays. 14. The Trojan dance in armour.') Afterwards she gave orders that they should show us the apartments and curiosities in her palace. Accordingly we saw there such new, strange, and wonderful things, that I am still ravished in admiration every time I think of't. However, nothing surprised us more than what was done by the gentlemen of her household, abstractors, parazons, nebidins, spodizators, and others, who freely and without the least dissembling told us that the queen their mistress did all impossible things, and cured men of incurable diseases; and they, her officers, used to do the rest. I saw there a young parazon cure many of the new consumption, I mean the pox, though they were never so peppered. Had it been the rankest Roan ague (Anglice, the Covent-garden gout), 'twas all one to him; touching only their dentiform vertebrae thrice with a piece of a wooden shoe, he made them as wholesome as so many sucking-pigs. Another did thoroughly cure folks of dropsies, tympanies, ascites, and hyposarcides, striking them on the belly nine times with a Tenedian hatchet, without any solution of the continuum. Another cured all manner of fevers and agues on the spot, only with hanging a fox-tail on the left side of the patient's girdle. One removed the toothache only with washing thrice the root of the aching tooth with elder-vinegar, and letting it dry half-an-hour in the sun. Another the gout, whether hot or cold, natural or accidental, by barely making the gouty person shut his mouth and open his eyes. I saw another ease nine gentlemen of St. Francis's distemper ('A consumption in the pocket, or want of money; those of St. Francis's order must carry none about 'em.'--Motteux.) in a very short space of time, having clapped a rope about their necks, at the end of which hung a box with ten thousand gold crowns in't. One with a wonderful engine threw the houses out at the windows, by which means they were purged of all pestilential air. Another cured all the three kinds of hectics, the tabid, atrophes, and emaciated, without bathing, Tabian milk, dropax, alias depilatory, or other such medicaments, only turning the consumptive for three months into monks; and he assured me that if they did not grow fat and plump in a monastic way of living, they never would be fattened in this world, either by nature or by art. I saw another surrounded with a crowd of two sorts of women. Some were young, quaint, clever, neat, pretty, juicy, tight, brisk, buxom, proper, kind-hearted, and as right as my leg, to any man's thinking. The rest were old, weather-beaten, over-ridden, toothless, blear-eyed, tough, wrinkled, shrivelled, tawny, mouldy, phthisicky, decrepit hags, beldams, and walking carcasses. We were told that his office was to cast anew those she-pieces of antiquity, and make them such as the pretty creatures whom we saw, who had been made young again that day, recovering at once the beauty, shape, size, and disposition which they enjoyed at sixteen; except their heels, that were now much shorter than in their former youth. This made them yet more apt to fall backwards whenever any man happened to touch 'em, than they had been before. As for their counterparts, the old mother-scratch-tobies, they most devoutly waited for the blessed hour when the batch that was in the oven was to be drawn, that they might have their turns, and in a mighty haste they were pulling and hauling the man like mad, telling him that 'tis the most grievous and intolerable thing in nature for the tail to be on fire and the head to scare away those who should quench it. The officer had his hands full, never wanting patients; neither did his place bring him in little, you may swear. Pantagruel asked him whether he could also make old men young again. He said he could not. But the way to make them new men was to get 'em to cohabit with a new-cast female; for this they caught that fifth kind of crinckams, which some call pellade, in Greek, ophiasis, that makes them cast off their old hair and skin, just as the serpents do, and thus their youth is renewed like the Arabian phoenix's. This is the true fountain of youth, for there the old and decrepit become young, active, and lusty. Just so, as Euripides tells us, Iolaus was transmogrified; and thus Phaon, for whom kind-hearted Sappho run wild, grew young again, for Venus's use; so Tithon by Aurora's means; so Aeson by Medea, and Jason also, who, if you'll believe Pherecides and Simonides, was new-vamped and dyed by that witch; and so were the nurses of jolly Bacchus, and their husbands, as Aeschylus relates. How Queen Whims' officers were employed; and how the said lady retained us among her abstractors. I then saw a great number of the queen's officers, who made blackamoors white as fast as hops, just rubbing their bellies with the bottom of a pannier. Others, with three couples of foxes in one yoke, ploughed a sandy shore, and did not lose their seed. Others washed burnt tiles, and made them lose their colour. Others extracted water out of pumice-stones, braying them a good while in a mortar, and changed their substance. Others sheared asses, and thus got long fleece wool. Others gathered barberries and figs off of thistles. Others stroked he-goats by the dugs, and saved their milk in a sieve; and much they got by it. (Others washed asses' heads without losing their soap.) Others taught cows to dance, and did not lose their fiddling. Others pitched nets to catch the wind, and took cock-lobsters in them. I saw a spodizator, who very artificially got farts out of a dead ass, and sold 'em for fivepence an ell. Another did putrefy beetles. O the dainty food! Poor Panurge fairly cast up his accounts, and gave up his halfpenny (i.e. vomited), seeing an archasdarpenin who laid a huge plenty of chamber lye to putrefy in horsedung, mishmashed with abundance of Christian sir-reverence. Pugh, fie upon him, nasty dog! However, he told us that with this sacred distillation he watered kings and princes, and made their sweet lives a fathom or two the longer. Others built churches to jump over the steeples. Others set carts before the horses, and began to flay eels at the tail; neither did the eels cry before they were hurt, like those of Melun. Others out of nothing made great things, and made great things return to nothing. Others cut fire into steaks with a knife, and drew water with a fish-net. Others made chalk of cheese, and honey of a dog's t--d. We saw a knot of others, about a baker's dozen in number, tippling under an arbour. They toped out of jolly bottomless cups four sorts of cool, sparkling, pure, delicious, vine-tree sirup, which went down like mother's milk; and healths and bumpers flew about like lightning. We were told that these true philosophers were fairly multiplying the stars by drinking till the seven were fourteen, as brawny Hercules did with Atlas. Others made a virtue of necessity, and the best of a bad market, which seemed to me a very good piece of work. Others made alchemy (i.e. sir-reverence) with their teeth, and clapping their hind retort to the recipient, made scurvy faces, and then squeezed. Others, in a large grass plot, exactly measured how far the fleas could go at a hop, a step, and jump; and told us that this was exceedingly useful for the ruling of kingdoms, the conduct of armies, and the administration of commonwealths; and that Socrates, who first got philosophy out of heaven, and from idling and trifling made it profitable and of moment, used to spend half his philosophizing time in measuring the leaps of fleas, as Aristophanes the quintessential affirms. I saw two gibroins by themselves keeping watch on the top of a tower, and we were told they guarded the moon from the wolves. In a blind corner I met four more very hot at it, and ready to go to loggerheads. I asked what was the cause of the stir and ado, the mighty coil and pother they made. And I heard that for four livelong days those overwise roisters had been at it ding-dong, disputing on three high, more than metaphysical propositions, promising themselves mountains of gold by solving them. The first was concerning a he-ass's shadow; the second, of the smoke of a lantern; and the third of goat's hair, whether it were wool or no. We heard that they did not think it a bit strange that two contradictions in mode, form, figure, and time should be true; though I will warrant the sophists of Paris had rather be unchristened than own so much. While we were admiring all those men's wonderful doings, the evening star already twinkling, the queen (God bless her!) appeared, attended with her court, and again amazed and dazzled us. She perceived it, and said to us: What occasions the aberrations of human cogitations through the perplexing labyrinths and abysses of admiration, is not the source of the effects, which sagacious mortals visibly experience to be the consequential result of natural causes. 'Tis the novelty of the experiment which makes impressions on their conceptive, cogitative faculties; that do not previse the facility of the operation adequately, with a subact and sedate intellection, associated with diligent and congruous study. Consequently let all manner of perturbation abdicate the ventricles of your brains, if anyone has invaded them while they were contemplating what is transacted by my domestic ministers. Be spectators and auditors of every particular phenomenon and every individual proposition within the extent of my mansion; satiate yourselves with all that can fall here under the consideration of your visual or auscultating powers, and thus emancipate yourselves from the servitude of crassous ignorance. And that you may be induced to apprehend how sincerely I desire this in consideration of the studious cupidity that so demonstratively emicates at your external organs, from this present particle of time I retain you as my abstractors. Geber, my principal Tabachin, shall register and initiate you at your departing. We humbly thanked her queenship without saying a word, accepting of the noble office she conferred on us. How the Queen was served at dinner, and of her way of eating. Queen Whims after this said to her gentlemen: The orifice of the ventricle, that ordinary embassador for the alimentation of all members, whether superior or inferior, importunes us to restore, by the apposition of idoneous sustenance, what was dissipated by the internal calidity's action on the radical humidity. Therefore spodizators, gesinins, memains, and parazons, be not culpable of dilatory protractions in the apposition of every re-roborating species, but rather let them pullulate and superabound on the tables. As for you, nobilissim praegustators, and my gentilissim masticators, your frequently experimented industry, internected with perdiligent sedulity and sedulous perdiligence, continually adjuvates you to perficiate all things in so expeditious a manner that there is no necessity of exciting in you a cupidity to consummate them. Therefore I can only suggest to you still to operate as you are assuefacted indefatigably to operate. Having made this fine speech, she retired for a while with part of her women, and we were told that 'twas to bathe, as the ancients did more commonly than we use nowadays to wash our hands before we eat. The tables were soon placed, the cloth spread, and then the queen sat down. She ate nothing but celestial ambrosia, and drank nothing but divine nectar. As for the lords and ladies that were there, they, as well as we, fared on as rare, costly, and dainty dishes as ever Apicius wot or dreamed of in his life. When we were as round as hoops, and as full as eggs, with stuffing the gut, an olla podrida ('Some call it an Olio. Rabelais Pot-pourry.'--Motteux.) was set before us to force hunger to come to terms with us, in case it had not granted us a truce; and such a huge vast thing it was that the plate which Pythius Althius gave King Darius would hardly have covered it. The olla consisted of several sorts of pottages, salads, fricassees, saugrenees, cabirotadoes, roast and boiled meat, carbonadoes, swingeing pieces of powdered beef, good old hams, dainty somates, cakes, tarts, a world of curds after the Moorish way, fresh cheese, jellies, and fruit of all sorts. All this seemed to me good and dainty; however, the sight of it made me sigh; for alas! I could not taste a bit on't, so full I had filled my puddings before, and a bellyful is a bellyful you know. Yet I must tell you what I saw that seemed to me odd enough o' conscience; 'twas some pasties in paste; and what should those pasties in paste be, d'ye think, but pasties in pots? At the bottom I perceived store of dice, cards, tarots ('Great cards on which many different things are figured.' --Motteux.), luettes ('Pieces of ivory to play withal.'--Motteux.), chessmen, and chequers, besides full bowls of gold crowns, for those who had a mind to have a game or two and try their chance. Under this I saw a jolly company of mules in stately trappings, with velvet footcloths, and a troop of ambling nags, some for men and some for women; besides I don't know how many litters all lined with velvet, and some coaches of Ferrara make; all this for those who had a mind to take the air. This did not seem strange to me; but if anything did 'twas certainly the queen's way of eating, and truly 'twas very new, and very odd; for she chewed nothing, the good lady; not but that she had good sound teeth, and her meat required to be masticated, but such was her highness's custom. When her praegustators had tasted the meat, her masticators took it and chewed it most nobly; for their dainty chops and gullets were lined through with crimson satin, with little welts and gold purls, and their teeth were of delicate white ivory. Thus, when they had chewed the meat ready for her highness's maw, they poured it down her throat through a funnel of fine gold, and so on to her craw. For that reason they told us she never visited a close-stool but by proxy. How there was a ball in the manner of a tournament, at which Queen Whims was present. After supper there was a ball in the form of a tilt or a tournament, not only worth seeing, but also never to be forgotten. First, the floor of the hall was covered with a large piece of velveted white and yellow chequered tapestry, each chequer exactly square, and three full spans in breadth. Then thirty-two young persons came into the hall; sixteen of them arrayed in cloth of gold, and of these eight were young nymphs such as the ancients described Diana's attendants; the other eight were a king, a queen, two wardens of the castle, two knights, and two archers. Those of the other band were clad in cloth of silver. They posted themselves on the tapestry in the following manner: the kings on the last line on the fourth square; so that the golden king was on a white square, and the silvered king on a yellow square, and each queen by her king; the golden queen on a yellow square, and the silvered queen on a white one: and on each side stood the archers to guide their kings and queens; by the archers the knights, and the wardens by them. In the next row before 'em stood the eight nymphs; and between the two bands of nymphs four rows of squares stood empty. Each band had its musicians, eight on each side, dressed in its livery; the one with orange-coloured damask, the other with white; and all played on different instruments most melodiously and harmoniously, still varying in time and measure as the figure of the dance required. This seemed to me an admirable thing, considering the numerous diversity of steps, back-steps, bounds, rebounds, jerks, paces, leaps, skips, turns, coupes, hops, leadings, risings, meetings, flights, ambuscadoes, moves, and removes. I was also at a loss when I strove to comprehend how the dancers could so suddenly know what every different note meant; for they no sooner heard this or that sound but they placed themselves in the place which was denoted by the music, though their motions were all different. For the nymphs that stood in the first file, as if they designed to begin the fight, marched straight forwards to their enemies from square to square, unless it were the first step, at which they were free to move over two steps at once. They alone never fall back (which is not very natural to other nymphs), and if any of them is so lucky as to advance to the opposite king's row, she is immediately crowned queen of her king, and after that moves with the same state and in the same manner as the queen; but till that happens they never strike their enemies but forwards, and obliquely in a diagonal line. However, they make it not their chief business to take their foes; for, if they did, they would leave their queen exposed to the adverse parties, who then might take her. The kings move and take their enemies on all sides square-ways, and only step from a white square into a yellow one, and vice versa, except at their first step the rank should want other officers than the wardens; for then they can set 'em in their place, and retire by him. The queens take a greater liberty than any of the rest; for they move backwards and forwards all manner of ways, in a straight line as far as they please, provided the place be not filled with one of her own party, and diagonally also, keeping to the colour on which she stands. The archers move backwards or forwards, far and near, never changing the colour on which they stand. The knights move and take in a lineal manner, stepping over one square, though a friend or foe stand upon it, posting themselves on the second square to the right or left, from one colour to another, which is very unwelcome to the adverse party, and ought to be carefully observed, for they take at unawares. The wardens move and take to the right or left, before or behind them, like the kings, and can advance as far as they find places empty; which liberty the kings take not. The law which both sides observe is, at the end of the fight, to besiege and enclose the king of either party, so that he may not be able to move; and being reduced to that extremity, the battle is over, and he loses the day. Now, to avoid this, there is none of either sex of each party but is willing to sacrifice his or her life, and they begin to take one another on all sides in time, as soon as the music strikes up. When anyone takes a prisoner, he makes his honours, and striking him gently in the hand, puts him out of the field and combat, and encamps where he stood. If one of the kings chance to stand where he might be taken, it is not lawful for any of his adversaries that had discovered him to lay hold on him; far from it, they are strictly enjoined humbly to pay him their respects, and give him notice, saying, God preserve you, sir! that his officers may relieve and cover him, or he may remove, if unhappily he could not be relieved. However, he is not to be taken, but greeted with a Good-morrow, the others bending the knee; and thus the tournament uses to end. How the thirty-two persons at the ball fought. The two companies having taken their stations, the music struck up, and with a martial sound, which had something of horrid in it, like a point of war, roused and alarmed both parties, who now began to shiver, and then soon were warmed with warlike rage; and having got in readiness to fight desperately, impatient of delay stood waiting for the charge. Then the music of the silvered band ceased playing, and the instruments of the golden side alone were heard, which denoted that the golden party attacked. Accordingly, a new movement was played for the onset, and we saw the nymph who stood before the queen turn to the left towards her king, as it were to ask leave to fight; and thus saluting her company at the same time, she moved two squares forwards, and saluted the adverse party. Now the music of the golden brigade ceased playing, and their antagonists began again. I ought to have told you that the nymph who began by saluting her company, had by that formality also given them to understand that they were to fall on. She was saluted by them in the same manner, with a full turn to the left, except the queen, who went aside towards her king to the right; and the same manner of salutation was observed on both sides during the whole ball. The silvered nymph that stood before her queen likewise moved as soon as the music of her party sounded a charge; her salutations, and those of her side, were to the right, and her queen's to the left. She moved in the second square forwards, and saluted her antagonists, facing the first golden nymph; so that there was not any distance between them, and you would have thought they two had been going to fight; but they only strike sideways. Their comrades, whether silvered or golden, followed 'em in an intercalary figure, and seemed to skirmish a while, till the golden nymph who had first entered the lists, striking a silvered nymph in the hand on the right, put her out of the field, and set herself in her place. But soon the music playing a new measure, she was struck by a silvered archer, who after that was obliged himself to retire. A silvered knight then sallied out, and the golden queen posted herself before her king. Then the silvered king, dreading the golden queen's fury, removed to the right, to the place where his warden stood, which seemed to him strong and well guarded. The two knights on the left, whether golden or silvered, marched up, and on either side took up many nymphs who could not retreat; principally the golden knight, who made this his whole business; but the silvered knight had greater designs, dissembling all along, and even sometimes not taking a nymph when he could have done it, still moving on till he was come up to the main body of the enemies in such a manner that he saluted their king with a God save you, sir! The whole golden brigade quaked for fear and anger, those words giving notice of their king's danger; not but that they could soon relieve him, but because their king being thus saluted they were to lose their warden on the right wing without any hopes of a recovery. Then the golden king retired to the left, and the silvered knight took the golden warden, which was a mighty loss to that party. However, they resolved to be revenged, and surrounded the knight that he might not escape. He tried to get off, behaving himself with a great deal of gallantry, and his friends did what they could to save him; but at last he fell into the golden queen's hands, and was carried off. Her forces, not yet satisfied, having lost one of her best men, with more fury than conduct moved about, and did much mischief among their enemies. The silvered party warily dissembled, watching their opportunity to be even with them, and presented one of their nymphs to the golden queen, having laid an ambuscado; so that the nymph being taken, a golden archer had like to have seized the silvered queen. Then the golden knight undertakes to take the silvered king and queen, and says, Good-morrow! Then the silvered archer salutes them, and was taken by a golden nymph, and she herself by a silvered one. The fight was obstinate and sharp. The wardens left their posts, and advanced to relieve their friends. The battle was doubtful, and victory hovered over both armies. Now the silvered host charge and break through their enemy's ranks as far as the golden king's tent, and now they are beaten back. The golden queen distinguishes herself from the rest by her mighty achievements still more than by her garb and dignity; for at once she takes an archer, and, going sideways, seizes a silvered warden. Which thing the silvered queen perceiving, she came forwards, and, rushing on with equal bravery, takes the last golden warden and some nymphs. The two queens fought a long while hand to hand; now striving to take each other by surprise, then to save themselves, and sometimes to guard their kings. Finally, the golden queen took the silvered queen; but presently after she herself was taken by the silvered archer. Then the silvered king had only three nymphs, an archer, and a warden left, and the golden only three nymphs and the right knight, which made them fight more slowly and warily than before. The two kings seemed to mourn for the loss of their loving queens, and only studied and endeavoured to get new ones out of all their nymphs to be raised to that dignity, and thus be married to them. This made them excite those brave nymphs to strive to reach the farthest rank, where stood the king of the contrary party, promising them certainly to have them crowned if they could do this. The golden nymphs were beforehand with the others, and out of their number was created a queen, who was dressed in royal robes, and had a crown set on her head. You need not doubt the silvered nymphs made also what haste they could to be queens. One of them was within a step of the coronation place, but there the golden knight lay ready to intercept her, so that she could go no further. The new golden queen, resolved to show herself valiant and worthy of her advancement to the crown, achieved great feats of arms. But in the meantime the silvered knight takes the golden warden who guarded the camp; and thus there was a new silvered queen, who, like the other, strove to excel in heroic deeds at the beginning of her reign. Thus the fight grew hotter than before. A thousand stratagems, charges, rallyings, retreats, and attacks were tried on both sides; till at last the silvered queen, having by stealth advanced as far as the golden king's tent, cried, God save you, sir! Now none but his new queen could relieve him; so she bravely came and exposed herself to the utmost extremity to deliver him out of it. Then the silvered warden with his queen reduced the golden king to such a stress that, to save himself, he was forced to lose his queen; but the golden king took him at last. However, the rest of the golden party were soon taken; and that king being left alone, the silvered party made him a low bow, crying, Good morrow, sir! which denoted that the silvered king had got the day. This being heard, the music of both parties loudly proclaimed the victory. And thus the first battle ended to the unspeakable joy of all the spectators. After this the two brigades took their former stations, and began to tilt a second time, much as they had done before, only the music played somewhat faster than at the first battle, and the motions were altogether different. I saw the golden queen sally out one of the first, with an archer and a knight, as it were angry at the former defeat, and she had like to have fallen upon the silvered king in his tent among his officers; but having been baulked in her attempt, she skirmished briskly, and overthrew so many silvered nymphs and officers that it was a most amazing sight. You would have sworn she had been another Penthesilea; for she behaved herself with as much bravery as that Amazonian queen did at Troy. But this havoc did not last long; for the silvered party, exasperated by their loss, resolved to perish or stop her progress; and having posted an archer in ambuscado on a distant angle, together with a knight-errant, her highness fell into their hands and was carried out of the field. The rest were soon routed after the taking of their queen, who, without doubt, from that time resolved to be more wary and keep near her king, without venturing so far amidst her enemies unless with more force to defend her. Thus the silvered brigade once more got the victory. This did not dishearten or deject the golden party; far from it. They soon appeared again in the field to face their enemies; and being posted as before, both the armies seemed more resolute and cheerful than ever. Now the martial concert began, and the music was above a hemiole the quicker, according to the warlike Phrygian mode, such as was invented by Marsyas. Then our combatants began to wheel about, and charge with such a swiftness that in an instant they made four moves, besides the usual salutations. So that they were continually in action, flying, hovering, jumping, vaulting, curvetting, with petauristical turns and motions, and often intermingled. Seeing them then turn about on one foot after they had made their honours, we compared them to your tops or gigs, such as boys use to whip about, making them turn round so swiftly that they sleep, as they call it, and motion cannot be perceived, but resembles rest, its contrary; so that if you make a point or mark on some part of one of those gigs, 'twill be perceived not as a point, but a continual line, in a most divine manner, as Cusanus has wisely observed. While they were thus warmly engaged, we heard continually the claps and episemapsies which those of the two bands reiterated at the taking of their enemies; and this, joined to the variety of their motions and music, would have forced smiles out of the most severe Cato, the never-laughing Crassus, the Athenian man-hater, Timon; nay, even whining Heraclitus, though he abhorred laughing, the action that is most peculiar to man. For who could have forborne? seeing those young warriors, with their nymphs and queens, so briskly and gracefully advance, retire, jump, leap, skip, spring, fly, vault, caper, move to the right, to the left, every way still in time, so swiftly, and yet so dexterously, that they never touched one another but methodically. As the number of the combatants lessened, the pleasure of the spectators increased; for the stratagems and motions of the remaining forces were more singular. I shall only add that this pleasing entertainment charmed us to such a degree that our minds were ravished with admiration and delight, and the martial harmony moved our souls so powerfully that we easily believed what is said of Ismenias's having excited Alexander to rise from table and run to his arms, with such a warlike melody. At last the golden king remained master of the field; and while we were minding those dances, Queen Whims vanished, so that we saw her no more from that day to this. Then Geber's michelots conducted us, and we were set down among her abstractors, as her queenship had commanded. After that we returned to the port of Mateotechny, and thence straight aboard our ships; for the wind was fair, and had we not hoisted out of hand, we could hardly have got off in three quarters of a moon in the wane. How we came to the island of Odes, where the ways go up and down. We sailed before the wind, between a pair of courses, and in two days made the island of Odes, at which place we saw a very strange thing. The ways there are animals; so true is Aristotle's saying, that all self-moving things are animals. Now the ways walk there. Ergo, they are then animals. Some of them are strange unknown ways, like those of the planets; others are highways, crossways, and byways. I perceived that the travellers and inhabitants of that country asked, Whither does this way go? Whither does that way go? Some answered, Between Midy and Fevrolles, to the parish church, to the city, to the river, and so forth. Being thus in their right way, they used to reach their journey's end without any further trouble, just like those who go by water from Lyons to Avignon or Arles. Now, as you know that nothing is perfect here below, we heard there was a sort of people whom they called highwaymen, waybeaters, and makers of inroads in roads; and that the poor ways were sadly afraid of them, and shunned them as you do robbers. For these used to waylay them, as people lay trains for wolves, and set gins for woodcocks. I saw one who was taken up with a lord chief justice's warrant for having unjustly, and in spite of Pallas, taken the schoolway, which is the longest. Another boasted that he had fairly taken his shortest, and that doing so he first compassed his design. Thus, Carpalin, meeting once Epistemon looking upon a wall with his fiddle-diddle, or live urinal, in his hand, to make a little maid's water, cried that he did not wonder now how the other came to be still the first at Pantagruel's levee, since he held his shortest and least used. I found Bourges highway among these. It went with the deliberation of an abbot, but was made to scamper at the approach of some waggoners, who threatened to have it trampled under their horses' feet, and make their waggons run over it, as Tullia's chariot did over her father's body. I also espied there the old way between Peronne and St. Quentin, which seemed to me a very good, honest, plain way, as smooth as a carpet, and as good as ever was trod upon by shoe of leather. Among the rocks I knew again the good old way to La Ferrare, mounted on a huge bear. This at a distance would have put me in mind of St. Jerome's picture, had but the bear been a lion; for the poor way was all mortified, and wore a long hoary beard uncombed and entangled, which looked like the picture of winter, or at least like a white-frosted bush. On that way were store of beads or rosaries, coarsely made of wild pine-tree; and it seemed kneeling, not standing, nor lying flat; but its sides and middle were beaten with huge stones, insomuch that it proved to us at once an object of fear and pity. While we were examining it, a runner, bachelor of the place, took us aside, and showing us a white smooth way, somewhat filled with straw, said, Henceforth, gentlemen, do not reject the opinion of Thales the Milesian, who said that water is the beginning of all things, nor that of Homer, who tells us that all things derive their original from the ocean; for this same way which you see here had its beginning from water, and is to return whence she came before two months come to an end; now carts are driven here where boats used to be rowed. Truly, said Pantagruel, you tell us no news; we see five hundred such changes, and more, every year, in our world. Then reflecting on the different manner of going of those moving ways, he told us he believed that Philolaus and Aristarchus had philosophized in this island, and that Seleucus (Motteux reads--'that some, indeed, were of opinion.'), indeed, was of opinion the earth turns round about its poles, and not the heavens, whatever we may think to the contrary; as, when we are on the river Loire, we think the trees and the shore moves, though this is only an effect of our boat's motion. As we went back to our ships, we saw three waylayers, who, having been taken in ambuscado, were going to be broken on the wheel; and a huge fornicator was burned with a lingering fire for beating a way and breaking one of its sides; we were told it was the way of the banks of the Nile in Egypt. How we came to the island of Sandals; and of the order of Semiquaver Friars. Thence we went to the island of Sandals, whose inhabitants live on nothing but ling-broth. However, we were very kindly received and entertained by Benius the Third, king of the island, who, after he had made us drink, took us with him to show us a spick-and-span new monastery which he had contrived for the Semiquaver Friars; so he called the religious men whom he had there. For he said that on t'other side the water lived friars who styled themselves her sweet ladyship's most humble servants. Item, the goodly Friar-minors, who are semibreves of bulls; the smoked-herring tribe of Minim Friars; then the Crotchet Friars. So that these diminutives could be no more than Semiquavers. By the statutes, bulls, and patents of Queen Whims, they were all dressed like so many house-burners, except that, as in Anjou your bricklayers use to quilt their knees when they tile houses, so these holy friars had usually quilted bellies, and thick quilted paunches were among them in much repute. Their codpieces were cut slipper-fashion, and every monk among them wore two--one sewed before and another behind --reporting that some certain dreadful mysteries were duly represented by this duplicity of codpieces. They wore shoes as round as basins, in imitation of those who inhabit the sandy sea. Their chins were close-shaved, and their feet iron-shod; and to show they did not value fortune, Benius made them shave and poll the hind part of their polls as bare as a bird's arse, from the crown to the shoulder-blades; but they had leave to let their hair grow before, from the two triangular bones in the upper part of the skull. Thus did they not value fortune a button, and cared no more for the goods of this world than you or I do for hanging. And to show how much they defied that blind jilt, all of them wore, not in their hands like her, but at their waist, instead of beads, sharp razors, which they used to new-grind twice a day and set thrice a night. Each of them had a round ball on their feet, because Fortune is said to have one under hers. The flap of their cowls hanged forward, and not backwards, like those of others. Thus none could see their noses, and they laughed without fear both at fortune and the fortunate; neither more nor less than our ladies laugh at barefaced trulls when they have those mufflers on which they call masks, and which were formerly much more properly called charity, because they cover a multitude of sins. The hind part of their faces were always uncovered, as are our faces, which made them either go with their belly or the arse foremost, which they pleased. When their hind face went forwards, you would have sworn this had been their natural gait, as well on account of their round shoes as of the double codpiece, and their face behind, which was as bare as the back of my hand, and coarsely daubed over with two eyes and a mouth, such as you see on some Indian nuts. Now, if they offered to waddle along with their bellies forwards, you would have thought they were then playing at blindman's buff. May I never be hanged if 'twas not a comical sight. Their way of living was thus: about owl-light they charitably began to boot and spur one another. This being done, the least thing they did was to sleep and snore; and thus sleeping, they had barnacles on the handles of their faces, or spectacles at most. You may swear we did not a little wonder at this odd fancy; but they satisfied us presently, telling us that the day of judgment is to take mankind napping; therefore, to show they did not refuse to make their personal appearance as fortune's darlings use to do, they were always thus booted and spurred, ready to mount whenever the trumpet should sound. At noon, as soon as the clock struck, they used to awake. You must know that their clock-bell, church-bells, and refectory-bells were all made according to the pontial device, that is, quilted with the finest down, and their clappers of fox-tails. Having then made shift to get up at noon, they pulled off their boots, and those that wanted to speak with a maid, alias piss, pissed; those that wanted to scumber, scumbered; and those that wanted to sneeze, sneezed. But all, whether they would or no (poor gentlemen!), were obliged largely and plentifully to yawn; and this was their first breakfast (O rigorous statute!). Methought 'twas very comical to observe their transactions; for, having laid their boots and spurs on a rack, they went into the cloisters. There they curiously washed their hands and mouths; then sat them down on a long bench, and picked their teeth till the provost gave the signal, whistling through his fingers; then every he stretched out his jaws as much as he could, and they gaped and yawned for about half-an-hour, sometimes more, sometimes less, according as the prior judged the breakfast to be suitable to the day. After that they went in procession, two banners being carried before them, in one of which was the picture of Virtue, and that of Fortune in the other. The last went before, carried by a semi-quavering friar, at whose heels was another, with the shadow or image of Virtue in one hand and an holy-water sprinkle in the other--I mean of that holy mercurial water which Ovid describes in his Fasti. And as the preceding Semiquaver rang a handbell, this shaked the sprinkle with his fist. With that says Pantagruel, This order contradicts the rule which Tully and the academics prescribed, that Virtue ought to go before, and Fortune follow. But they told us they did as they ought, seeing their design was to breech, lash, and bethwack Fortune. During the processions they trilled and quavered most melodiously betwixt their teeth I do not know what antiphones, or chantings, by turns. For my part, 'twas all Hebrew-Greek to me, the devil a word I could pick out on't; at last, pricking up my ears, and intensely listening, I perceived they only sang with the tip of theirs. Oh, what a rare harmony it was! How well 'twas tuned to the sound of their bells! You'll never find these to jar, that you won't. Pantagruel made a notable observation upon the processions; for says he, Have you seen and observed the policy of these Semiquavers? To make an end of their procession they went out at one of their church doors and came in at the other; they took a deal of care not to come in at the place whereat they went out. On my honour, these are a subtle sort of people, quoth Panurge; they have as much wit as three folks, two fools and a madman; they are as wise as the calf that ran nine miles to suck a bull, and when he came there 'twas a steer. This subtlety and wisdom of theirs, cried Friar John, is borrowed from the occult philosophy. May I be gutted like an oyster if I can tell what to make on't. Then the more 'tis to be feared, said Pantagruel; for subtlety suspected, subtlety foreseen, subtlety found out, loses the essence and very name of subtlety, and only gains that of blockishness. They are not such fools as you take them to be; they have more tricks than are good, I doubt. After the procession they went sluggingly into the fratery-room, by the way of walk and healthful exercise, and there kneeled under the tables, leaning their breasts on lanterns. While they were in that posture, in came a huge Sandal, with a pitchfork in his hand, who used to baste, rib-roast, swaddle, and swinge them well-favouredly, as they said, and in truth treated them after a fashion. They began their meal as you end yours, with cheese, and ended it with mustard and lettuce, as Martial tells us the ancients did. Afterwards a platterful of mustard was brought before every one of them, and thus they made good the proverb, After meat comes mustard. Their diet was this: O' Sundays they stuffed their puddings with puddings, chitterlings, links, Bologna sausages, forced-meats, liverings, hogs' haslets, young quails, and teals. You must also always add cheese for the first course, and mustard for the last. O' Mondays they were crammed with peas and pork, cum commento, and interlineary glosses. O' Tuesdays they used to twist store of holy-bread, cakes, buns, puffs, lenten loaves, jumbles, and biscuits. O' Wednesdays my gentlemen had fine sheep's heads, calves' heads, and brocks' heads, of which there's no want in that country. O' Thursdays they guzzled down seven sorts of porridge, not forgetting mustard. O' Fridays they munched nothing but services or sorb-apples; neither were these full ripe, as I guessed by their complexion. O' Saturdays they gnawed bones; not that they were poor or needy, for every mother's son of them had a very good fat belly-benefice. As for their drink, 'twas an antifortunal; thus they called I don't know what sort of a liquor of the place. When they wanted to eat or drink, they turned down the back-points or flaps of their cowls forwards below their chins, and that served 'em instead of gorgets or slabbering-bibs. When they had well dined, they prayed rarely all in quavers and shakes; and the rest of the day, expecting the day of judgment, they were taken up with acts of charity, and particularly-- O' Sundays, rubbers at cuffs. O' Mondays, lending each other flirts and fillips on the nose. O' Tuesdays, clapperclawing one another. O' Wednesdays, sniting and fly-flapping. O' Thursdays, worming and pumping. O' Fridays, tickling. O' Saturdays, jerking and firking one another. Such was their diet when they resided in the convent, and if the prior of the monk-house sent any of them abroad, then they were strictly enjoined neither to touch nor eat any manner of fish as long as they were on sea or rivers, and to abstain from all manner of flesh whenever they were at land, that everyone might be convinced that, while they enjoyed the object, they denied themselves the power, and even the desire, and were no more moved with it than the Marpesian rock. All this was done with proper antiphones, still sung and chanted by ear, as we have already observed. When the sun went to bed, they fairly booted and spurred each other as before, and having clapped on their barnacles e'en jogged to bed too. At midnight the Sandal came to them, and up they got, and having well whetted and set their razors, and been a-processioning, they clapped the tables over themselves, and like wire-drawers under their work fell to it as aforesaid. Friar John des Entoumeures, having shrewdly observed these jolly Semiquaver Friars, and had a full account of their statutes, lost all patience, and cried out aloud: Bounce tail, and God ha' mercy guts; if every fool should wear a bauble, fuel would be dear. A plague rot it, we must know how many farts go to an ounce. Would Priapus were here, as he used to be at the nocturnal festivals in Crete, that I might see him play backwards, and wriggle and shake to the purpose. Ay, ay, this is the world, and t'other is the country; may I never piss if this be not an antichthonian land, and our very antipodes. In Germany they pull down monasteries and unfrockify the monks; here they go quite kam, and act clean contrary to others, setting new ones up, against the hair. How Panurge asked a Semiquaver Friar many questions, and was only answered in monosyllables. Panurge, who had since been wholly taken up with staring at these royal Semiquavers, at last pulled one of them by the sleeve, who was as lean as a rake, and asked him,-- Hearkee me, Friar Quaver, Semiquaver, Demisemiquavering quaver, where is the punk? The Friar, pointing downwards, answered, There. Pan. Pray, have you many? Fri. Few. Pan. How many scores have you? Fri. One. Pan. How many would you have? Fri. Five. Pan. Where do you hide 'em? Fri. Here. Pan. I suppose they are not all of one age; but, pray, how is their shape? Fri. Straight. Pan. Their complexion? Fri. Clear. Pan. Their hair? Fri. Fair. Pan. Their eyes? Fri. Black. Pan. Their features? Fri. Good. Pan. Their brows? Fri. Small. Pan. Their graces? Fri. Ripe. Pan. Their looks? Fri. Free. Pan. Their feet? Fri. Flat. Pan. Their heels? Fri. Short. Pan. Their lower parts? Fri. Rare. Pan. And their arms? Fri. Long. Pan. What do they wear on their hands? Fri. Gloves. Pan. What sort of rings on their fingers? Fri. Gold. Pan. What rigging do you keep 'em in? Fri. Cloth. Pan. What sort of cloth is it? Fri. New. Pan. What colour? Fri. Sky. Pan. What kind of cloth is it? Fri. Fine. Pan. What caps do they wear? Fri. Blue. Pan. What's the colour of their stockings? Fri. Red. Pan. What wear they on their feet? Fri. Pumps. Pan. How do they use to be? Fri. Foul. Pan. How do they use to walk? Fri. Fast. Pan. Now let us talk of the kitchen, I mean that of the harlots, and without going hand over head let's a little examine things by particulars. What is in their kitchens? Fri. Fire. Pan. What fuel feeds it? Fri. Wood. Pan. What sort of wood is't? Fri. Dry. Pan. And of what kind of trees? Fri. Yews. Pan. What are the faggots and brushes of? Fri. Holm. Pan. What wood d'ye burn in your chambers? Fri. Pine. Pan. And of what other trees? Fri. Lime. Pan. Hearkee me; as for the buttocks, I'll go your halves. Pray, how do you feed 'em? Fri. Well. Pan. First, what do they eat? Fri. Bread. Pan. Of what complexion? Fri. White. Pan. And what else? Fri. Meat. Pan. How do they love it dressed? Fri. Roast. Pan. What sort of porridge? Fri. None. Pan. Are they for pies and tarts? Fri. Much. Pan. Then I'm their man. Will fish go down with them? Fri. Well. Pan. And what else? Fri. Eggs. Pan. How do they like 'em? Fri. Boiled. Pan. How must they be done? Fri. Hard. Pan. Is this all they have? Fri. No. Pan. What have they besides, then? Fri. Beef. Pan. And what else? Fri. Pork. Pan. And what more? Fri. Geese. Pan. What then? Fri. Ducks. Pan. And what besides? Fri. Cocks. Pan. What do they season their meat with? Fri. Salt. Pan. What sauce are they most dainty for? Fri. Must. Pan. What's their last course? Fri. Rice. Pan. And what else? Fri. Milk. Pan. What besides? Fri. Peas. Pan. What sort? Fri. Green. Pan. What do they boil with 'em? Fri. Pork. Pan. What fruit do they eat? Fri. Good. Pan. How? Fri. Raw. Pan. What do they end with? Fri. Nuts. Pan. How do they drink? Fri. Neat. Pan. What liquor? Fri. Wine. Pan. What sort? Fri. White. Pan. In winter? Fri. Strong. Pan. In the spring. Fri. Brisk. Pan. In summer? Fri. Cool. Pan. In autumn? Fri. New. Buttock of a monk! cried Friar John; how plump these plaguy trulls, these arch Semiquavering strumpets, must be! That damned cattle are so high fed that they must needs be high-mettled, and ready to wince and give two ups for one go-down when anyone offers to ride them below the crupper. Prithee, Friar John, quoth Panurge, hold thy prating tongue; stay till I have done. Till what time do the doxies sit up? Fri. Night. Pan. When do they get up? Fri. Late. Pan. May I ride on a horse that was foaled of an acorn, if this be not as honest a cod as ever the ground went upon, and as grave as an old gate-post into the bargain. Would to the blessed St. Semiquaver, and the blessed worthy virgin St. Semiquavera, he were lord chief president (justice) of Paris! Ods-bodikins, how he'd despatch! With what expedition would he bring disputes to an upshot! What an abbreviator and clawer off of lawsuits, reconciler of differences, examiner and fumbler of bags, peruser of bills, scribbler of rough drafts, and engrosser of deeds would he not make! Well, friar, spare your breath to cool your porridge. Come, let's now talk with deliberation, fairly and softly, as lawyers go to heaven. Let's know how you victual the venereal camp. How is the snatchblatch? Fri. Rough. Pan. How is the gateway? Fri. Free. Pan. And how is it within? Fri. Deep. Pan. I mean, what weather is it there? Fri. Hot. Pan. What shadows the brooks? Fri. Groves. Pan. Of what's the colour of the twigs? Fri. Red. Pan. And that of the old? Fri. Grey. Pan. How are you when you shake? Fri. Brisk. Pan. How is their motion? Fri. Quick. Pan. Would you have them vault or wriggle more? Fri. Less. Pan. What kind of tools are yours? Fri. Big. Pan. And in their helves? Fri. Round. Pan. Of what colour is the tip? Fri. Red. Pan. When they've even used, how are they? Fri. Shrunk. Pan. How much weighs each bag of tools? Fri. Pounds. Pan. How hang your pouches? Fri. Tight. Pan. How are they when you've done? Fri. Lank. Pan. Now, by the oath you have taken, tell me, when you have a mind to cohabit, how you throw 'em? Fri. Down. Pan. And what do they say then? Fri. Fie. Pan. However, like maids, they say nay, and take it; and speak the less, but think the more, minding the work in hand; do they not? Fri. True. Pan. Do they get you bairns? Fri. None. Pan. How do you pig together? Fri. Bare. Pan. Remember you're upon your oath, and tell me justly and bona fide how many times a day you monk it? Fri. Six. Pan. How many bouts a-nights? Fri. Ten. Catso, quoth Friar John, the poor fornicating brother is bashful, and sticks at sixteen, as if that were his stint. Right, quoth Panurge, but couldst thou keep pace with him, Friar John, my dainty cod? May the devil's dam suck my teat if he does not look as if he had got a blow over the nose with a Naples cowl-staff. Pan. Pray, Friar Shakewell, does your whole fraternity quaver and shake at that rate? Fri. All. Pan. Who of them is the best cock o' the game? Fri. I. Pan. Do you never commit dry-bobs or flashes in the pan? Fri. None. Pan. I blush like any black dog, and could be as testy as an old cook when I think on all this; it passes my understanding. But, pray, when you have been pumped dry one day, what have you got the next? Fri. More. Pan. By Priapus, they have the Indian herb of which Theophrastus spoke, or I'm much out. But, hearkee me, thou man of brevity, should some impediment, honestly or otherwise, impair your talents and cause your benevolence to lessen, how would it fare with you, then? Fri. Ill. Pan. What would the wenches do? Fri. Rail. Pan. What if you skipped, and let 'em fast a whole day? Fri. Worse. Pan. What do you give 'em then? Fri. Thwacks. Pan. What do they say to this? Fri. Bawl. Pan. And what else? Fri. Curse. Pan. How do you correct 'em? Fri. Hard. Pan. What do you get out of 'em then? Fri. Blood. Pan. How's their complexion then? Fri. Odd. Pan. What do they mend it with? Fri. Paint. Pan. Then what do they do? Fri. Fawn. Pan. By the oath you have taken, tell me truly what time of the year do you do it least in? Fri. Now (August.). Pan. What season do you do it best in? Fri. March. Pan. How is your performance the rest of the year? Fri. Brisk. Then quoth Panurge, sneering, Of all, and of all, commend me to Ball; this is the friar of the world for my money. You've heard how short, concise, and compendious he is in his answers. Nothing is to be got out of him but monosyllables. By jingo, I believe he would make three bites of a cherry. Damn him, cried Friar John, that's as true as I am his uncle. The dog yelps at another gate's rate when he is among his bitches; there he is polysyllable enough, my life for yours. You talk of making three bites of a cherry! God send fools more wit and us more money! May I be doomed to fast a whole day if I don't verily believe he would not make above two bites of a shoulder of mutton and one swoop of a whole pottle of wine. Zoons, do but see how down o' the mouth the cur looks! He's nothing but skin and bones; he has pissed his tallow. Truly, truly, quoth Epistemon, this rascally monastical vermin all over the world mind nothing but their gut, and are as ravenous as any kites, and then, forsooth, they tell us they've nothing but food and raiment in this world. 'Sdeath, what more have kings and princes? How Epistemon disliked the institution of Lent. Pray did you observe, continued Epistemon, how this damned ill-favoured Semiquaver mentioned March as the best month for caterwauling? True, said Pantagruel; yet Lent and March always go together, and the first was instituted to macerate and bring down our pampered flesh, to weaken and subdue its lusts, to curb and assuage the venereal rage. By this, said Epistemon, you may guess what kind of a pope it was who first enjoined it to be kept, since this filthy wooden-shoed Semiquaver owns that his spoon is never oftener nor deeper in the porringer of lechery than in Lent. Add to this the evident reasons given by all good and learned physicians, affirming that throughout the whole year no food is eaten that can prompt mankind to lascivious acts more than at that time. As, for example, beans, peas, phasels, or long-peason, ciches, onions, nuts, oysters, herrings, salt-meats, garum (a kind of anchovy), and salads wholly made up of venereous herbs and fruits, as-- Rocket, Parsley, Hop-buds, Nose-smart, Rampions, Figs, Taragon, Poppy, Rice, Cresses, Celery, Raisins, and others. It would not a little surprise you, said Pantagruel, should a man tell you that the good pope who first ordered the keeping of Lent, perceiving that at that time o' year the natural heat (from the centre of the body, whither it was retired during the winter's cold) diffuses itself, as the sap does in trees, through the circumference of the members, did therefore in a manner prescribe that sort of diet to forward the propagation of mankind. What makes me think so, is that by the registers of christenings at Touars it appears that more children are born in October and November than in the other ten months of the year, and reckoning backwards 'twill be easily found that they were all made, conceived, and begotten in Lent. I listen to you with both my ears, quoth Friar John, and that with no small pleasure, I'll assure you. But I must tell you that the vicar of Jambert ascribed this copious prolification of the women, not to that sort of food that we chiefly eat in Lent, but to the little licensed stooping mumpers, your little booted Lent-preachers, your little draggle-tailed father confessors, who during all that time of their reign damn all husbands that run astray three fathom and a half below the very lowest pit of hell. So the silly cod's-headed brothers of the noose dare not then stumble any more at the truckle-bed, to the no small discomfort of their maids, and are even forced, poor souls, to take up with their own bodily wives. Dixi; I have done. You may descant on the institution of Lent as much as you please, cried Epistemon; so many men so many minds; but certainly all the physicians will be against its being suppressed, though I think that time is at hand. I know they will, and have heard 'em say were it not for Lent their art would soon fall into contempt, and they'd get nothing, for hardly anybody would be sick. All distempers are sowed in lent; 'tis the true seminary and native bed of all diseases; nor does it only weaken and putrefy bodies, but it also makes souls mad and uneasy. For then the devils do their best, and drive a subtle trade, and the tribe of canting dissemblers come out of their holes. 'Tis then term-time with your cucullated pieces of formality that have one face to God and another to the devil; and a wretched clutter they make with their sessions, stations, pardons, syntereses, confessions, whippings, anathematizations, and much prayer with as little devotion. However, I'll not offer to infer from this that the Arimaspians are better than we are in that point; yet I speak to the purpose. Well, quoth Panurge to the Semiquaver friar, who happened to be by, dear bumbasting, shaking, trilling, quavering cod, what thinkest thou of this fellow? Is he a rank heretic? Fri. Much. Pan. Ought he not to be singed? Fri. Well. Pan. As soon as may be? Fri. Right. Pan. Should not he be scalded first? Fri. No. Pan. How then, should he be roasted? Fri. Quick. Pan. Till at last he be? Fri. Dead. Pan. What has he made you? Fri. Mad. Pan. What d'ye take him to be? Fri. Damned. Pan. What place is he to go to? Fri. Hell. Pan. But, first, how would you have 'em served here? Fri. Burnt. Pan. Some have been served so? Fri. Store. Pan. That were heretics? Fri. Less. Pan. And the number of those that are to be warmed thus hereafter is? Fri. Great. Pan. How many of 'em do you intend to save? Fri. None. Pan. So you'd have them burned? Fri. All. I wonder, said Epistemon to Panurge, what pleasure you can find in talking thus with this lousy tatterdemalion of a monk. I vow, did I not know you well, I might be ready to think you had no more wit in your head than he has in both his shoulders. Come, come, scatter no words, returned Panurge; everyone as they like, as the woman said when she kissed her cow. I wish I might carry him to Gargantua; when I'm married he might be my wife's fool. And make you one, cried Epistemon. Well said, quoth Friar John. Now, poor Panurge, take that along with thee, thou'rt e'en fitted; 'tis a plain case thou'lt never escape wearing the bull's feather; thy wife will be as common as the highway, that's certain. How we came to the land of Satin. Having pleased ourselves with observing that new order of Semiquaver Friars, we set sail, and in three days our skipper made the finest and most delightful island that ever was seen. He called it the island of Frieze, for all the ways were of frieze. In that island is the land of Satin, so celebrated by our court pages. Its trees and herbage never lose their leaves or flowers, and are all damask and flowered velvet. As for the beasts and birds, they are all of tapestry work. There we saw many beasts, birds on trees, of the same colour, bigness, and shape of those in our country; with this difference, however, that these did eat nothing, and never sung or bit like ours; and we also saw there many sorts of creatures which we never had seen before. Among the rest, several elephants in various postures; twelve of which were the six males and six females that were brought to Rome by their governor in the time of Germanicus, Tiberius's nephew. Some of them were learned elephants, some musicians, others philosophers, dancers, and showers of tricks; and all sat down at table in good order, silently eating and drinking like so many fathers in a fratery-room. With their snouts or proboscises, some two cubits long, they draw up water for their own drinking, and take hold of palm leaves, plums, and all manner of edibles, using them offensively or defensively as we do our fists; with them tossing men high into the air in fight, and making them burst with laughing when they come to the ground. They have joints (in their legs), whatever some men, who doubtless never saw any but painted, may have written to the contrary. Between their teeth they have two huge horns; thus Juba called 'em, and Pausanias tells us they are not teeth, but horns; however, Philostratus will have 'em to be teeth, and not horns. 'Tis all one to me, provided you will be pleased to own them to be true ivory. These are some three or four cubits long, and are fixed in the upper jawbone, and consequently not in the lowermost. If you hearken to those who will tell you to the contrary, you will find yourself damnably mistaken, for that's a lie with a latchet; though 'twere Aelian, that long-bow man, that told you so, never believe him, for he lies as fast as a dog can trot. 'Twas in this very island that Pliny, his brother tell-truth, had seen some elephants dance on the rope with bells, and whip over the tables, presto, begone, while people were at feasts, without so much as touching the toping topers or the topers toping. I saw a rhinoceros there, just such a one as Harry Clerberg had formerly showed me. Methought it was not much unlike a certain boar which I had formerly seen at Limoges, except the sharp horn on its snout, that was about a cubit long; by the means of which that animal dares encounter with an elephant, that is sometimes killed with its point thrust into its belly, which is its most tender and defenceless part. I saw there two and thirty unicorns. They are a curst sort of creatures, much resembling a fine horse, unless it be that their heads are like a stag's, their feet like an elephant's, their tails like a wild boar's, and out of each of their foreheads sprouts out a sharp black horn, some six or seven feet long; commonly it dangles down like a turkey-cock's comb. When a unicorn has a mind to fight, or put it to any other use, what does it do but make it stand, and then 'tis as straight as an arrow. I saw one of them, which was attended with a throng of other wild beasts, purify a fountain with its horn. With that Panurge told me that his prancer, alias his nimble-wimble, was like the unicorn, not altogether in length indeed, but in virtue and propriety; for as the unicorn purified pools and fountains from filth and venom, so that other animals came and drank securely there afterwards, in the like manner others might water their nags, and dabble after him without fear of shankers, carnosities, gonorrhoeas, buboes, crinkams, and such other plagues caught by those who venture to quench their amorous thirst in a common puddle; for with his nervous horn he removed all the infection that might be lurking in some blind cranny of the mephitic sweet-scented hole. Well, quoth Friar John, when you are sped, that is, when you are married, we will make a trial of this on thy spouse, merely for charity sake, since you are pleased to give us so beneficial an instruction. Ay, ay, returned Panurge, and then immediately I'll give you a pretty gentle aggregative pill of God, made up of two and twenty kind stabs with a dagger, after the Caesarian way. Catso, cried Friar John, I had rather take off a bumper of good cool wine. I saw there the golden fleece formerly conquered by Jason, and can assure you, on the word of an honest man, that those who have said it was not a fleece but a golden pippin, because melon signifies both an apple and a sheep, were utterly mistaken. I saw also a chameleon, such as Aristotle describes it, and like that which had been formerly shown me by Charles Maris, a famous physician of the noble city of Lyons on the Rhone; and the said chameleon lived on air just as the other did. I saw three hydras, like those I had formerly seen. They are a kind of serpent, with seven different heads. I saw also fourteen phoenixes. I had read in many authors that there was but one in the whole world in every century; but, if I may presume to speak my mind, I declare that those who said this had never seen any, unless it were in the land of Tapestry; though 'twere vouched by Claudian or Lactantius Firmianus. I saw the skin of Apuleius's golden ass. I saw three hundred and nine pelicans. Item, six thousand and sixteen Seleucid birds marching in battalia, and picking up straggling grasshoppers in cornfields. Item, some cynamologi, argatiles, caprimulgi, thynnunculs, onocrotals, or bitterns, with their wide swallows, stymphalides, harpies, panthers, dorcasses, or bucks, cemades, cynocephalises, satyrs, cartasans, tarands, uri, monopses, or bonasi, neades, steras, marmosets, or monkeys, bugles, musimons, byturoses, ophyri, screech-owls, goblins, fairies, and griffins. I saw Mid-Lent o' horseback, with Mid-August and Mid-March holding its stirrups. I saw some mankind wolves, centaurs, tigers, leopards, hyenas, camelopardals, and orixes, or huge wild goats with sharp horns. I saw a remora, a little fish called echineis by the Greeks, and near it a tall ship that did not get ahead an inch, though she was in the offing with top and top-gallants spread before the wind. I am somewhat inclined to believe that 'twas the very numerical ship in which Periander the tyrant happened to be when it was stopped by such a little fish in spite of wind and tide. It was in this land of Satin, and in no other, that Mutianus had seen one of them. Friar John told us that in the days of yore two sorts of fishes used to abound in our courts of judicature, and rotted the bodies and tormented the souls of those who were at law, whether noble or of mean descent, high or low, rich or poor: the first were your April fish or mackerel (pimps, panders, and bawds); the others your beneficial remoras, that is, the eternity of lawsuits, the needless lets that keep 'em undecided. I saw some sphynges, some raphes, some ounces, and some cepphi, whose fore-feet are like hands and their hind-feet like man's. Also some crocutas and some eali as big as sea-horses, with elephants' tails, boars' jaws and tusks, and horns as pliant as an ass's ears. The crocutas, most fleet animals, as big as our asses of Mirebalais, have necks, tails, and breasts like a lion's, legs like a stag's, have mouths up to the ears, and but two teeth, one above and one below; they speak with human voices, but when they do they say nothing. Some people say that none e'er saw an eyrie, or nest of sakers; if you'll believe me, I saw no less than eleven, and I'm sure I reckoned right. I saw some left-handed halberds, which were the first that I had ever seen. I saw some manticores, a most strange sort of creatures, which have the body of a lion, red hair, a face and ears like a man's, three rows of teeth which close together as if you joined your hands with your fingers between each other; they have a sting in their tails like a scorpion's, and a very melodious voice. I saw some catablepases, a sort of serpents, whose bodies are small, but their heads large, without any proportion, so that they've much ado to lift them up; and their eyes are so infectious that whoever sees 'em dies upon the spot, as if he had seen a basilisk. I saw some beasts with two backs, and those seemed to me the merriest creatures in the world. They were most nimble at wriggling the buttocks, and more diligent in tail-wagging than any water-wagtails, perpetually jogging and shaking their double rumps. I saw there some milched crawfish, creatures that I never had heard of before in my life. These moved in very good order, and 'twould have done your heart good to have seen 'em. How in the land of Satin we saw Hearsay, who kept a school of vouching. We went a little higher up into the country of Tapestry, and saw the Mediterranean Sea open to the right and left down to the very bottom; just as the Red Sea very fairly left its bed at the Arabian Gulf to make a lane for the Jews when they left Egypt. There I found Triton winding his silver shell instead of a horn, and also Glaucus, Proteus, Nereus, and a thousand other godlings and sea monsters. I also saw an infinite number of fish of all kinds, dancing, flying, vaulting, fighting, eating, breathing, billing, shoving, milting, spawning, hunting, fishing, skirmishing, lying in ambuscado, making truces, cheapening, bargaining, swearing, and sporting. In a blind corner we saw Aristotle holding a lantern in the posture in which the hermit uses to be drawn near St. Christopher, watching, prying, thinking, and setting everything down. Behind him stood a pack of other philosophers, like so many bums by a head-bailiff, as Appian, Heliodorus, Athenaeus, Porphyrius, Pancrates, Arcadian, Numenius, Possidonius, Ovidius, Oppianus, Olympius, Seleucus, Leonides, Agathocles, Theophrastus, Damostratus, Mutianus, Nymphodorus, Aelian, and five hundred other such plodding dons, who were full of business, yet had little to do; like Chrysippus or Aristarchus of Soli, who for eight-and-fifty years together did nothing in the world but examine the state and concerns of bees. I spied Peter Gilles among these, with a urinal in his hand, narrowly watching the water of those goodly fishes. When we had long beheld everything in this land of Satin, Pantagruel said, I have sufficiently fed my eyes, but my belly is empty all this while, and chimes to let me know 'tis time to go to dinner. Let's take care of the body lest the soul abdicate it; and to this effect let's taste some of these anacampserotes ('An herb, the touching of which is said to reconcile lovers.'--Motteux.) that hang over our heads. Psha, cried one, they are mere trash, stark naught, o' my word; they're good for nothing. I then went to pluck some mirobolans off of a piece of tapestry whereon they hung, but the devil a bit I could chew or swallow 'em; and had you had them betwixt your teeth you would have sworn they had been thrown silk; there was no manner of savour in 'em. One might be apt to think Heliogabalus had taken a hint from thence, to feast those whom he had caused to fast a long time, promising them a sumptuous, plentiful, and imperial feast after it; for all the treat used to amount to no more than several sorts of meat in wax, marble, earthenware, painted and figured tablecloths. While we were looking up and down to find some more substantial food, we heard a loud various noise, like that of paper-mills (or women bucking of linen); so with all speed we went to the place whence the noise came, where we found a diminutive, monstrous, misshapen old fellow, called Hearsay. His mouth was slit up to his ears, and in it were seven tongues, each of them cleft into seven parts. However, he chattered, tattled, and prated with all the seven at once, of different matters, and in divers languages. He had as many ears all over his head and the rest of his body as Argus formerly had eyes, and was as blind as a beetle, and had the palsy in his legs. About him stood an innumerable number of men and women, gaping, listening, and hearing very intensely. Among 'em I observed some who strutted like crows in a gutter, and principally a very handsome bodied man in the face, who held then a map of the world, and with little aphorisms compendiously explained everything to 'em; so that those men of happy memories grew learned in a trice, and would most fluently talk with you of a world of prodigious things, the hundredth part of which would take up a man's whole life to be fully known. Among the rest they descanted with great prolixity on the pyramids and hieroglyphics of Egypt, of the Nile, of Babylon, of the Troglodytes, the Hymantopodes, or crump-footed nation, the Blemiae, people that wear their heads in the middle of their breasts, the Pigmies, the Cannibals, the Hyperborei and their mountains, the Egypanes with their goat's feet, and the devil and all of others; every individual word of it by hearsay. I am much mistaken if I did not see among them Herodotus, Pliny, Solinus, Berosus, Philostratus, Pomponius Mela, Strabo, and God knows how many other antiquaries. Then Albert, the great Jacobin friar, Peter Tesmoin, alias Witness, Pope Pius the Second, Volaterranus, Paulus Jovius the valiant, Jemmy Cartier, Chaton the Armenian, Marco Polo the Venetian, Ludovico Romano, Pedro Aliares, and forty cartloads of other modern historians, lurking behind a piece of tapestry, where they were at it ding-dong, privately scribbling the Lord knows what, and making rare work of it; and all by hearsay. Behind another piece of tapestry (on which Naboth and Susanna's accusers were fairly represented), I saw close by Hearsay, good store of men of the country of Perce and Maine, notable students, and young enough. I asked what sort of study they applied themselves to; and was told that from their youth they learned to be evidences, affidavit-men, and vouchers, and were instructed in the art of swearing; in which they soon became such proficients, that when they left that country, and went back into their own, they set up for themselves and very honestly lived by their trade of evidencing, positively giving their testimony of all things whatsoever to those who feed them most roundly to do a job of journey-work for them; and all this by hearsay. You may think what you will of it; but I can assure you they gave some of us corners of their cakes, and we merrily helped to empty their hogsheads. Then, in a friendly manner, they advised us to be as sparing of truth as possibly we could if ever we had a mind to get court preferment. How we came in sight of Lantern-land. Having been but scurvily entertained in the land of Satin, we went o' board, and having set sail, in four days came near the coast of Lantern-land. We then saw certain little hovering fires on the sea. For my part, I did not take them to be lanterns, but rather thought they were fishes which lolled their flaming tongues on the surface of the sea, or lampyrides, which some call cicindelas, or glowworms, shining there as ripe barley does o' nights in my country. But the skipper satisfied us that they were the lanterns of the watch, or, more properly, lighthouses, set up in many places round the precinct of the place to discover the land, and for the safe piloting in of some outlandish lanterns, which, like good Franciscan and Jacobin friars, were coming to make their personal appearance at the provincial chapter. However, some of us were somewhat suspicious that these fires were the forerunners of some storm, but the skipper assured us again they were not. How we landed at the port of the Lychnobii, and came to Lantern-land. Soon after we arrived at the port of Lantern-land, where Pantagruel discovered on a high tower the lantern of Rochelle, that stood us in good stead, for it cast a great light. We also saw the lantern of Pharos, that of Nauplion, and that of Acropolis at Athens, sacred to Pallas. Near the port there's a little hamlet inhabited by the Lychnobii, that live by lanterns, as the gulligutted friars in our country live by nuns; they are studious people, and as honest men as ever shit in a trumpet. Demosthenes had formerly lanternized there. We were conducted from that place to the palace by three obeliscolichnys ('A kind of beacons.'--Motteux.), military guards of the port, with high-crowned hats, whom we acquainted with the cause of our voyage, and our design, which was to desire the queen of the country to grant us a lantern to light and conduct us during our voyage to the Oracle of the Holy Bottle. They promised to assist us in this, and added that we could never have come in a better time, for then the lanterns held their provincial chapter. When we came to the royal palace we had audience of her highness the Queen of Lantern-land, being introduced by two lanterns of honour, that of Aristophanes and that of Cleanthes (Motteux adds here--'Mistresses of the ceremonies.'). Panurge in a few words acquainted her with the causes of our voyage, and she received us with great demonstrations of friendship, desiring us to come to her at supper-time that we might more easily make choice of one to be our guide; which pleased us extremely. We did not fail to observe intensely everything we could see, as the garbs, motions, and deportment of the queen's subjects, principally the manner after which she was served. The bright queen was dressed in virgin crystal of Tutia wrought damaskwise, and beset with large diamonds. The lanterns of the royal blood were clad partly with bastard-diamonds, partly with diaphanous stones; the rest with horn, paper, and oiled cloth. The cresset-lights took place according to the antiquity and lustre of their families. An earthen dark-lantern, shaped like a pot, notwithstanding this took place of some of the first quality; at which I wondered much, till I was told it was that of Epictetus, for which three thousand drachmas had been formerly refused. Martial's polymix lantern (Motteux gives a footnote:--'A lamp with many wicks, or a branch'd candlestick with many springs coming out of it, that supply all the branches with oil.') made a very good figure there. I took particular notice of its dress, and more yet of the lychnosimity formerly consecrated by Canopa, the daughter of Tisias. I saw the lantern pensile formerly taken out of the temple of Apollo Palatinus at Thebes, and afterwards by Alexander the Great (carried to the town of Cymos). (The words in brackets have been omitted by Motteux.) I saw another that distinguished itself from the rest by a bushy tuft of crimson silk on its head. I was told 'twas that of Bartolus, the lantern of the civilians. Two others were very remarkable for glister-pouches that dangled at their waist. We were told that one was the greater light and the other the lesser light of the apothecaries. When 'twas supper-time, the queen's highness first sat down, and then the lady lanterns, according to their rank and dignity. For the first course they were all served with large Christmas candles, except the queen, who was served with a hugeous, thick, stiff, flaming taper of white wax, somewhat red towards the tip; and the royal family, as also the provincial lantern of Mirebalais, who were served with nutlights; and the provincial of Lower Poitou, with an armed candle. After that, God wot, what a glorious light they gave with their wicks! I do not say all, for you must except a parcel of junior lanterns, under the government of a high and mighty one. These did not cast a light like the rest, but seemed to me dimmer than any long-snuff farthing candle whose tallow has been half melted away in a hothouse. After supper we withdrew to take some rest, and the next day the queen made us choose one of the most illustrious lanterns to guide us; after which we took our leave. How we arrived at the Oracle of the Bottle. Our glorious lantern lighting and directing us to heart's content, we at last arrived at the desired island where was the Oracle of the Bottle. As soon as friend Panurge landed, he nimbly cut a caper with one leg for joy, and cried to Pantagruel, Now we are where we have wished ourselves long ago. This is the place we've been seeking with such toil and labour. He then made a compliment to our lantern, who desired us to be of good cheer, and not be daunted or dismayed whatever we might chance to see. To come to the Temple of the Holy Bottle we were to go through a large vineyard, in which were all sorts of vines, as the Falernian, Malvoisian, the Muscadine, those of Taige, Beaune, Mirevaux, Orleans, Picardent, Arbois, Coussi, Anjou, Grave, Corsica, Vierron, Nerac, and others. This vineyard was formerly planted by the good Bacchus, with so great a blessing that it yields leaves, flowers, and fruit all the year round, like the orange trees at Suraine. Our magnificent lantern ordered every one of us to eat three grapes, to put some vine-leaves in his shoes, and take a vine-branch in his left hand. At the end of the close we went under an arch built after the manner of those of the ancients. The trophies of a toper were curiously carved on it. First, on one side was to be seen a long train of flagons, leathern bottles, flasks, cans, glass bottles, barrels, nipperkins, pint pots, quart pots, pottles, gallons, and old-fashioned semaises (swingeing wooden pots, such as those out of which the Germans fill their glasses); these hung on a shady arbour. On another side was store of garlic, onions, shallots, hams, botargos, caviare, biscuits, neat's tongues, old cheese, and such like comfits, very artificially interwoven, and packed together with vine-stocks. On another were a hundred sorts of drinking glasses, cups, cisterns, ewers, false cups, tumblers, bowls, mazers, mugs, jugs, goblets, talboys, and such other Bacchic artillery. On the frontispiece of the triumphal arch, under the zoophore, was the following couplet: You who presume to move this way, Get a good lantern, lest you stray. We took special care of that, cried Pantagruel when he had read them; for there is not a better or a more divine lantern than ours in all Lantern-land. This arch ended at a fine large round alley covered over with the interlaid branches of vines, loaded and adorned with clusters of five hundred different colours, and of as many various shapes, not natural, but due to the skill of agriculture; some were golden, others bluish, tawny, azure, white, black, green, purple, streaked with many colours, long, round, triangular, cod-like, hairy, great-headed, and grassy. That pleasant alley ended at three old ivy-trees, verdant, and all loaden with rings. Our enlightened lantern directed us to make ourselves hats with some of their leaves, and cover our heads wholly with them, which was immediately done. Jupiter's priestess, said Pantagruel, in former days would not like us have walked under this arbour. There was a mystical reason, answered our most perspicuous lantern, that would have hindered her; for had she gone under it, the wine, or the grapes of which 'tis made, that's the same thing, had been over her head, and then she would have seemed overtopped and mastered by wine. Which implies that priests, and all persons who devote themselves to the contemplation of divine things, ought to keep their minds sedate and calm, and avoid whatever might disturb and discompose their tranquillity, which nothing is more apt to do than drunkenness. You also, continued our lantern, could not come into the Holy Bottle's presence, after you have gone through this arch, did not that noble priestess Bacbuc first see your shoes full of vine-leaves; which action is diametrically opposite to the other, and signifies that you despise wine, and having mastered it, as it were, tread it under foot. I am no scholar, quoth Friar John, for which I'm heartily sorry, yet I find by my breviary that in the Revelation a woman was seen with the moon under her feet, which was a most wonderful sight. Now, as Bigot explained it to me, this was to signify that she was not of the nature of other women; for they have all the moon at their heads, and consequently their brains are always troubled with a lunacy. This makes me willing to believe what you said, dear Madam Lantern. How we went underground to come to the Temple of the Holy Bottle, and how Chinon is the oldest city in the world. We went underground through a plastered vault, on which was coarsely painted a dance of women and satyrs waiting on old Silenus, who was grinning o' horseback on his ass. This made me say to Pantagruel, that this entry put me in mind of the painted cellar in the oldest city in the world, where such paintings are to be seen, and in as cool a place. Which is the oldest city in the world? asked Pantagruel. 'Tis Chinon, sir, or Cainon in Touraine, said I. I know, returned Pantagruel, where Chinon lies, and the painted cellar also, having myself drunk there many a glass of cool wine; neither do I doubt but that Chinon is an ancient town --witness its blazon. I own 'tis said twice or thrice: Chinon, Little town, Great renown, On old stone Long has stood; There's the Vienne, if you look down; If you look up, there's the wood. But how, continued he, can you make it out that 'tis the oldest city in the world? Where did you find this written? I have found it in the sacred writ, said I, that Cain was the first that built a town; we may then reasonably conjecture that from his name he gave it that of Cainon. Thus, after his example, most other founders of towns have given them their names: Athena, that's Minerva in Greek, to Athens; Alexander to Alexandria; Constantine to Constantinople; Pompey to Pompeiopolis in Cilicia; Adrian to Adrianople; Canaan, to the Canaanites; Saba, to the Sabaeans; Assur, to the Assyrians; and so Ptolemais, Caesarea, Tiberias, and Herodium in Judaea got their names. While we were thus talking, there came to us the great flask whom our lantern called the philosopher, her holiness the Bottle's governor. He was attended with a troop of the temple-guards, all French bottles in wicker armour; and seeing us with our javelins wrapped with ivy, with our illustrious lantern, whom he knew, he desired us to come in with all manner of safety, and ordered we should be immediately conducted to the Princess Bacbuc, the Bottle's lady of honour, and priestess of all the mysteries; which was done. How we went down the tetradic steps, and of Panurge's fear. We went down one marble step under ground, where there was a resting, or, as our workmen call it, a landing-place; then, turning to the left, we went down two other steps, where there was another resting-place; after that we came to three other steps, turning about, and met a third; and the like at four steps which we met afterwards. There quoth Panurge, Is it here? How many steps have you told? asked our magnificent lantern. One, two, three, four, answered Pantagruel. How much is that? asked she. Ten, returned he. Multiply that, said she, according to the same Pythagorical tetrad. That is, ten, twenty, thirty, forty, cried Pantagruel. How much is the whole? said she. One hundred, answered Pantagruel. Add, continued she, the first cube--that's eight. At the end of that fatal number you'll find the temple gate; and pray observe, this is the true psychogony of Plato, so celebrated by the Academics, yet so little understood; one moiety of which consists of the unity of the two first numbers full of two square and two cubic numbers. We then went down those numerical stairs, all under ground, and I can assure you, in the first place, that our legs stood us in good stead; for had it not been for 'em, we had rolled just like so many hogsheads into a vault. Secondly, our radiant lantern gave us just so much light as is in St. Patrick's hole in Ireland, or Trophonius's pit in Boeotia; which caused Panurge to say to her, after we had got down some seventy-eight steps: Dear madam, with a sorrowful, aching heart, I most humbly beseech your lanternship to lead us back. May I be led to hell if I be not half dead with fear; my heart is sunk down into my hose; I am afraid I shall make buttered eggs in my breeches. I freely consent never to marry. You have given yourself too much trouble on my account. The Lord shall reward you in his great rewarder; neither will I be ungrateful when I come out of this cave of Troglodytes. Let's go back, I pray you. I'm very much afraid this is Taenarus, the low way to hell, and methinks I already hear Cerberus bark. Hark! I hear the cur, or my ears tingle. I have no manner of kindness for the dog, for there never is a greater toothache than when dogs bite us by the shins. And if this be only Trophonius's pit, the lemures, hobthrushes, and goblins will certainly swallow us alive, just as they devoured formerly one of Demetrius's halberdiers for want of bridles. Art thou here, Friar John? Prithee, dear, dear cod, stay by me; I'm almost dead with fear. Hast thou got thy bilbo? Alas! poor pilgarlic's defenceless. I'm a naked man, thou knowest; let's go back. Zoons, fear nothing, cried Friar John; I'm by thee, and have thee fast by the collar; eighteen devils shan't get thee out of my clutches, though I were unarmed. Never did a man yet want weapons who had a good arm with as stout a heart. Heaven would sooner send down a shower of them; even as in Provence, in the fields of La Crau, near Mariannes, there rained stones (they are there to this day) to help Hercules, who otherwise wanted wherewithal to fight Neptune's two bastards. But whither are we bound? Are we a-going to the little children's limbo? By Pluto, they'll bepaw and conskite us all. Or are we going to hell for orders? By cob's body, I'll hamper, bethwack, and belabour all the devils, now I have some vine-leaves in my shoes. Thou shalt see me lay about me like mad, old boy. Which way? where the devil are they? I fear nothing but their damned horns; but cuckoldy Panurge's bull-feather will altogether secure me from 'em. Lo! in a prophetic spirit I already see him, like another Actaeon, horned, horny, hornified. Prithee, quoth Panurge, take heed thyself, dear frater, lest, till monks have leave to marry, thou weddest something thou dostn't like, as some cat-o'-nine-tails or the quartan ague; if thou dost, may I never come safe and sound out of this hypogeum, this subterranean cave, if I don't tup and ram that disease merely for the sake of making thee a cornuted, corniferous property; otherwise I fancy the quartan ague is but an indifferent bedfellow. I remember Gripe-men-all threatened to wed thee to some such thing; for which thou calledest him heretic. Here our splendid lantern interrupted them, letting us know this was the place where we were to have a taste of the creature, and be silent; bidding us not despair of having the word of the Bottle before we went back, since we had lined our shoes with vine-leaves. Come on then, cried Panurge, let's charge through and through all the devils of hell; we can but perish, and that's soon done. However, I thought to have reserved my life for some mighty battle. Move, move, move forwards; I am as stout as Hercules, my breeches are full of courage; my heart trembles a little, I own, but that's only an effect of the coldness and dampness of this vault; 'tis neither fear nor ague. Come on, move on, piss, pish, push on. My name's William Dreadnought. How the temple gates in a wonderful manner opened of themselves. After we were got down the steps, we came to a portal of fine jasper, of Doric order, on whose front we read this sentence in the finest gold, EN OINO ALETHEIA--that is, In wine truth. The gates were of Corinthian-like brass, massy, wrought with little vine-branches, finely embossed and engraven, and were equally joined and closed together in their mortise without padlock, key-chain, or tie whatsoever. Where they joined, there hanged an Indian loadstone as big as an Egyptian bean, set in gold, having two points, hexagonal, in a right line; and on each side, towards the wall, hung a handful of scordium (garlic germander). There our noble lantern desired us not to take it amiss that she went no farther with us, leaving us wholly to the conduct of the priestess Bacbuc; for she herself was not allowed to go in, for certain causes rather to be concealed than revealed to mortals. However, she advised us to be resolute and secure, and to trust to her for the return. She then pulled the loadstone that hung at the folding of the gates, and threw it into a silver box fixed for that purpose; which done, from the threshold of each gate she drew a twine of crimson silk about nine feet long, by which the scordium hung, and having fastened it to two gold buckles that hung at the sides, she withdrew. Immediately the gates flew open without being touched; not with a creaking or loud harsh noise like that made by heavy brazen gates, but with a soft pleasing murmur that resounded through the arches of the temple. Pantagruel soon knew the cause of it, having discovered a small cylinder or roller that joined the gates over the threshold, and, turning like them towards the wall on a hard well-polished ophites stone, with rubbing and rolling caused that harmonious murmur. I wondered how the gates thus opened of themselves to the right and left, and after we were all got in, I cast my eye between the gates and the wall to endeavour to know how this happened; for one would have thought our kind lantern had put between the gates the herb aethiopis, which they say opens some things that are shut. But I perceived that the parts of the gates that joined on the inside were covered with steel, and just where the said gates touched when they were opened I saw two square Indian loadstones of a bluish hue, well polished, and half a span broad, mortised in the temple wall. Now, by the hidden and admirable power of the loadstones, the steel plates were put into motion, and consequently the gates were slowly drawn; however, not always, but when the said loadstone on the outside was removed, after which the steel was freed from its power, the two bunches of scordium being at the same time put at some distance, because it deadens the magnes and robs it of its attractive virtue. On the loadstone that was placed on the right side the following iambic verse was curiously engraven in ancient Roman characters: Ducunt volentem fata, nolentem trahunt. Fate leads the willing, and th' unwilling draws. The following sentence was neatly cut in the loadstone that was on the left: ALL THINGS TEND TO THEIR END. Of the Temple's admirable pavement. When I had read those inscriptions, I admired the beauty of the temple, and particularly the disposition of its pavement, with which no work that is now, or has been under the cope of heaven, can justly be compared; not that of the Temple of Fortune at Praeneste in Sylla's time, or the pavement of the Greeks, called asarotum, laid by Sosistratus at Pergamus. For this here was wholly in compartments of precious stones, all in their natural colours: one of red jasper, most charmingly spotted; another of ophites; a third of porphyry; a fourth of lycophthalmy, a stone of four different colours, powdered with sparks of gold as small as atoms; a fifth of agate, streaked here and there with small milk-coloured waves; a sixth of costly chalcedony or onyx-stone; and another of green jasper, with certain red and yellowish veins. And all these were disposed in a diagonal line. At the portico some small stones were inlaid and evenly joined on the floor, all in their native colours, to embellish the design of the figures; and they were ordered in such a manner that you would have thought some vine-leaves and branches had been carelessly strewed on the pavement; for in some places they were thick, and thin in others. That inlaying was very wonderful everywhere. Here were seen, as it were in the shade, some snails crawling on the grapes; there, little lizards running on the branches. On this side were grapes that seemed yet greenish; on another, some clusters that seemed full ripe, so like the true that they could as easily have deceived starlings and other birds as those which Zeuxis drew. Nay, we ourselves were deceived; for where the artist seemed to have strewed the vine-branches thickest, we could not forbear walking with great strides lest we should entangle our feet, just as people go over an unequal stony place. I then cast my eyes on the roof and walls of the temple, that were all pargetted with porphyry and mosaic work, which from the left side at the coming in most admirably represented the battle in which the good Bacchus overthrew the Indians; as followeth. How we saw Bacchus's army drawn up in battalia in mosaic work. At the beginning, divers towns, hamlets, castles, fortresses, and forests were seen in flames; and several mad and loose women, who furiously ripped up and tore live calves, sheep, and lambs limb from limb, and devoured their flesh. There we learned how Bacchus, at his coming into India, destroyed all things with fire and sword. Notwithstanding this, he was so despised by the Indians that they did not think it worth their while to stop his progress, having been certainly informed by their spies that his camp was destitute of warriors, and that he had only with him a crew of drunken females, a low-built, old, effeminate, sottish fellow, continually addled, and as drunk as a wheelbarrow, with a pack of young clownish doddipolls, stark naked, always skipping and frisking up and down, with tails and horns like those of young kids. For this reason the Indians had resolved to let them go through their country without the least opposition, esteeming a victory over such enemies more dishonourable than glorious. In the meantime Bacchus marched on, burning everything; for, as you know, fire and thunder are his paternal arms, Jupiter having saluted his mother Semele with his thunder, so that his maternal house was ruined by fire. Bacchus also caused a great deal of blood to be spilt; which, when he is roused and angered, principally in war, is as natural to him as to make some in time of peace. Thus the plains of the island of Samos are called Panema, which signifies bloody, because Bacchus there overtook the Amazons, who fled from the country of Ephesus, and there let 'em blood, so that they all died of phlebotomy. This may give you a better insight into the meaning of an ancient proverb than Aristotle has done in his problems, viz., Why 'twas formerly said, Neither eat nor sow any mint in time of war. The reason is, that blows are given then without any distinction of parts or persons, and if a man that's wounded has that day handled or eaten any mint, 'tis impossible, or at least very hard, to stanch his blood. After this, Bacchus was seen marching in battalia, riding in a stately chariot drawn by six young leopards. He looked as young as a child, to show that all good topers never grow old. He was as red as a cherry, or a cherub, which you please, and had no more hair on his chin than there's in the inside of my hand. His forehead was graced with pointed horns, above which he wore a fine crown or garland of vine-leaves and grapes, and a mitre of crimson velvet, having also gilt buskins on. He had not one man with him that looked like a man; his guards and all his forces consisted wholly of Bassarides, Evantes, Euhyades, Edonides, Trietherides, Ogygiae, Mimallonides, Maenades, Thyades, and Bacchae, frantic, raving, raging, furious, mad women, begirt with live snakes and serpents instead of girdles, dishevelled, their hair flowing about their shoulders, with garlands of vine-branches instead of forehead-cloths, clad with stag's or goat's skins, and armed with torches, javelins, spears, and halberds whose ends were like pineapples. Besides, they had certain small light bucklers that gave a loud sound if you touched 'em never so little, and these served them instead of drums. They were just seventy-nine thousand two hundred and twenty-seven. Silenus, who led the van, was one on whom Bacchus relied very much, having formerly had many proofs of his valour and conduct. He was a diminutive, stooping, palsied, plump, gorbellied old fellow, with a swingeing pair of stiff-standing lugs of his own, a sharp Roman nose, large rough eyebrows, mounted on a well-hung ass. In his fist he held a staff to lean upon, and also bravely to fight whenever he had occasion to alight; and he was dressed in a woman's yellow gown. His followers were all young, wild, clownish people, as hornified as so many kids and as fell as so many tigers, naked, and perpetually singing and dancing country-dances. They were called tityri and satyrs, and were in all eighty-five thousand one hundred and thirty-three. Pan, who brought up the rear, was a monstrous sort of a thing; for his lower parts were like a goat's, his thighs hairy, and his horns bolt upright; a crimson fiery phiz, and a beard that was none of the shortest. He was a bold, stout, daring, desperate fellow, very apt to take pepper in the nose for yea and nay. In his left hand he held a pipe, and a crooked stick in his right. His forces consisted also wholly of satyrs, aegipanes, agripanes, sylvans, fauns, lemures, lares, elves, and hobgoblins, and their number was seventy-eight thousand one hundred and fourteen. The signal or word common to all the army was Evohe. How the battle in which the good Bacchus overthrew the Indians was represented in mosaic work. In the next place we saw the representation of the good Bacchus's engagement with the Indians. Silenus, who led the van, was sweating, puffing, and blowing, belabouring his ass most grievously. The ass dreadfully opened its wide jaws, drove away the flies that plagued it, winced, flounced, went back, and bestirred itself in a most terrible manner, as if some damned gad-bee had stung it at the breech. The satyrs, captains, sergeants, and corporals of companies, sounding the orgies with cornets, in a furious manner went round the army, skipping, capering, bounding, jerking, farting, flying out at heels, kicking and prancing like mad, encouraging their companions to fight bravely; and all the delineated army cried out Evohe! First, the Maenades charged the Indians with dreadful shouts, and a horrid din of their brazen drums and bucklers; the air rung again all around, as the mosaic work well expressed it. And pray for the future don't so much admire Apelles, Aristides the Theban, and others who drew claps of thunder, lightnings, winds, words, manners, and spirits. We then saw the Indian army, who had at last taken the field to prevent the devastation of the rest of their country. In the front were the elephants, with castles well garrisoned on their backs. But the army and themselves were put into disorder; the dreadful cries of the Bacchae having filled them with consternation, and those huge animals turned tail and trampled on the men of their party. There you might have seen gaffer Silenus on his ass, putting on as hard as he could, striking athwart and alongst, and laying about him lustily with his staff after the old fashion of fencing. His ass was prancing and making after the elephants, gaping and martially braying, as it were to sound a charge, as he did when formerly in the Bacchanalian feasts he waked the nymph Lottis, when Priapus, full of priapism, had a mind to priapize while the pretty creature was taking a nap. There you might have seen Pan frisk it with his goatish shanks about the Maenades, and with his rustic pipe excite them to behave themselves like Maenades. A little further you might have blessed your eyes with the sight of a young satyr who led seventeen kings his prisoners; and a Bacchis, who with her snakes hauled along no less than two and forty captains; a little faun, who carried a whole dozen of standards taken from the enemy; and goodman Bacchus on his chariot, riding to and fro fearless of danger, making much of his dear carcass, and cheerfully toping to all his merry friends. Finally, we saw the representation of his triumph, which was thus: first, his chariot was wholly lined with ivy gathered on the mountain Meros; this for its scarcity, which you know raises the price of everything, and principally of those leaves in India. In this Alexander the Great followed his example at his Indian triumph. The chariot was drawn by elephants joined together, wherein he was imitated by Pompey the Great at Rome in his African triumph. The good Bacchus was seen drinking out of a mighty urn, which action Marius aped after his victory over the Cimbri near Aix in Provence. All his army were crowned with ivy; their javelins, bucklers, and drums were also wholly covered with it; there was not so much as Silenus's ass but was betrapped with it. The Indian kings were fastened with chains of gold close by the wheels of the chariot. All the company marched in pomp with unspeakable joy, loaded with an infinite number of trophies, pageants, and spoils, playing and singing merry epiniciums, songs of triumph, and also rural lays and dithyrambs. At the farthest end was a prospect of the land of Egypt; the Nile with its crocodiles, marmosets, ibides, monkeys, trochiloses, or wrens, ichneumons, or Pharoah's mice, hippopotami, or sea-horses, and other creatures, its guests and neighbours. Bacchus was moving towards that country under the conduct of a couple of horned beasts, on one of which was written in gold, Apis, and Osiris on the other; because no ox or cow had been seen in Egypt till Bacchus came thither. How the temple was illuminated with a wonderful lamp. Before I proceed to the description of the Bottle, I'll give you that of an admirable lamp that dispensed so large a light over all the temple that, though it lay underground, we could distinguish every object as clearly as above it at noonday. In the middle of the roof was fixed a ring of massive gold, as thick as my clenched fist. Three chains somewhat less, most curiously wrought, hung about two feet and a half below it, and in a triangle supported a round plate of fine gold whose diameter or breadth did not exceed two cubits and half a span. There were four holes in it, in each of which an empty ball was fastened, hollow within, and open o' top, like a little lamp; its circumference about two hands' breadth. Each ball was of precious stone; one an amethyst, another an African carbuncle, the third an opal, and the fourth an anthracites. They were full of burning water five times distilled in a serpentine limbec, and inconsumptible, like the oil formerly put into Pallas' golden lamp at Acropolis of Athens by Callimachus. In each of them was a flaming wick, partly of asbestine flax, as of old in the temple of Jupiter Ammon, such as those which Cleombrotus, a most studious philosopher, saw, and partly of Carpasian flax (Ozell's correction. Motteux reads, 'which Cleombrotus, a most studious philosopher, and Pandelinus of Carpasium had, which were,' &c.), which were rather renewed than consumed by the fire. About two foot and a half below that gold plate, the three chains were fastened to three handles that were fixed to a large round lamp of most pure crystal, whose diameter was a cubit and a half, and opened about two hands' breadths o' top; by which open place a vessel of the same crystal, shaped somewhat like the lower part of a gourd-like limbec, or an urinal, was put at the bottom of the great lamp, with such a quantity of the afore-mentioned burning water, that the flame of the asbestine wick reached the centre of the great lamp. This made all its spherical body seem to burn and be in a flame, because the fire was just at the centre and middle point, so that it was not more easy to fix the eye on it than on the disc of the sun, the matter being wonderfully bright and shining, and the work most transparent and dazzling by the reflection of the various colours of the precious stones whereof the four small lamps above the main lamp were made, and their lustre was still variously glittering all over the temple. Then this wandering light being darted on the polished marble and agate with which all the inside of the temple was pargetted, our eyes were entertained with a sight of all the admirable colours which the rainbow can boast when the sun darts his fiery rays on some dropping clouds. The design of the lamp was admirable in itself, but, in my opinion, what added much to the beauty of the whole, was that round the body of the crystal lamp there was carved in cataglyphic work a lively and pleasant battle of naked boys, mounted on little hobby-horses, with little whirligig lances and shields that seemed made of vine-branches with grapes on them; their postures generally were very different, and their childish strife and motions were so ingeniously expressed that art equalled nature in every proportion and action. Neither did this seem engraved, but rather hewed out and embossed in relief, or at least like grotesque, which, by the artist's skill, has the appearance of the roundness of the object it represents. This was partly the effect of the various and most charming light, which, flowing out of the lamp, filled the carved places with its glorious rays. ('This and the next chapter make really but one, tho' Mr. Motteux has made two of them; the first of which contains but eight lines, according to him, and ends at the words fantastic fountain.'--Ozell.). How the Priestess Bacbuc showed us a fantastic fountain in the temple, and how the fountain-water had the taste of wine, according to the imagination of those who drank of it. While we were admiring this incomparable lamp and the stupendous structure of the temple, the venerable priestess Bacbuc and her attendants came to us with jolly smiling looks, and seeing us duly accoutred, without the least difficulty took us into the middle of the temple, where, just under the aforesaid lamp, was the fine fantastic fountain. She then ordered some cups, goblets, and talboys of gold, silver, and crystal to be brought, and kindly invited us to drink of the liquor that sprung there, which we readily did; for, to say the truth, this fantastic fountain was very inviting, and its materials and workmanship more precious, rare, and admirable than anything Plato ever dreamt of in limbo. Its basis or groundwork was of most pure and limpid alabaster, and its height somewhat more than three spans, being a regular heptagon on the outside, with its stylobates or footsteps, arulets, cymasults or blunt tops, and Doric undulations about it. It was exactly round within. On the middle point of each angle brink stood a pillar orbiculated in form of ivory or alabaster solid rings. These were seven in number, according to the number of the angles (This sentence, restored by Ozell, is omitted by Motteux.). Each pillar's length from the basis to the architraves was near seven hands, taking an exact dimension of its diameter through the centre of its circumference and inward roundness; and it was so disposed that, casting our eyes behind one of them, whatever its cube might be, to view its opposite, we found that the pyramidal cone of our visual line ended at the said centre, and there, by the two opposites, formed an equilateral triangle whose two lines divided the pillar into two equal parts. That which we had a mind to measure, going from one side to another, two pillars over, at the first third part of the distance between them, was met by their lowermost and fundamental line, which, in a consult line drawn as far as the universal centre, equally divided, gave, in a just partition, the distance of the seven opposite pillars in a right line, beginning at the obtuse angle on the brink, as you know that an angle is always found placed between two others in all angular figures odd in number. This tacitly gave us to understand that seven semidiameters are in geometrical proportion, compass, and distance somewhat less than the circumference of a circle, from the figure of which they are extracted; that is to say, three whole parts, with an eighth and a half, a little more, or a seventh and a half, a little less, according to the instructions given us of old by Euclid, Aristotle, Archimedes, and others. The first pillar, I mean that which faced the temple gate, was of azure, sky-coloured sapphire. The second, of hyacinth, a precious stone exactly of the colour of the flower into which Ajax's choleric blood was transformed; the Greek letters A I being seen on it in many places. The third, an anachite diamond, as bright and glittering as lightning. The fourth, a masculine ruby balas (peach-coloured) amethystizing, its flame and lustre ending in violet or purple like an amethyst. The fifth, an emerald, above five hundred and fifty times more precious than that of Serapis in the labyrinth of the Egyptians, and more verdant and shining than those that were fixed, instead of eyes, in the marble lion's head near King Hermias's tomb. The sixth, of agate, more admirable and various in the distinctions of its veins, clouds, and colours than that which Pyrrhus, King of Epirus, so mightily esteemed. The seventh, of syenites, transparent, of the colour of a beryl and the clear hue of Hymetian honey; and within it the moon was seen, such as we see it in the sky, silent, full, new, and in the wane. These stones were assigned to the seven heavenly planets by the ancient Chaldaeans; and that the meanest capacities might be informed of this, just at the central perpendicular line, on the chapter of the first pillar, which was of sapphire, stood the image of Saturn in elutian (Motteux reads 'Eliacim.') lead, with his scythe in his hand, and at his feet a crane of gold, very artfully enamelled, according to the native hue of the saturnine bird. On the second, which was of hyacinth, towards the left, Jupiter was seen in jovetian brass, and on his breast an eagle of gold enamelled to the life. On the third was Phoebus of the purest gold, and a white cock in his right hand. On the fourth was Mars in Corinthian brass, and a lion at his feet. On the fifth was Venus in copper, the metal of which Aristonides made Athamas's statue, that expressed in a blushing whiteness his confusion at the sight of his son Learchus, who died at his feet of a fall. On the sixth was Mercury in hydrargyre. I would have said quicksilver, had it not been fixed, malleable, and unmovable. That nimble deity had a stork at his feet. On the seventh was the Moon in silver, with a greyhound at her feet. The size of these statues was somewhat more than a third part of the pillars on which they stood, and they were so admirably wrought according to mathematical proportion that Polycletus's canon could hardly have stood in competition with them. The bases of the pillars, the chapters, the architraves, zoophores, and cornices were Phrygian work of massive gold, purer and finer than any that is found in the rivers Leede near Montpellier, Ganges in India, Po in Italy, Hebrus in Thrace, Tagus in Spain, and Pactolus in Lydia. The small arches between the pillars were of the same precious stone of which the pillars next to them were. Thus, that arch was of sapphire which ended at the hyacinth pillar, and that was of hyacinth which went towards the diamond, and so on. Above the arches and chapters of the pillars, on the inward front, a cupola was raised to cover the fountain. It was surrounded by the planetary statues, heptagonal at the bottom, and spherical o' top, and of crystal so pure, transparent, well-polished, whole and uniform in all its parts, without veins, clouds, flaws, or streaks, that Xenocrates never saw such a one in his life. Within it were seen the twelve signs of the zodiac, the twelve months of the year, with their properties, the two equinoxes, the ecliptic line, with some of the most remarkable fixed stars about the antartic pole and elsewhere, so curiously engraven that I fancied them to be the workmanship of King Necepsus, or Petosiris, the ancient mathematician. On the top of the cupola, just over the centre of the fountain, were three noble long pearls, all of one size, pear fashion, perfectly imitating a tear, and so joined together as to represent a flower-de-luce or lily, each of the flowers seeming above a hand's breadth. A carbuncle jetted out of its calyx or cup as big as an ostrich's egg, cut seven square (that number so beloved of nature), and so prodigiously glorious that the sight of it had like to have made us blind, for the fiery sun or the pointed lightning are not more dazzling and unsufferably bright. Now, were some judicious appraisers to judge of the value of this incomparable fountain, and the lamp of which we have spoke, they would undoubtedly affirm it exceeds that of all the treasures and curiosities in Europe, Asia, and Africa put together. For that carbuncle alone would have darkened the pantarbe of Iarchus (Motteux reads 'Joachas.') the Indian magician, with as much ease as the sun outshines and dims the stars with his meridian rays. Nor let Cleopatra, that Egyptian queen, boast of her pair of pendants, those two pearls, one of which she caused to be dissolved in vinegar, in the presence of Antony the Triumvir, her gallant. Or let Pompeia Plautina be proud of her dress covered all over with emeralds and pearls curiously intermixed, she who attracted the eyes of all Rome, and was said to be the pit and magazine of the conquering robbers of the universe. The fountain had three tubes or channels of right pearl, seated in three equilateral angles already mentioned, extended on the margin, and those channels proceeded in a snail-like line, winding equally on both sides. We looked on them a while, and had cast our eyes on another side, when Bacbuc directed us to watch the water. We then heard a most harmonious sound, yet somewhat stopped by starts, far distant, and subterranean, by which means it was still more pleasing than if it had been free, uninterrupted, and near us, so that our minds were as agreeably entertained through our ears with that charming melody as they were through the windows of our eyes with those delightful objects. Bacbuc then said, Your philosophers will not allow that motion is begot by the power of figures; look here, and see the contrary. By that single snail-like motion, equally divided as you see, and a fivefold infoliature, movable at every inward meeting, such as is the vena cava where it enters into the right ventricle of the heart; just so is the flowing of this fountain, and by it a harmony ascends as high as your world's ocean. She then ordered her attendants to make us drink; and, to tell you the truth of the matter as near as possible, we are not, heaven be praised! of the nature of a drove of calf-lollies, who (as your sparrows can't feed unless you bob them on the tail) must be rib-roasted with tough crabtree and firked into a stomach, or at least into an humour to eat or drink. No, we know better things, and scorn to scorn any man's civility who civilly invites us to a drinking bout. Bacbuc asked us then how we liked our tiff. We answered that it seemed to us good harmless sober Adam's liquor, fit to keep a man in the right way, and, in a word, mere element; more cool and clear than Argyrontes in Aetolia, Peneus in Thessaly, Axius in Mygdonia, or Cydnus in Cilicia, a tempting sight of whose cool silver stream caused Alexander to prefer the short-lived pleasure of bathing himself in it to the inconveniences which he could not but foresee would attend so ill-termed an action. This, said Bacbuc, comes of not considering with ourselves, or understanding the motions of the musculous tongue, when the drink glides on it in its way to the stomach. Tell me, noble strangers, are your throats lined, paved, or enamelled, as formerly was that of Pithyllus, nicknamed Theutes, that you can have missed the taste, relish, and flavour of this divine liquor? Here, said she, turning towards her gentlewomen, bring my scrubbing-brushes, you know which, to scrape, rake, and clear their palates. They brought immediately some stately, swingeing, jolly hams, fine substantial neat's tongues, good hung-beef, pure and delicate botargos, venison, sausages, and such other gullet-sweepers. And, to comply with her invitation, we crammed and twisted till we owned ourselves thoroughly cured of thirst, which before did damnably plague us. We are told, continued she, that formerly a learned and valiant Hebrew chief, leading his people through the deserts, where they were in danger of being famished, obtained of God some manna, whose taste was to them, by imagination, such as that of meat was to them before in reality; thus, drinking of this miraculous liquor, you'll find it taste like any wine that you shall fancy you drink. Come, then, fancy and drink. We did so, and Panurge had no sooner whipped off his brimmer but he cried, By Noah's open shop, 'tis vin de Beaune, better than ever was yet tipped over tongue, or may ninety-six devils swallow me. Oh! that to keep its taste the longer, we gentlemen topers had but necks some three cubits long or so, as Philoxenus desired to have, or, at least, like a crane's, as Melanthius wished his. On the faith of true lanterners, quoth Friar John, 'tis gallant, sparkling Greek wine. Now, for God's sake, sweetheart, do but teach me how the devil you make it. It seems to me Mirevaux wine, said Pantagruel; for before I drank I supposed it to be such. Nothing can be misliked in it, but that 'tis cold; colder, I say, than the very ice; colder than the Nonacrian and Dercean (Motteux reads 'Deraen.') water, or the Conthoporian (Motteux, 'Conthopian.') spring at Corinth, that froze up the stomach and nutritive parts of those that drank of it. Drink once, twice, or thrice more, said Bacbuc, still changing your imagination, and you shall find its taste and flavour to be exactly that on which you shall have pitched. Then never presume to say that anything is impossible to God. We never offered to say such a thing, said I; far from it, we maintain he is omnipotent. How the Priestess Bacbuc equipped Panurge in order to have the word of the Bottle. When we had thus chatted and tippled, Bacbuc asked, Who of you here would have the word of the Bottle? I, your most humble little funnel, an't please you, quoth Panurge. Friend, saith she, I have but one thing to tell you, which is, that when you come to the Oracle, you take care to hearken and hear the word only with one ear. This, cried Friar John, is wine of one ear, as Frenchmen call it. She then wrapped him up in a gaberdine, bound his noddle with a goodly clean biggin, clapped over it a felt such as those through which hippocras is distilled, at the bottom of which, instead of a cowl, she put three obelisks, made him draw on a pair of old-fashioned codpieces instead of mittens, girded him about with three bagpipes bound together, bathed his jobbernowl thrice in the fountain; then threw a handful of meal on his phiz, fixed three cock's feathers on the right side of the hippocratical felt, made him take a jaunt nine times round the fountain, caused him to take three little leaps and to bump his a-- seven times against the ground, repeating I don't know what kind of conjurations all the while in the Tuscan tongue, and ever and anon reading in a ritual or book of ceremonies, carried after her by one of her mystagogues. For my part, may I never stir if I don't really believe that neither Numa Pompilius, the second King of the Romans, nor the Cerites of Tuscia, and the old Hebrew captain ever instituted so many ceremonies as I then saw performed; nor were ever half so many religious forms used by the soothsayers of Memphis in Egypt to Apis, or by the Euboeans, at Rhamnus (Motteux gives 'or by the Embrians, or at Rhamnus.'), to Rhamnusia, or to Jupiter Ammon, or to Feronia. When she had thus accoutred my gentleman, she took him out of our company, and led him out of the temple, through a golden gate on the right, into a round chapel made of transparent speculary stones, by whose solid clearness the sun's light shined there through the precipice of the rock without any windows or other entrance, and so easily and fully dispersed itself through the greater temple that the light seemed rather to spring out of it than to flow into it. The workmanship was not less rare than that of the sacred temple at Ravenna, or that in the island of Chemnis in Egypt. Nor must I forget to tell you that the work of that round chapel was contrived with such a symmetry that its diameter was just the height of the vault. In the middle of it was an heptagonal fountain of fine alabaster most artfully wrought, full of water, which was so clear that it might have passed for element in its purity and singleness. The sacred Bottle was in it to the middle, clad in pure fine crystal of an oval shape, except its muzzle, which was somewhat wider than was consistent with that figure. How Bacbuc, the high-priestess, brought Panurge before the Holy Bottle. There the noble priestess Bacbuc made Panurge stoop and kiss the brink of the fountain; then bade him rise and dance three ithymbi ('Dances in the honour of Bacchus.'--Motteux.). Which done, she ordered him to sit down between two stools placed there for that purpose, his arse upon the ground. Then she opened her ceremonial book, and, whispering in his left ear, made him sing an epileny, inserted here in the figure of the bottle. Bottle, whose Mysterious Deep Do's ten thousand Secrets keep, With attentive Ear I wait; Ease my Mind, and speak my Fate. Soul of Joy! Like Bacchus, we More than India gain by thee. Truths unborn thy Juice reveals, Which Futurity conceals. Antidote to Frauds and Lies, Wine, that mounts us to the Skies, May thy Father Noah's Brood Like him drown, but in thy Flood. Speak, so may the Liquid Mine Of Rubies, or of Diamonds shine. Bottle, whose Mysterious Deep Do's ten thousand Secrets keep, With attentive Ear I wait; Ease my Mind, and speak my Fate. When Panurge had sung, Bacbuc threw I don't know what into the fountain, and straight its water began to boil in good earnest, just for the world as doth the great monastical pot at Bourgueil when 'tis high holiday there. Friend Panurge was listening with one ear, and Bacbuc kneeled by him, when such a kind of humming was heard out of the Bottle as is made by a swarm of bees bred in the flesh of a young bull killed and dressed according to Aristaeus's art, or such as is made when a bolt flies out of a crossbow, or when a shower falls on a sudden in summer. Immediately after this was heard the word Trinc. By cob's body, cried Panurge, 'tis broken, or cracked at least, not to tell a lie for the matter; for even so do crystal bottles speak in our country when they burst near the fire. Bacbuc arose, and gently taking Panurge under the arms, said, Friend, offer your thanks to indulgent heaven, as reason requires. You have soon had the word of the Goddess-Bottle; and the kindest, most favourable, and certain word of answer that I ever yet heard her give since I officiated here at her most sacred oracle. Rise, let us go to the chapter, in whose gloss that fine word is explained. With all my heart, quoth Panurge; by jingo, I am just as wise as I was last year. Light, where's the book? Turn it over, where's the chapter? Let's see this merry gloss. How Bacbuc explained the word of the Goddess-Bottle. Bacbuc having thrown I don't know what into the fountain, straight the water ceased to boil; and then she took Panurge into the greater temple, in the central place, where there was the enlivening fountain. There she took out a hugeous silver book, in the shape of a half-tierce, or hogshead, of sentences, and, having filled it at the fountain, said to him, The philosophers, preachers, and doctors of your world feed you up with fine words and cant at the ears; now, here we really incorporate our precepts at the mouth. Therefore I'll not say to you, read this chapter, see this gloss; no, I say to you, taste me this fine chapter, swallow me this rare gloss. Formerly an ancient prophet of the Jewish nation ate a book and became a clerk even to the very teeth! Now will I have you drink one, that you may be a clerk to your very liver. Here, open your mandibules. Panurge gaping as wide as his jaws would stretch, Bacbuc took the silver book--at least we took it for a real book, for it looked just for the world like a breviary--but in truth it was a breviary, a flask of right Falernian wine as it came from the grape, which she made him swallow every drop. By Bacchus, quoth Panurge, this was a notable chapter, a most authentic gloss, o' my word. Is this all that the trismegistian Bottle's word means? I' troth, I like it extremely; it went down like mother's milk. Nothing more, returned Bacbuc; for Trinc is a panomphean word, that is, a word understood, used and celebrated by all nations, and signifies drink. Some say in your world that sack is a word used in all tongues, and justly admitted in the same sense among all nations; for, as Aesop's fable hath it, all men are born with a sack at the neck, naturally needy and begging of each other; neither can the most powerful king be without the help of other men, or can anyone that's poor subsist without the rich, though he be never so proud and insolent; as, for example, Hippias the philosopher, who boasted he could do everything. Much less can anyone make shift without drink than without a sack. Therefore here we hold not that laughing, but that drinking is the distinguishing character of man. I don't say drinking, taking that word singly and absolutely in the strictest sense; no, beasts then might put in for a share; I mean drinking cool delicious wine. For you must know, my beloved, that by wine we become divine; neither can there be a surer argument or a less deceitful divination. Your ('Varro.'--Motteux) academics assert the same when they make the etymology of wine, which the Greeks call OINOS, to be from vis, strength, virtue, and power; for 'tis in its power to fill the soul with all truth, learning, and philosophy. If you observe what is written in Ionic letters on the temple gate, you may have understood that truth is in wine. The Goddess-Bottle therefore directs you to that divine liquor; be yourself the expounder of your undertaking. It is impossible, said Pantagruel to Panurge, to speak more to the purpose than does this true priestess; you may remember I told you as much when you first spoke to me about it. Trinc then: what says your heart, elevated by Bacchic enthusiasm? With this quoth Panurge: Trinc, trinc; by Bacchus, let us tope, And tope again; for, now I hope To see some brawny, juicy rump Well tickled with my carnal stump. Ere long, my friends, I shall be wedded, Sure as my trap-stick has a red-head; And my sweet wife shall hold the combat Long as my baws can on her bum beat. O what a battle of a-- fighting Will there be, which I much delight in! What pleasing pains then shall I take To keep myself and spouse awake! All heart and juice, I'll up and ride, And make a duchess of my bride. Sing Io paean! loudly sing To Hymen, who all joys will bring. Well, Friar John, I'll take my oath, This oracle is full of troth; Intelligible truth it bears, More certain than the sieve and shears.

Book 5

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Pantagruel and his companions arrive at the Ringing Island where they meet an old hermit by the name of Braguibus. According to the hermit, it is written that anyone who wishes to enter the island must first fast for four days; otherwise, they will be burned as a heretic. Although all of Pantagruel's companions complain about fasting, they do so in order to gain access to the island. After completing their four-day fast, the hermit gives them a letter that recommends them to Albian Camar, Master Aedituus of the Ringing Island. After meeting Master Aedituus, Pantagruel and his entourage feast before they find out the history of the island. According to Master Aedituus, the past inhabitants of the island, the Siticines, became birds long ago. Now the island is covered in all manner of birds, and the caretakers, including Master Aedituus, have built giant cages to house the birds. The tops of the cages have bells, and ringing the bells makes different birds sing or cry out. There are many different species of birds, and some species have been named after the different orders within the church, including a pope-hawk. Apparently, just as the Pope rules over the Catholic religion by himself, there's only ever one pope-hawk at any one time. Master Aedituus explains that the only reported instance where there was more than one pope-hawk was a time of much chaos, for the birds did not know whom to follow. Master Aedituus points out that many birds have come to the island from other places, including birds from Africa. Master Aedituus suspects that a lot of the birds come to the island, because their families are too large, their families were poor, or because they felt it was their duty to visit the island. All of these reasons are identical to the reasons that people go into the church as a profession. Master Aedituus tells Pantagruel and his friends about the knight-hawks, making an allegory of how they act noble and try to fight larger birds, but more often than not, the nobility is an act, since they look and act like mongrel birds. Master Aedituus then explains how he will reward Pantagruel and his friends with a four-day feast, since they all fasted for four days to gain entrance into this place. During which time, everyone ate excessively well and wandered around the bird paradise. Panurge then told the fable of the horse and the ass to Master Aedituus. In short, a horse sees an ass in the field and starts to talk to him, expressing how sorry he is that the ass must work so hard and yet never receive the rewards of being kept in a stable and fed well. The horse then offers the ass a chance to come with him in his stables so that he may be fed well and groomed. The ass takes the horse's offer, and experiences the horse's luxurious way life. After being groomed and well fed, the ass asks the horse how often they are allowed to have sexual relations with the female horses. The horse explains that they never do such actions in the sanctity of the stables, to which the ass replies that he would rather live in squalor and be able to have sex as often as he pleases than to live in such luxury for the rest of his life. During the four days, Pantagruel requests to see the pope-hawk. Master Aedituus explains, however, that it would prove difficult to find him. Nevertheless, Master Aedituus promises to try and locate the pope-hawk. Upon doing so, Master Aedituus arranges a viewing of the bird. Upon seeing the bird, Panurge comments that the bird looks grizzly, which results in Master Aedituus chastising Panurge for his comment. While Pantagruel and the others continue to look at the pope-hawk, Panurge notices that there is an egg underneath the bird in his cage, implying that the supposed only pope-hawk was female, which Master Aedituus claims could not be so. Pantagruel and his companions leave the pope-hawk and go to listen to the other birds, which they find amusing. At one point they try to gain the attention of a particular bird, so Panurge picks up a stone as if he was going to throw it at the bird. Master Aedituus begs Panurge never to do such an action, for the birds in this location were holy and must be treated as such. Pantagruel and his friends then decide that it was time to leave, and so they bid farewell to their host. Master Aedituus gives them many gifts and makes them promise that they will come back and visit. As Pantagruel and his companions sail on, they find themselves at the island of Tools. Supposedly, this was an island where no people lived. Instead, all manner of tools for daily laboring and for war were just scattered all over the place, and some of the tools even grew out of the earth or fell from trees. The narrator implies that the tools were alive, similar to plants, and that these tool-plant hybrids would breed with one another to create strange looking tools. Sailing onward, Pantagruel and his companions arrive at the island of Sharping. On this island, the rocks break through the surface of the land and poke upward. There were even two large cube-shaped rocks that looked like giant dice. The surfaces of these cubes looked white, as if they were covered in snow, but the pilot of Pantagruel's ship assures everyone that they are covered in bones. He then explains how devils live on these rocks and are summoned whenever anyone plays gambling games. Supposedly, the island also houses a holy relic. The narrator explains how Pantagruel and his friends decide to brave the island and see the relic. Unfortunately, the relic itself isn't very impressive, although the keepers of the relic have done a marvelous job at decorating the holding place of the relic to make it appear grander. Pantagruel and the others claim to be thankful for seeing the relic, and they even purchase items from the keepers of the relic, including hats. On a barren island near the Sharpening Island, Pantagruel and his companions go through a wicket and are captured by the workers of Gripe-men-all, Archduke of the Furred Law-cats. They have captured Pantagruel and his companions, because one of Pantagruel's servants was wearing a hat purchased from the people of the Sharpening Island. Pantagruel and his companions are put on trial, and Gripe-men-all offers them a riddle that they must solve to prove their innocence. They do not know the answer to the actual riddle, and Friar John curses them for putting good men on trial for no reason and making a mockery out of the legal system. Panurge then realizes that the answer to the riddle is no answer at all, but a bride. He throws gold to Gripe-men-all and all the Furred Law-cats, and surely enough they decide that all of the prisoners not guilty, and thus they are allowed to leave the island. Prior to getting onto their boats, Pantagruel and his companions are warned by dockworkers that they had best leave gifts for not only the Furred Law-cats and Gripe-men-all, but also for the wives of all of these individuals. It becomes clear that the entire population of the island is corrupt, and that the legal system does not function on equality. These Furred Law-cats use the guise of justice to extort money out of their victims. Friar John and Panurge get into an argument about what to do with these Furred Law-cats. Friar John believes they are devils and sinners, and that all of the Pantagruelists, as they have come to call themselves, should cleanse the earth of such filth - that is, they should kill the Furred Law-cats. Panurge has no desire to fight these monsters. He is satisfied that he has paid them off with gold, and he wishes to have nothing else to do with them. Friar John pulls out his cutlass and walks off in a huff, angry that the others will not stand by his side and fight these sinful beasts. As he walks, he comes across a landlady complaining to a police officer about some of Pantagruel's crewmembers who did not pay for services rendered. Friar John starts waving his cutlass and throwing around angry words, which makes the police officer flee; but the landlady stands her ground. She explains that all she wants is payment for services rendered, and Friar John agrees to do so, but only after he sees the state of the rooms where the crewmen stayed. The landlady shows Friar John the rooms, and he agrees that the cost is fair, so he pays the woman her money. After he pays her, though, he starts ripping open the pillows and creating a storm of feathers. The landlady runs off screaming, and Friar John steals the remaining pillows and blankets and gives them to some of the men on the ship. Pantagruel and his companions quickly leave the island and immediately set sail for some other place. Unfortunately, a storm turns their ship around and makes them almost land back on the island of the Furred Law-cats. Panurge begs the pilot to turn the ship around, for he never wishes to see that island again. Somehow they manage to once again sail away from the island and make their way toward another place. The new place they find is the island of the Apedefers. On this strange island, Pantagruel and his companions find all manner of small and gigantic wine presses. The rulers of the wine presses judge everything through the act of pressing grapes, but they will also press any object that fits within their presses. Through this metaphor made real, they have transformed the wine press processes into a legal system. The people of the island find their methodology quite suitable, since the masters of the presses are all ignorant people, and therefore cannot be corrupted. Great monsters also live on the island, but they are chained up. The masters of the wine presses feed the juices of this strange vineyard-legal system to these monsters. Whereas Friar John was bent on destroying the Furred Law-cats, he and Panurge are far more supportive of this legal system, for not only does it create wine, but they claim that the ignorant people in charge are by far more intelligent for their use of such a fair and unbiased system. Next, they came to an island where the people would slit their skin to let the fat out, much like people slit their clothes to let the under layers of fabric show through. Pantagruel and his companions arrive in time for what they initially believe is a happy ceremony, the bursting of an older man, but they find out that the bursting is actually akin to death, and that everyone has gathered for a funeral-like scene. Panurge mourns the situation and begs that they find some other way to heal the man, but alas the man dies as Panurge laments. A storm hits, and they are caught aground. As they wait for the tides to swell and help them get off of the sandbanks, a passing ship spots them and calls out to them. The man calling out to them is a friend of the narrator. This friend goes by the name of Harry Cotiral, and he is described as a man who wears a greasy hat, who holds the stump of a cabbage in one hand, and who has attached a horse's penis to his belt. As Harry's ship gets closer, Harry and the narrator have a brief conversation, and the narrator learns that Harry's ship is sailing from the Queen of Whims' land and that it is making its way home to Pantagruel's country. The cargo on Harry's ship includes alchemy products, and the passengers traveling on the ship are all manner of people: "Astrologers, fortune-tellers, alchemists, rhymers, poets, painters, projectors, mathematicians, watchmakers, sing-songs, musicians," . Panurge insists that the narrator and Harry quit chatting long enough so that they can negotiate a way for Harry's ship to help their ship get off the sandbank. Harry explains that he was steering his ship closer to them just for that purpose, and he orders his crewmen to start throwing over cables to assist in pulling the ship free. Pantagruel and all his companions give thanks to Harry and his ship for their assistance. Pantagruel also make certain that they are paid well for their aid. Although Pantagruel's ships are no longer stuck on the sandbanks, the storm still damaged the ships pretty significantly, so Pantagruel and his companions decide that the only way to find their way to the Queen of Whims' kingdom is to let the winds and currents push them toward their destination. Pantagruel and his companions finally arrive at the Queen of Whims' domain and are greeted by soldiers who make sure that Pantagruel and his friends are good and noble people. Upon proving so, they are admitted to see the Queen. Although she is nearly 2,000 years old, she looks young, beautiful, and regal. Within her castle are many sick people, but as soon as she plays a song on the organ, all those within the vicinity are healed completely. She then meets with Pantagruel and his friends and delivers the most beautiful and eloquent speech they have ever heard. All of them stand speechless as a result, for they are too afraid to answer her ladyship. She interprets their inability to speak to imply that they are grateful for her services. She then gives them full leisure to explore her kingdom. Upon their exploration, Pantagruel and his friends learn that the Queen's servants also have the ability to heal people, but each servant has only been trained to cure one type of ailment. Of the servants, Pantagruel and his friends find someone who can turn old women into young women, so that they can be married to young suitors. Pantagruel asks if there is a person who turns old men into young men. One of the Queen's servants replies that it is not necessary for anyone to perform that feat. The servant elaborates that the only thing to do to turn an old man young again is to place him with a young woman as his lover. As Pantagruel and his companions continue to explore, they soon discover that the people who serve the Queen perform miracles and impossible acts on a regular basis. These people also dedicate themselves to improving their skills through continuous studies. The Queen once again speaks to Pantagruel and his companions, and once again they find themselves speechless after hearing her words. She honors them by making them abstractors and tells them that her principal Tabachin, Geber, will provide them with guidance on their new callings. Next, the Queen, all of her court, Pantagruel, and his companions go to the main hall for a large feast. As they eat, they notice that the Queen never chews any food herself, and instead she has servants who chew her food for her, and those servants feed her through a golden funnel. The narrator also states that since the Queen does not chew her own food, she also does not use the bathroom on her own, and he comments that the Queen has someone else use the bathroom for her by proxy. After dinner, they are entertained by a tilting tournament, which in actuality is a live-action game of chess with dancers dressed up as the gold and silver chess pieces. Around the chessboard is an orchestra, and as the music plays, different chess pieces move in accordance with the music. By the end of the first bout, the silver king claims victory over the gold king. The silver king also wins the second bout, but the gold king claims the third bout's victory. Sometime during the chess matches, the Queen of Whims disappears. Pantagruel and his companions never see her again, for they too left shortly after the chess matches had completed. Sailing away from the Queen of Whims' country, the group arrives next at the island of Odes, which is where ways are created. Some ways are beautiful, some ways are treacherous, some ways are well traveled, and so forth. Pantagruel and the others discuss the different ways they get from place to place, but it is unclear if they are speaking metaphorically. They meet a local man who tells them that no matter which one of the ways they examine, all the ways start and end in the water. At the island of Sandals, the third king of the island, Benius, entertains Pantagruel and his companions. He brings them to see the order of Semiquaver Friars. Unlike other orders of friars, these monks wear cowls that cover their faces and expose the back of their heads, which are completely shaven. They also wear codpieces on both their fronts and their backs, and they walk backwards as normally as they walk forwards. They dress and act so strangely, because they wish to avoid fortune, for they believe fortune to be a horrible thing. Panurge, Friar John, and Epistemon get into a strange conversation with one of the friars. Panurge does most of the talking, and the friar answers his question with monosyllable answers. From the conversation, they learn that the friar and all the monks in the order regularly engage in sex. They also masturbate profusely and fornicate on a regular basis. This monk claims to be the most virile of the bunch, and states that he prefers to copulate in March. Epistemon comments that March is the same month as Lent. Epistemon discusses how Catholics are hypocritical with Lent, since it is the time when they are supposed to give up certain luxuries, yet it ends up being the time when Catholics give in to sin far more easily. After Epistemon criticizes Lent, Panurge questions the friar, who continues to give monosyllabic answers. Panurge asks the friar if he believes that Epistemon is a heretic and if he should be burned at the stake, to which the friar answers yes to both questions. Panurge then comments how he would like to take this friar home, after Panurge has found a wife, that is, so that the friar could be his wife's fool. Moving on, Pantagruel and his companions find themselves in the land of Satin. Within this land is the country of Tapestry. In this place, there are no living animals or plants, and instead tapestries hang everywhere. Pantagruel and his friends walk through and examine the images on the tapestries. The narrator makes a list of all the animals, creatures, beings, and scenes that he sees portrayed on these tapestries. The narrator also relays poignant information about some of the images. For instance, according to the tapestries, the horn of a unicorn is only erect when the unicorn was in battle or purifying toxic waters. Panurge makes the comparison between the unicorn's horn and his own penis, explaining that his penis has purified all the women he has slept with. Friar John jokes that Panurge's ability will prove quite useful to keep his wife clean, implying that she will no doubt cuckold him and bring home diseases. Panurge does not like the joke, but he does not start an argument over it, as he has done before. As they travel further into the country of tapestries, the narrator notes seeing all manner of different people walking amidst the tapestries. All these people are surrounding one particular figure, which is a monstrous-looking small man by the name of Hearsay. This small man smiles from ear to ear, and within his mouth he has seven tongues that each speak multiple languages all at once. His whole head is covered in ears, so he can hear everything, but his eyes are blind. Thus, all the great philosophers, artists, and professionals come to Hearsay and learn through him instead of learning the truth. After much travel, Pantagruel and his companions finally arrive in Lantern-land. They make port, explain their purpose for being there to the local authorities, and then they request to see the Queen of the land to ask permission to travel to the Oracle of the Holy Bottle. They visit with the Queen, and she gives them permission to travel. She also offers a Lantern to guide the way. By Lantern, the Queen implies a person with the designation of "Lantern," and this person will guide travelers to any chosen destination within Lantern-land. Before they go, they have dinner with the Queen, and as they go to dinner they see all of the great lanterns of legends, myths, and antiquity.The following day, they have their Lantern guide them to the destination of the oracle. Before they reach the entrance to the oracle, though, they must pass through a vineyard, and the Lantern explains that the vineyard was planted by Bacchus himself. While passing through the vineyard, they are each instructed to eat three grapes, place grape leaves inside of their shoes, and each person must hold a vine branch in their left hand. Everyone does as the Lantern instructs, and so they make their way to the entrance of the oracle. The Lantern leads Pantagruel and his companions into the entrance of the temple, which is underground. There is some discussion between the narrator and Pantagruel about the paintings on the underground cellar walls, which remind them about the cellars in Chinon, or Cainon, which is supposedly the oldest city in the world, as Cain built it. As they move further underground, they take a spiral staircase down over 100 steps toward the place where Priestess Bacbuc resides. As they go down, Panurge begins to panic and fears that he is walking down into hell. He thinks that they should turn around and go back, but Pantagruel and Friar John do not let him run away. Instead, they urge him downward. At the bottom of the steps, the Lantern explains that she can go no further than the temple gates. She will be there to lead them back out, but she must leave them at the gates. Everyone seems to understand, so she unlocks the temple gates, and leaves them there. On the right temple gate is carved the following words: "Fate leads the willing, and th' unwilling draws" . On the left temple gate is carved these words: "All things tend to their end" . Inside the temple, Pantagruel and his companions find that it is adored and decorated in the most elegant fashion imaginable. Beautiful mosaics portray the tale of how Bacchus, followed by women warriors, drunken men, satyrs, centaurs, and all other manner of creatures, went to battle against the Indians and won the day. Although the temple is deep underground, in the center of the temple is an enormous golden lantern that provides ample light. Chains suspend this golden lantern, and it is adorned with four smaller lanterns made of precious stones. The light created from these lanterns illuminates the space to make it appear as bright as day. After they pass the golden lantern, Pantagruel and his companions meet the priestess Bacbuc and her handmaidens. The priestess leads Pantagruel and his followers into the central area of the temple to see the great fountain. The narrator describes the fountain as heptagonal with seven pillars that reach up to the ceiling and join in archways to form a cupola above the fountain. Each of the seven pillars is made of the most precious stones, and each pillar is assigned to one of the seven celestial bodies. In accordance with the seven celestial bodies, each pillar also has a corresponding metal attached to it. On the inside of the cupola is engraved astronomical symbols, including symbols from the zodiac. The priestess encourages Pantagruel and his followers to drink from the fountain, which they do. After their first taste of the fountain's waters, they claim they cannot taste anything special, so the priestess orders her handmaidens to bring in palate cleansers for the guests. After sufficiently eating enough foods to cleanse their pallets, the priestess invites them to drink again. This time each man swears that the water tastes like a different flavor of wine. With each taste of the fountain, they can let their imaginations change the flavors, which proves the power of these waters. Bacbuc prepares Panurge to hear the words of the Holy Bottle, known as the Goddess-Bottle. Before he can hear the words, though, she warns him that he can only hear the truth in one ear. She then dresses him in a strange manner of clothing, and then has him dance about the temple, twirling, jumping up and down, singing strange words, and then she finally leads him into an adjacent chamber known as the chapel. In this chapel there is a second heptagonal fountain, although all the pillars are made of the same alabaster material. The side of the fountain is where the Goddess-Bottle sits. Bacbuc places Panurge to where he would be able to place one ear to the bottle. Bacbuc then throws something into the fountain water to make it instantly boil. As it does so, a buzzing noise can be heard from the bottle, and then a voice comes out of it saying, "Trinc." At first, Panurge worries that the oracle is fraudulent, but then Bacbuc explains that the meaning of the word can be found in the book of the oracle. She brings Panurge to where the book is kept, but unlike traditional books that are read, this book must be drunk in order for individuals to understand the true meaning behind the words spoken by the Goddess-Bottle. Panurge drinks the book, and he claims instantly to know the true meaning behind the message. He then begins to chant uncontrollably in rhyming verse. As he chants, he reveals that he will get married, he will drink and be happy, and he will keep his wife happy and satisfied. Pantagruel and Friar John also begin to chant in rhyme. Friar John reveals that nothing will ever make him get married, for he does not want to feel restricted. Panurge chastises Friar John, implying that he will go to hell for not getting married, whereas he, Panurge, will go to paradise. After a while, Pantagruel, Panurge, and Friar John stop talking in rhyme, and they are ready to leave. The priestess requests that they give her servants their names, so that they can be written on a roster. She then bids them farewell and hopes that they have been given the answers they sought. The priestess insists that many great answers can be found underground, for that is where the truth is often concealed.

One of the main points of contention for this fifth and final book is whether Rabelais wrote it. Arthur Augustus Tilley has thoroughly researched the publication of the multiple versions of the fifth book. He points out that the first version only contained the first 15 chapters of the book, but this version had no printer name on the publication, which is peculiar. Stranger still is the fact that the book came out nearly nine years after Rabelais had passed away. After this first publication appeared in 1562, the second publication appeared in 1564, and this version included 47 chapters, but Tilley notes that this version omitted the chapter about the island of the Apedefts. Additional versions and manuscripts surfaced thereafter, some with omitted portions, others with extended scenes that are not considered part of the original text. Tilley points out that the written manuscripts are "written in the same hand throughout, which is certainly not Rabelais's," as he contests that the handwriting does not match previous known samples of Rabelais's writing . Other than handwriting samples, Tilley explains that several of Rabelais's contemporaries also argued that Rabelais could not have written the fifth book, at least not completely. According to Tilley's research, Rabelais's contemporaries posit that the excessive anti-Catholic sentiments presented in the fifth book is proof that Rabelais could not have been the author. With that point made, the anti-Catholic propaganda throughout the fifth book creates a much different tone compared to the previous four books. One of the most blatant anti-Catholic acts includes the dark satirical mockery of reliquary and idol worship. During the Renaissance, Reformists argued that the glorified worship of reliquaries, statues of saints, statues of Christ, and other idol-like images predominant in the Catholic religion were in clear violation of one of the 10 Commandments. Within this fifth book, Pantagruel and his companion's visit several sites that contain reliquaries or other holy items. More often than not, the narrator presents the items as being unimpressive or the narrator displays the caretakers as hypocrites and liars. For instance, on the Ringing Island, Master Aedituus claims that there is only ever one pope-hawk at any one time. When he arranges a viewing of the bird for Pantagruel and his companions, though, Panurge notices that the one and only pope-hawk has laid an egg, implying that it is female and not male, and that another pope-hawk impregnated it. Master Aedituus denies such allegations and refuses to see the factual evidence. Likewise, on the island of Sandals, Panurge, Epistemon, and Friar John interview one of the Semiquaver Friars. Through this discussion, they discover that all the friars in this order engage in sex, masturbation, and other acts unbecoming a member of the clergy. As the structure of the fifth book includes blatant anti-Catholic statements, it also includes a high amount of metaphors made real through allegory or personification. The fifth book starts off with an allegory designed primarily to set up the anti-Catholic structure. On the Ringing Island, Master Aedituus tells Pantagruel and his companions that many of the birds currently on the island were once humans who transformed. A large portion of the transformed birds has been named after different parts of the clergy. Thus, the allegory of the previous island dwellers' transformation implies both transmogrification and transcendence from human to bird, which could stand for transcendence from human to angel. In an allegorical presentation, it may represent the transformation a regular person undergoes when they take on the vows of the clergy. Beyond just members of the clergy, though, some of the birds have been named after social classes, which expands the allegory outside of just the ecclesiastical transmogrification. However, by including the other classes, such as the mongrel knight-hawk pointed out by Master Aedituus, the narrator makes his allegory less about the idea of transcendence. Instead, the allegory becomes more of a simple comparison between humans and birds. One of the most visual sustained allegories happens on the island of Satin in the country of Tapestry where all manner of people have come to learn from Hearsay. Much like the practice in medieval storytelling, the abstract concept of hearsay has been personified into the form of "a diminutive, monstrous, misshapen old fellow" whose "mouth was slit up to his ears, and in it were seven tongues, each of them cleft into seven parts. However, he chattered, tattled, and prated with all the seven at once, of different matters, and in divers languages . . . He had as many ears all over his head and the rest of his body as Argus formerly had eyes, and was as blind as a beetle" . The narrator explains how all manner of great people, including some of the greatest thinkers throughout history, were gathered around Hearsay for his infinite knowledge. Of course, through the sustained allegory, the narrator implies that people who only learn from Hearsay are blinded from the truth. At an attempt to maintain the satire, the narrator explains how Pantagruel and his companions mingled with the students of Hearsay, joked with them, ate their rich foods, and were "scurvily entertained" . By showing that Pantagruel and his companions found the entire episode amusing and nothing more, the narrator, therefore, expects the reader to believe that Pantagruel and his friends did not take the students of Hearsay seriously, which further underscores the concept of hearsay as something to be ignored. Moving away from subjects of authenticity, anti-Catholic sentiments, and allegorical representations, one cannot discuss this final book without examining the full cycle of development, or lack thereof, of the main characters. On their journey portrayed in the fifth book, Pantagruel almost disappears as a character for most of the story, allowing Panurge and Friar John to take center stage with Epistemon as their supporting character. The entire voyage from the start of the fourth book to the end of the fifth book shows Panurge going back and forth between absolute cowardice and absolute arrogance; the sea and the elements bring out his cowardice, but standing on dry land allows his arrogance to shine. Curious enough, when Panurge finally reaches the oracle and goes underground, getting ever closer to his answer, his cowardice returns temporarily. Friar John serves as little more than a pseudo-parental figure in these last two books. He chastises Panurge for his cowardice, and threatens to hurt him, but he never does more than verbally shame him. Epistemon lightens the mood between Panurge and Friar John, but his character serves as a mask for mocking the Catholic Church through a vaguely scholarly discourse. At the end of the fifth book, Pantagruel once again becomes more involved in the story, if only just. Of course, he only seems to get involved to push Panurge into following through with his search for answers. Thus, though the story is named after Pantagruel, his character neither grows nor changes much within the last three books. He serves as more of a presence or regal figurehead that provides the other characters, mainly Panurge, with the money and means to live out their adventures. In the end of this final book, it truly is all about Panurge's quest for answers. Unhappy with the answers he acquired in the third book, namely that he would be cuckolded, Panurge convinces Pantagruel, Epistemon, Friar John, and the other companions to go on an epic voyage to find the ultimate answer. Throughout this voyage that takes two books to complete, the whole purpose behind the quest seems an afterthought at best. Although Panurge occasionally gets mocked or mocks himself about the idea of becoming a cuckold, the characters involved in the last two books seem fairly unconcerned with Panurge's fate. Nevertheless, they do all keep moving toward Lantern Land in support of Panurge, so perhaps they are all merely enjoying the ride, since they know the end of their journey will be met with all seriousness as they encounter the oracle. However, the level of seriousness in the final chapters of the fifth book is questionable. While the characters go through various ceremonies and act solemnly, the non-Christian elements serve to make a mockery of the entire ordeal. For Panurge to get his answer, the priestess must dress him up in a fool's garb, and then she orders him to dance about the temple like a madman. After he finally hears the one word answer from the Goddess-Bottle, the word makes no sense to him until he drinks a magical elixir referred to as the book. Only then does he understand the meaning of the word, but he can only verbalize or translate the meaning by speaking through rhyme. With his newfound knowledge, Panurge's character transforms into a man confident that his marriage will end well, provided that he treats his wife well. Panurge then turns the tables and chastises Friar John, explaining to Friar John that he will never make it to Paradise, for as a member of the clergy he cannot get married, which serves as the final anti-Catholic remark. During these final scenes, Pantagruel uses rhymed verse to tell Friar John to let Panurge make a fool out of himself. Pantagruel's remarks on the matter make the ending of the story seem false and pointless, as if the entire voyage was nothing more than just a way to humor Panurge. While Pantagruel's statements may have been chosen to emphasize the satirical nature of the entire Gargantua and Pantagruel series, his comments feel out of place, given that the fifth book itself does not contain the clever type of satire that made Rabelais famous, but rather it contains a malicious type of satire used predominately as a propaganda machine against the Catholic Church.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_17_to_18.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Lord Jim/section_7_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapters 17-18

chapters 17-18

{"name": "Chapters 17-18", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210215030710/https://www.novelguide.com/lord-jim/summaries/chapter17-18", "summary": "Chapters Seventeen and Eighteen . Marlow pleads with Jim to accept his help in Chapter Seventeen. Jim refuses to take the remaining wages he is owed from working on the Patna and Marlow asks him where he will turn. He informs Jim he has written to a man for a favor and has referred to Jim as an intimate friend. Jim gasps at this exhibition of trust and says it is noble of him. Marlow is 'almost alarmed by this display of feeling'. Jim goes on to say that Marlow has done him an immeasurable amount of good already by listening to him the night before. He has given him confidence as well as the chance to begin again with a 'clean slate'. Alone, Marlow feels as though he is the unenlightened one and questions the idea of being able to begin afresh: 'As if the initial word of each of our destiny were not graven in imperishable characters upon the face of a rock.' . . Chapter Eighteen begins six months later and Marlow has received a letter from his friend informing him of Jim's progress. This friend is pleased with Jim; he presumes Jim has been in a scrape and thinks he will one day have to ask Marlow about it. . . The next letter Marlow receives from this friend says Jim has left leaving only 'a formal little note of apology'. He then informs Marlow he has now 'shut up shop' and does not want him to send anyone else. Jim has also sent a letter to Marlow in order to explain that the second engineer from the Patna turned up to work at the same place and he could not stand the, 'familiarity of the little beast'. Jim is writing from a seaport 700 miles south of his former position and is now a runner for a ship's chandler and has put Marlow down for a reference. . . Before the end of the year, Marlow has to leave for a new charter and this gives him the opportunity of seeing Jim again. He discovers the second engineer had been 'infernally fawning and familiar' with Jim and he told him he had hopes that Jim would keep him on in the job. Jim preferred to leave rather than stay and explain his past . On his next trip in the area, Marlow returns to Jim's latest place of work and is told that he has left this post too. He is told Jim left the day a steamer came with pilgrims who had been to the Red Sea. There were some men in the chandler's discussing the Patna. A man called Captain O'Brien had said the crew on this ship were a disgrace to human nature and he should hate to be in the same room as they. Jim left immediately after this and his employer, Egstrom, presumed it was because he wanted more money. Egstrom asks Marlow how he knows Jim and he tells him he was the mate of the Patna on that voyage. Egstrom replies, 'and who the devil cares about that' and says the earth is not big enough 'to hold his caper'. . . .", "analysis": "Chapters Seventeen and Eighteen . In these two chapters, clear evidence of Jim's pride and shame are given. He is reluctant to take the wages owed to him and leaves two positions because of his connection to the 'incident' on the Patna. These early examples of Jim's sense of shame are balanced by Egstrom's reaction when he says the world is not big enough for Jim whilst he continues to behave in this way. The implication is that Jim cannot run away from his past, as it will catch up with him, and, furthermore, 'who the devil cares'."}

'He came in at last; but I believe it was mostly the rain that did it; it was falling just then with a devastating violence which quieted down gradually while we talked. His manner was very sober and set; his bearing was that of a naturally taciturn man possessed by an idea. My talk was of the material aspect of his position; it had the sole aim of saving him from the degradation, ruin, and despair that out there close so swiftly upon a friendless, homeless man; I pleaded with him to accept my help; I argued reasonably: and every time I looked up at that absorbed smooth face, so grave and youthful, I had a disturbing sense of being no help but rather an obstacle to some mysterious, inexplicable, impalpable striving of his wounded spirit. '"I suppose you intend to eat and drink and to sleep under shelter in the usual way," I remember saying with irritation. "You say you won't touch the money that is due to you." . . . He came as near as his sort can to making a gesture of horror. (There were three weeks and five days' pay owing him as mate of the Patna.) "Well, that's too little to matter anyhow; but what will you do to-morrow? Where will you turn? You must live . . ." "That isn't the thing," was the comment that escaped him under his breath. I ignored it, and went on combating what I assumed to be the scruples of an exaggerated delicacy. "On every conceivable ground," I concluded, "you must let me help you." "You can't," he said very simply and gently, and holding fast to some deep idea which I could detect shimmering like a pool of water in the dark, but which I despaired of ever approaching near enough to fathom. I surveyed his well-proportioned bulk. "At any rate," I said, "I am able to help what I can see of you. I don't pretend to do more." He shook his head sceptically without looking at me. I got very warm. "But I can," I insisted. "I can do even more. I _am_ doing more. I am trusting you . . ." "The money . . ." he began. "Upon my word you deserve being told to go to the devil," I cried, forcing the note of indignation. He was startled, smiled, and I pressed my attack home. "It isn't a question of money at all. You are too superficial," I said (and at the same time I was thinking to myself: Well, here goes! And perhaps he is, after all). "Look at the letter I want you to take. I am writing to a man of whom I've never asked a favour, and I am writing about you in terms that one only ventures to use when speaking of an intimate friend. I make myself unreservedly responsible for you. That's what I am doing. And really if you will only reflect a little what that means . . ." 'He lifted his head. The rain had passed away; only the water-pipe went on shedding tears with an absurd drip, drip outside the window. It was very quiet in the room, whose shadows huddled together in corners, away from the still flame of the candle flaring upright in the shape of a dagger; his face after a while seemed suffused by a reflection of a soft light as if the dawn had broken already. '"Jove!" he gasped out. "It is noble of you!" 'Had he suddenly put out his tongue at me in derision, I could not have felt more humiliated. I thought to myself--Serve me right for a sneaking humbug. . . . His eyes shone straight into my face, but I perceived it was not a mocking brightness. All at once he sprang into jerky agitation, like one of those flat wooden figures that are worked by a string. His arms went up, then came down with a slap. He became another man altogether. "And I had never seen," he shouted; then suddenly bit his lip and frowned. "What a bally ass I've been," he said very slow in an awed tone. . . . "You are a brick!" he cried next in a muffled voice. He snatched my hand as though he had just then seen it for the first time, and dropped it at once. "Why! this is what I--you--I . . ." he stammered, and then with a return of his old stolid, I may say mulish, manner he began heavily, "I would be a brute now if I . . ." and then his voice seemed to break. "That's all right," I said. I was almost alarmed by this display of feeling, through which pierced a strange elation. I had pulled the string accidentally, as it were; I did not fully understand the working of the toy. "I must go now," he said. "Jove! You _have_ helped me. Can't sit still. The very thing . . ." He looked at me with puzzled admiration. "The very thing . . ." 'Of course it was the thing. It was ten to one that I had saved him from starvation--of that peculiar sort that is almost invariably associated with drink. This was all. I had not a single illusion on that score, but looking at him, I allowed myself to wonder at the nature of the one he had, within the last three minutes, so evidently taken into his bosom. I had forced into his hand the means to carry on decently the serious business of life, to get food, drink, and shelter of the customary kind while his wounded spirit, like a bird with a broken wing, might hop and flutter into some hole to die quietly of inanition there. This is what I had thrust upon him: a definitely small thing; and--behold!--by the manner of its reception it loomed in the dim light of the candle like a big, indistinct, perhaps a dangerous shadow. "You don't mind me not saying anything appropriate," he burst out. "There isn't anything one could say. Last night already you had done me no end of good. Listening to me--you know. I give you my word I've thought more than once the top of my head would fly off. . ." He darted--positively darted--here and there, rammed his hands into his pockets, jerked them out again, flung his cap on his head. I had no idea it was in him to be so airily brisk. I thought of a dry leaf imprisoned in an eddy of wind, while a mysterious apprehension, a load of indefinite doubt, weighed me down in my chair. He stood stock-still, as if struck motionless by a discovery. "You have given me confidence," he declared, soberly. "Oh! for God's sake, my dear fellow--don't!" I entreated, as though he had hurt me. "All right. I'll shut up now and henceforth. Can't prevent me thinking though. . . . Never mind! . . . I'll show yet . . ." He went to the door in a hurry, paused with his head down, and came back, stepping deliberately. "I always thought that if a fellow could begin with a clean slate . . . And now you . . . in a measure . . . yes . . . clean slate." I waved my hand, and he marched out without looking back; the sound of his footfalls died out gradually behind the closed door--the unhesitating tread of a man walking in broad daylight. 'But as to me, left alone with the solitary candle, I remained strangely unenlightened. I was no longer young enough to behold at every turn the magnificence that besets our insignificant footsteps in good and in evil. I smiled to think that, after all, it was yet he, of us two, who had the light. And I felt sad. A clean slate, did he say? As if the initial word of each our destiny were not graven in imperishable characters upon the face of a rock.' 'Six months afterwards my friend (he was a cynical, more than middle-aged bachelor, with a reputation for eccentricity, and owned a rice-mill) wrote to me, and judging, from the warmth of my recommendation, that I would like to hear, enlarged a little upon Jim's perfections. These were apparently of a quiet and effective sort. "Not having been able so far to find more in my heart than a resigned toleration for any individual of my kind, I have lived till now alone in a house that even in this steaming climate could be considered as too big for one man. I have had him to live with me for some time past. It seems I haven't made a mistake." It seemed to me on reading this letter that my friend had found in his heart more than tolerance for Jim--that there were the beginnings of active liking. Of course he stated his grounds in a characteristic way. For one thing, Jim kept his freshness in the climate. Had he been a girl--my friend wrote--one could have said he was blooming--blooming modestly--like a violet, not like some of these blatant tropical flowers. He had been in the house for six weeks, and had not as yet attempted to slap him on the back, or address him as "old boy," or try to make him feel a superannuated fossil. He had nothing of the exasperating young man's chatter. He was good-tempered, had not much to say for himself, was not clever by any means, thank goodness--wrote my friend. It appeared, however, that Jim was clever enough to be quietly appreciative of his wit, while, on the other hand, he amused him by his naiveness. "The dew is yet on him, and since I had the bright idea of giving him a room in the house and having him at meals I feel less withered myself. The other day he took it into his head to cross the room with no other purpose but to open a door for me; and I felt more in touch with mankind than I had been for years. Ridiculous, isn't it? Of course I guess there is something--some awful little scrape--which you know all about--but if I am sure that it is terribly heinous, I fancy one could manage to forgive it. For my part, I declare I am unable to imagine him guilty of anything much worse than robbing an orchard. Is it much worse? Perhaps you ought to have told me; but it is such a long time since we both turned saints that you may have forgotten we, too, had sinned in our time? It may be that some day I shall have to ask you, and then I shall expect to be told. I don't care to question him myself till I have some idea what it is. Moreover, it's too soon as yet. Let him open the door a few times more for me. . . ." Thus my friend. I was trebly pleased--at Jim's shaping so well, at the tone of the letter, at my own cleverness. Evidently I had known what I was doing. I had read characters aright, and so on. And what if something unexpected and wonderful were to come of it? That evening, reposing in a deck-chair under the shade of my own poop awning (it was in Hong-Kong harbour), I laid on Jim's behalf the first stone of a castle in Spain. 'I made a trip to the northward, and when I returned I found another letter from my friend waiting for me. It was the first envelope I tore open. "There are no spoons missing, as far as I know," ran the first line; "I haven't been interested enough to inquire. He is gone, leaving on the breakfast-table a formal little note of apology, which is either silly or heartless. Probably both--and it's all one to me. Allow me to say, lest you should have some more mysterious young men in reserve, that I have shut up shop, definitely and for ever. This is the last eccentricity I shall be guilty of. Do not imagine for a moment that I care a hang; but he is very much regretted at tennis-parties, and for my own sake I've told a plausible lie at the club. . . ." I flung the letter aside and started looking through the batch on my table, till I came upon Jim's handwriting. Would you believe it? One chance in a hundred! But it is always that hundredth chance! That little second engineer of the Patna had turned up in a more or less destitute state, and got a temporary job of looking after the machinery of the mill. "I couldn't stand the familiarity of the little beast," Jim wrote from a seaport seven hundred miles south of the place where he should have been in clover. "I am now for the time with Egstrom & Blake, ship-chandlers, as their--well--runner, to call the thing by its right name. For reference I gave them your name, which they know of course, and if you could write a word in my favour it would be a permanent employment." I was utterly crushed under the ruins of my castle, but of course I wrote as desired. Before the end of the year my new charter took me that way, and I had an opportunity of seeing him. 'He was still with Egstrom & Blake, and we met in what they called "our parlour" opening out of the store. He had that moment come in from boarding a ship, and confronted me head down, ready for a tussle. "What have you got to say for yourself?" I began as soon as we had shaken hands. "What I wrote you--nothing more," he said stubbornly. "Did the fellow blab--or what?" I asked. He looked up at me with a troubled smile. "Oh, no! He didn't. He made it a kind of confidential business between us. He was most damnably mysterious whenever I came over to the mill; he would wink at me in a respectful manner--as much as to say 'We know what we know.' Infernally fawning and familiar--and that sort of thing . . ." He threw himself into a chair and stared down his legs. "One day we happened to be alone and the fellow had the cheek to say, 'Well, Mr. James'--I was called Mr. James there as if I had been the son--'here we are together once more. This is better than the old ship--ain't it?' . . . Wasn't it appalling, eh? I looked at him, and he put on a knowing air. 'Don't you be uneasy, sir,' he says. 'I know a gentleman when I see one, and I know how a gentleman feels. I hope, though, you will be keeping me on this job. I had a hard time of it too, along of that rotten old Patna racket.' Jove! It was awful. I don't know what I should have said or done if I had not just then heard Mr. Denver calling me in the passage. It was tiffin-time, and we walked together across the yard and through the garden to the bungalow. He began to chaff me in his kindly way . . . I believe he liked me . . ." 'Jim was silent for a while. '"I know he liked me. That's what made it so hard. Such a splendid man! . . . That morning he slipped his hand under my arm. . . . He, too, was familiar with me." He burst into a short laugh, and dropped his chin on his breast. "Pah! When I remembered how that mean little beast had been talking to me," he began suddenly in a vibrating voice, "I couldn't bear to think of myself . . . I suppose you know . . ." I nodded. . . . "More like a father," he cried; his voice sank. "I would have had to tell him. I couldn't let it go on--could I?" "Well?" I murmured, after waiting a while. "I preferred to go," he said slowly; "this thing must be buried." 'We could hear in the shop Blake upbraiding Egstrom in an abusive, strained voice. They had been associated for many years, and every day from the moment the doors were opened to the last minute before closing, Blake, a little man with sleek, jetty hair and unhappy, beady eyes, could be heard rowing his partner incessantly with a sort of scathing and plaintive fury. The sound of that everlasting scolding was part of the place like the other fixtures; even strangers would very soon come to disregard it completely unless it be perhaps to mutter "Nuisance," or to get up suddenly and shut the door of the "parlour." Egstrom himself, a raw-boned, heavy Scandinavian, with a busy manner and immense blonde whiskers, went on directing his people, checking parcels, making out bills or writing letters at a stand-up desk in the shop, and comported himself in that clatter exactly as though he had been stone-deaf. Now and again he would emit a bothered perfunctory "Sssh," which neither produced nor was expected to produce the slightest effect. "They are very decent to me here," said Jim. "Blake's a little cad, but Egstrom's all right." He stood up quickly, and walking with measured steps to a tripod telescope standing in the window and pointed at the roadstead, he applied his eye to it. "There's that ship which has been becalmed outside all the morning has got a breeze now and is coming in," he remarked patiently; "I must go and board." We shook hands in silence, and he turned to go. "Jim!" I cried. He looked round with his hand on the lock. "You--you have thrown away something like a fortune." He came back to me all the way from the door. "Such a splendid old chap," he said. "How could I? How could I?" His lips twitched. "Here it does not matter." "Oh! you--you--" I began, and had to cast about for a suitable word, but before I became aware that there was no name that would just do, he was gone. I heard outside Egstrom's deep gentle voice saying cheerily, "That's the Sarah W. Granger, Jimmy. You must manage to be first aboard"; and directly Blake struck in, screaming after the manner of an outraged cockatoo, "Tell the captain we've got some of his mail here. That'll fetch him. D'ye hear, Mister What's-your-name?" And there was Jim answering Egstrom with something boyish in his tone. "All right. I'll make a race of it." He seemed to take refuge in the boat-sailing part of that sorry business. 'I did not see him again that trip, but on my next (I had a six months' charter) I went up to the store. Ten yards away from the door Blake's scolding met my ears, and when I came in he gave me a glance of utter wretchedness; Egstrom, all smiles, advanced, extending a large bony hand. "Glad to see you, captain. . . . Sssh. . . . Been thinking you were about due back here. What did you say, sir? . . . Sssh. . . . Oh! him! He has left us. Come into the parlour." . . . After the slam of the door Blake's strained voice became faint, as the voice of one scolding desperately in a wilderness. . . . "Put us to a great inconvenience, too. Used us badly--I must say . . ." "Where's he gone to? Do you know?" I asked. "No. It's no use asking either," said Egstrom, standing bewhiskered and obliging before me with his arms hanging down his sides clumsily, and a thin silver watch-chain looped very low on a rucked-up blue serge waistcoat. "A man like that don't go anywhere in particular." I was too concerned at the news to ask for the explanation of that pronouncement, and he went on. "He left--let's see--the very day a steamer with returning pilgrims from the Red Sea put in here with two blades of her propeller gone. Three weeks ago now." "Wasn't there something said about the Patna case?" I asked, fearing the worst. He gave a start, and looked at me as if I had been a sorcerer. "Why, yes! How do you know? Some of them were talking about it here. There was a captain or two, the manager of Vanlo's engineering shop at the harbour, two or three others, and myself. Jim was in here too, having a sandwich and a glass of beer; when we are busy--you see, captain--there's no time for a proper tiffin. He was standing by this table eating sandwiches, and the rest of us were round the telescope watching that steamer come in; and by-and-by Vanlo's manager began to talk about the chief of the Patna; he had done some repairs for him once, and from that he went on to tell us what an old ruin she was, and the money that had been made out of her. He came to mention her last voyage, and then we all struck in. Some said one thing and some another--not much--what you or any other man might say; and there was some laughing. Captain O'Brien of the Sarah W. Granger, a large, noisy old man with a stick--he was sitting listening to us in this arm-chair here--he let drive suddenly with his stick at the floor, and roars out, 'Skunks!' . . . Made us all jump. Vanlo's manager winks at us and asks, 'What's the matter, Captain O'Brien?' 'Matter! matter!' the old man began to shout; 'what are you Injuns laughing at? It's no laughing matter. It's a disgrace to human natur'--that's what it is. I would despise being seen in the same room with one of those men. Yes, sir!' He seemed to catch my eye like, and I had to speak out of civility. 'Skunks!' says I, 'of course, Captain O'Brien, and I wouldn't care to have them here myself, so you're quite safe in this room, Captain O'Brien. Have a little something cool to drink.' 'Dam' your drink, Egstrom,' says he, with a twinkle in his eye; 'when I want a drink I will shout for it. I am going to quit. It stinks here now.' At this all the others burst out laughing, and out they go after the old man. And then, sir, that blasted Jim he puts down the sandwich he had in his hand and walks round the table to me; there was his glass of beer poured out quite full. 'I am off,' he says--just like this. 'It isn't half-past one yet,' says I; 'you might snatch a smoke first.' I thought he meant it was time for him to go down to his work. When I understood what he was up to, my arms fell--so! Can't get a man like that every day, you know, sir; a regular devil for sailing a boat; ready to go out miles to sea to meet ships in any sort of weather. More than once a captain would come in here full of it, and the first thing he would say would be, 'That's a reckless sort of a lunatic you've got for water-clerk, Egstrom. I was feeling my way in at daylight under short canvas when there comes flying out of the mist right under my forefoot a boat half under water, sprays going over the mast-head, two frightened niggers on the bottom boards, a yelling fiend at the tiller. Hey! hey! Ship ahoy! ahoy! Captain! Hey! hey! Egstrom & Blake's man first to speak to you! Hey! hey! Egstrom & Blake! Hallo! hey! whoop! Kick the niggers--out reefs--a squall on at the time--shoots ahead whooping and yelling to me to make sail and he would give me a lead in--more like a demon than a man. Never saw a boat handled like that in all my life. Couldn't have been drunk--was he? Such a quiet, soft-spoken chap too--blush like a girl when he came on board. . . .' I tell you, Captain Marlow, nobody had a chance against us with a strange ship when Jim was out. The other ship-chandlers just kept their old customers, and . . ." 'Egstrom appeared overcome with emotion. '"Why, sir--it seemed as though he wouldn't mind going a hundred miles out to sea in an old shoe to nab a ship for the firm. If the business had been his own and all to make yet, he couldn't have done more in that way. And now . . . all at once . . . like this! Thinks I to myself: 'Oho! a rise in the screw--that's the trouble--is it?' 'All right,' says I, 'no need of all that fuss with me, Jimmy. Just mention your figure. Anything in reason.' He looks at me as if he wanted to swallow something that stuck in his throat. 'I can't stop with you.' 'What's that blooming joke?' I asks. He shakes his head, and I could see in his eye he was as good as gone already, sir. So I turned to him and slanged him till all was blue. 'What is it you're running away from?' I asks. 'Who has been getting at you? What scared you? You haven't as much sense as a rat; they don't clear out from a good ship. Where do you expect to get a better berth?--you this and you that.' I made him look sick, I can tell you. 'This business ain't going to sink,' says I. He gave a big jump. 'Good-bye,' he says, nodding at me like a lord; 'you ain't half a bad chap, Egstrom. I give you my word that if you knew my reasons you wouldn't care to keep me.' 'That's the biggest lie you ever told in your life,' says I; 'I know my own mind.' He made me so mad that I had to laugh. 'Can't you really stop long enough to drink this glass of beer here, you funny beggar, you?' I don't know what came over him; he didn't seem able to find the door; something comical, I can tell you, captain. I drank the beer myself. 'Well, if you're in such a hurry, here's luck to you in your own drink,' says I; 'only, you mark my words, if you keep up this game you'll very soon find that the earth ain't big enough to hold you--that's all.' He gave me one black look, and out he rushed with a face fit to scare little children." 'Egstrom snorted bitterly, and combed one auburn whisker with knotty fingers. "Haven't been able to get a man that was any good since. It's nothing but worry, worry, worry in business. And where might you have come across him, captain, if it's fair to ask?" '"He was the mate of the Patna that voyage," I said, feeling that I owed some explanation. For a time Egstrom remained very still, with his fingers plunged in the hair at the side of his face, and then exploded. "And who the devil cares about that?" "I daresay no one," I began . . . "And what the devil is he--anyhow--for to go on like this?" He stuffed suddenly his left whisker into his mouth and stood amazed. "Jee!" he exclaimed, "I told him the earth wouldn't be big enough to hold his caper."'

Chapters 17-18

https://web.archive.org/web/20210215030710/https://www.novelguide.com/lord-jim/summaries/chapter17-18

Chapters Seventeen and Eighteen . Marlow pleads with Jim to accept his help in Chapter Seventeen. Jim refuses to take the remaining wages he is owed from working on the Patna and Marlow asks him where he will turn. He informs Jim he has written to a man for a favor and has referred to Jim as an intimate friend. Jim gasps at this exhibition of trust and says it is noble of him. Marlow is 'almost alarmed by this display of feeling'. Jim goes on to say that Marlow has done him an immeasurable amount of good already by listening to him the night before. He has given him confidence as well as the chance to begin again with a 'clean slate'. Alone, Marlow feels as though he is the unenlightened one and questions the idea of being able to begin afresh: 'As if the initial word of each of our destiny were not graven in imperishable characters upon the face of a rock.' . . Chapter Eighteen begins six months later and Marlow has received a letter from his friend informing him of Jim's progress. This friend is pleased with Jim; he presumes Jim has been in a scrape and thinks he will one day have to ask Marlow about it. . . The next letter Marlow receives from this friend says Jim has left leaving only 'a formal little note of apology'. He then informs Marlow he has now 'shut up shop' and does not want him to send anyone else. Jim has also sent a letter to Marlow in order to explain that the second engineer from the Patna turned up to work at the same place and he could not stand the, 'familiarity of the little beast'. Jim is writing from a seaport 700 miles south of his former position and is now a runner for a ship's chandler and has put Marlow down for a reference. . . Before the end of the year, Marlow has to leave for a new charter and this gives him the opportunity of seeing Jim again. He discovers the second engineer had been 'infernally fawning and familiar' with Jim and he told him he had hopes that Jim would keep him on in the job. Jim preferred to leave rather than stay and explain his past . On his next trip in the area, Marlow returns to Jim's latest place of work and is told that he has left this post too. He is told Jim left the day a steamer came with pilgrims who had been to the Red Sea. There were some men in the chandler's discussing the Patna. A man called Captain O'Brien had said the crew on this ship were a disgrace to human nature and he should hate to be in the same room as they. Jim left immediately after this and his employer, Egstrom, presumed it was because he wanted more money. Egstrom asks Marlow how he knows Jim and he tells him he was the mate of the Patna on that voyage. Egstrom replies, 'and who the devil cares about that' and says the earth is not big enough 'to hold his caper'. . . .

Chapters Seventeen and Eighteen . In these two chapters, clear evidence of Jim's pride and shame are given. He is reluctant to take the wages owed to him and leaves two positions because of his connection to the 'incident' on the Patna. These early examples of Jim's sense of shame are balanced by Egstrom's reaction when he says the world is not big enough for Jim whilst he continues to behave in this way. The implication is that Jim cannot run away from his past, as it will catch up with him, and, furthermore, 'who the devil cares'.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/78.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_13_part_10.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 11.chapter 9

book 11, chapter 9

{"name": "book 11, Chapter 9", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section14/", "summary": "The Devil. Ivan Fyodorovich's Nightmare Ivan returns home, thinking that he will now be able to prove Dmitri's innocence at the trial tomorrow. But in his room, he has a nightmarish hallucination or vision: a luridly dressed middle-aged man who claims to be a devil. The devil taunts Ivan about his doubt and insecurity, and though Ivan is harshly critical of the devil, the apparition eventually drives him mad", "analysis": ""}

Chapter IX. The Devil. Ivan's Nightmare I am not a doctor, but yet I feel that the moment has come when I must inevitably give the reader some account of the nature of Ivan's illness. Anticipating events I can say at least one thing: he was at that moment on the very eve of an attack of brain fever. Though his health had long been affected, it had offered a stubborn resistance to the fever which in the end gained complete mastery over it. Though I know nothing of medicine, I venture to hazard the suggestion that he really had perhaps, by a terrible effort of will, succeeded in delaying the attack for a time, hoping, of course, to check it completely. He knew that he was unwell, but he loathed the thought of being ill at that fatal time, at the approaching crisis in his life, when he needed to have all his wits about him, to say what he had to say boldly and resolutely and "to justify himself to himself." He had, however, consulted the new doctor, who had been brought from Moscow by a fantastic notion of Katerina Ivanovna's to which I have referred already. After listening to him and examining him the doctor came to the conclusion that he was actually suffering from some disorder of the brain, and was not at all surprised by an admission which Ivan had reluctantly made him. "Hallucinations are quite likely in your condition," the doctor opined, "though it would be better to verify them ... you must take steps at once, without a moment's delay, or things will go badly with you." But Ivan did not follow this judicious advice and did not take to his bed to be nursed. "I am walking about, so I am strong enough, if I drop, it'll be different then, any one may nurse me who likes," he decided, dismissing the subject. And so he was sitting almost conscious himself of his delirium and, as I have said already, looking persistently at some object on the sofa against the opposite wall. Some one appeared to be sitting there, though goodness knows how he had come in, for he had not been in the room when Ivan came into it, on his return from Smerdyakov. This was a person or, more accurately speaking, a Russian gentleman of a particular kind, no longer young, _qui faisait la cinquantaine_, as the French say, with rather long, still thick, dark hair, slightly streaked with gray and a small pointed beard. He was wearing a brownish reefer jacket, rather shabby, evidently made by a good tailor though, and of a fashion at least three years old, that had been discarded by smart and well-to-do people for the last two years. His linen and his long scarf-like neck-tie were all such as are worn by people who aim at being stylish, but on closer inspection his linen was not over-clean and his wide scarf was very threadbare. The visitor's check trousers were of excellent cut, but were too light in color and too tight for the present fashion. His soft fluffy white hat was out of keeping with the season. In brief there was every appearance of gentility on straitened means. It looked as though the gentleman belonged to that class of idle landowners who used to flourish in the times of serfdom. He had unmistakably been, at some time, in good and fashionable society, had once had good connections, had possibly preserved them indeed, but, after a gay youth, becoming gradually impoverished on the abolition of serfdom, he had sunk into the position of a poor relation of the best class, wandering from one good old friend to another and received by them for his companionable and accommodating disposition and as being, after all, a gentleman who could be asked to sit down with any one, though, of course, not in a place of honor. Such gentlemen of accommodating temper and dependent position, who can tell a story, take a hand at cards, and who have a distinct aversion for any duties that may be forced upon them, are usually solitary creatures, either bachelors or widowers. Sometimes they have children, but if so, the children are always being brought up at a distance, at some aunt's, to whom these gentlemen never allude in good society, seeming ashamed of the relationship. They gradually lose sight of their children altogether, though at intervals they receive a birthday or Christmas letter from them and sometimes even answer it. The countenance of the unexpected visitor was not so much good-natured, as accommodating and ready to assume any amiable expression as occasion might arise. He had no watch, but he had a tortoise-shell lorgnette on a black ribbon. On the middle finger of his right hand was a massive gold ring with a cheap opal stone in it. Ivan was angrily silent and would not begin the conversation. The visitor waited and sat exactly like a poor relation who had come down from his room to keep his host company at tea, and was discreetly silent, seeing that his host was frowning and preoccupied. But he was ready for any affable conversation as soon as his host should begin it. All at once his face expressed a sudden solicitude. "I say," he began to Ivan, "excuse me, I only mention it to remind you. You went to Smerdyakov's to find out about Katerina Ivanovna, but you came away without finding out anything about her, you probably forgot--" "Ah, yes," broke from Ivan and his face grew gloomy with uneasiness. "Yes, I'd forgotten ... but it doesn't matter now, never mind, till to-morrow," he muttered to himself, "and you," he added, addressing his visitor, "I should have remembered that myself in a minute, for that was just what was tormenting me! Why do you interfere, as if I should believe that you prompted me, and that I didn't remember it of myself?" "Don't believe it then," said the gentleman, smiling amicably, "what's the good of believing against your will? Besides, proofs are no help to believing, especially material proofs. Thomas believed, not because he saw Christ risen, but because he wanted to believe, before he saw. Look at the spiritualists, for instance.... I am very fond of them ... only fancy, they imagine that they are serving the cause of religion, because the devils show them their horns from the other world. That, they say, is a material proof, so to speak, of the existence of another world. The other world and material proofs, what next! And if you come to that, does proving there's a devil prove that there's a God? I want to join an idealist society, I'll lead the opposition in it, I'll say I am a realist, but not a materialist, he he!" "Listen," Ivan suddenly got up from the table. "I seem to be delirious.... I am delirious, in fact, talk any nonsense you like, I don't care! You won't drive me to fury, as you did last time. But I feel somehow ashamed.... I want to walk about the room.... I sometimes don't see you and don't even hear your voice as I did last time, but I always guess what you are prating, for it's I, _I myself speaking, not you_. Only I don't know whether I was dreaming last time or whether I really saw you. I'll wet a towel and put it on my head and perhaps you'll vanish into air." Ivan went into the corner, took a towel, and did as he said, and with a wet towel on his head began walking up and down the room. "I am so glad you treat me so familiarly," the visitor began. "Fool," laughed Ivan, "do you suppose I should stand on ceremony with you? I am in good spirits now, though I've a pain in my forehead ... and in the top of my head ... only please don't talk philosophy, as you did last time. If you can't take yourself off, talk of something amusing. Talk gossip, you are a poor relation, you ought to talk gossip. What a nightmare to have! But I am not afraid of you. I'll get the better of you. I won't be taken to a mad-house!" "_C'est charmant_, poor relation. Yes, I am in my natural shape. For what am I on earth but a poor relation? By the way, I am listening to you and am rather surprised to find you are actually beginning to take me for something real, not simply your fancy, as you persisted in declaring last time--" "Never for one minute have I taken you for reality," Ivan cried with a sort of fury. "You are a lie, you are my illness, you are a phantom. It's only that I don't know how to destroy you and I see I must suffer for a time. You are my hallucination. You are the incarnation of myself, but only of one side of me ... of my thoughts and feelings, but only the nastiest and stupidest of them. From that point of view you might be of interest to me, if only I had time to waste on you--" "Excuse me, excuse me, I'll catch you. When you flew out at Alyosha under the lamp-post this evening and shouted to him, 'You learnt it from _him_! How do you know that _he_ visits me?' you were thinking of me then. So for one brief moment you did believe that I really exist," the gentleman laughed blandly. "Yes, that was a moment of weakness ... but I couldn't believe in you. I don't know whether I was asleep or awake last time. Perhaps I was only dreaming then and didn't see you really at all--" "And why were you so surly with Alyosha just now? He is a dear; I've treated him badly over Father Zossima." "Don't talk of Alyosha! How dare you, you flunkey!" Ivan laughed again. "You scold me, but you laugh--that's a good sign. But you are ever so much more polite than you were last time and I know why: that great resolution of yours--" "Don't speak of my resolution," cried Ivan, savagely. "I understand, I understand, _c'est noble, c'est charmant_, you are going to defend your brother and to sacrifice yourself ... _C'est chevaleresque_." "Hold your tongue, I'll kick you!" "I shan't be altogether sorry, for then my object will be attained. If you kick me, you must believe in my reality, for people don't kick ghosts. Joking apart, it doesn't matter to me, scold if you like, though it's better to be a trifle more polite even to me. 'Fool, flunkey!' what words!" "Scolding you, I scold myself," Ivan laughed again, "you are myself, myself, only with a different face. You just say what I am thinking ... and are incapable of saying anything new!" "If I am like you in my way of thinking, it's all to my credit," the gentleman declared, with delicacy and dignity. "You choose out only my worst thoughts, and what's more, the stupid ones. You are stupid and vulgar. You are awfully stupid. No, I can't put up with you! What am I to do, what am I to do?" Ivan said through his clenched teeth. "My dear friend, above all things I want to behave like a gentleman and to be recognized as such," the visitor began in an excess of deprecating and simple-hearted pride, typical of a poor relation. "I am poor, but ... I won't say very honest, but ... it's an axiom generally accepted in society that I am a fallen angel. I certainly can't conceive how I can ever have been an angel. If I ever was, it must have been so long ago that there's no harm in forgetting it. Now I only prize the reputation of being a gentlemanly person and live as I can, trying to make myself agreeable. I love men genuinely, I've been greatly calumniated! Here when I stay with you from time to time, my life gains a kind of reality and that's what I like most of all. You see, like you, I suffer from the fantastic and so I love the realism of earth. Here, with you, everything is circumscribed, here all is formulated and geometrical, while we have nothing but indeterminate equations! I wander about here dreaming. I like dreaming. Besides, on earth I become superstitious. Please don't laugh, that's just what I like, to become superstitious. I adopt all your habits here: I've grown fond of going to the public baths, would you believe it? and I go and steam myself with merchants and priests. What I dream of is becoming incarnate once for all and irrevocably in the form of some merchant's wife weighing eighteen stone, and of believing all she believes. My ideal is to go to church and offer a candle in simple-hearted faith, upon my word it is. Then there would be an end to my sufferings. I like being doctored too; in the spring there was an outbreak of smallpox and I went and was vaccinated in a foundling hospital--if only you knew how I enjoyed myself that day. I subscribed ten roubles in the cause of the Slavs!... But you are not listening. Do you know, you are not at all well this evening? I know you went yesterday to that doctor ... well, what about your health? What did the doctor say?" "Fool!" Ivan snapped out. "But you are clever, anyway. You are scolding again? I didn't ask out of sympathy. You needn't answer. Now rheumatism has come in again--" "Fool!" repeated Ivan. "You keep saying the same thing; but I had such an attack of rheumatism last year that I remember it to this day." "The devil have rheumatism!" "Why not, if I sometimes put on fleshly form? I put on fleshly form and I take the consequences. Satan _sum et nihil humanum a me alienum puto_." "What, what, Satan _sum et nihil humanum_ ... that's not bad for the devil!" "I am glad I've pleased you at last." "But you didn't get that from me." Ivan stopped suddenly, seeming struck. "That never entered my head, that's strange." "_C'est du nouveau, n'est-ce pas?_ This time I'll act honestly and explain to you. Listen, in dreams and especially in nightmares, from indigestion or anything, a man sees sometimes such artistic visions, such complex and real actuality, such events, even a whole world of events, woven into such a plot, with such unexpected details from the most exalted matters to the last button on a cuff, as I swear Leo Tolstoy has never invented. Yet such dreams are sometimes seen not by writers, but by the most ordinary people, officials, journalists, priests.... The subject is a complete enigma. A statesman confessed to me, indeed, that all his best ideas came to him when he was asleep. Well, that's how it is now, though I am your hallucination, yet just as in a nightmare, I say original things which had not entered your head before. So I don't repeat your ideas, yet I am only your nightmare, nothing more." "You are lying, your aim is to convince me you exist apart and are not my nightmare, and now you are asserting you are a dream." "My dear fellow, I've adopted a special method to-day, I'll explain it to you afterwards. Stay, where did I break off? Oh, yes! I caught cold then, only not here but yonder." "Where is yonder? Tell me, will you be here long? Can't you go away?" Ivan exclaimed almost in despair. He ceased walking to and fro, sat down on the sofa, leaned his elbows on the table again and held his head tight in both hands. He pulled the wet towel off and flung it away in vexation. It was evidently of no use. "Your nerves are out of order," observed the gentleman, with a carelessly easy, though perfectly polite, air. "You are angry with me even for being able to catch cold, though it happened in a most natural way. I was hurrying then to a diplomatic _soiree_ at the house of a lady of high rank in Petersburg, who was aiming at influence in the Ministry. Well, an evening suit, white tie, gloves, though I was God knows where and had to fly through space to reach your earth.... Of course, it took only an instant, but you know a ray of light from the sun takes full eight minutes, and fancy in an evening suit and open waistcoat. Spirits don't freeze, but when one's in fleshly form, well ... in brief, I didn't think, and set off, and you know in those ethereal spaces, in the water that is above the firmament, there's such a frost ... at least one can't call it frost, you can fancy, 150 degrees below zero! You know the game the village girls play--they invite the unwary to lick an ax in thirty degrees of frost, the tongue instantly freezes to it and the dupe tears the skin off, so it bleeds. But that's only in 30 degrees, in 150 degrees I imagine it would be enough to put your finger on the ax and it would be the end of it ... if only there could be an ax there." "And can there be an ax there?" Ivan interrupted, carelessly and disdainfully. He was exerting himself to the utmost not to believe in the delusion and not to sink into complete insanity. "An ax?" the guest interrupted in surprise. "Yes, what would become of an ax there?" Ivan cried suddenly, with a sort of savage and insistent obstinacy. "What would become of an ax in space? _Quelle idee!_ If it were to fall to any distance, it would begin, I think, flying round the earth without knowing why, like a satellite. The astronomers would calculate the rising and the setting of the ax, _Gatzuk_ would put it in his calendar, that's all." "You are stupid, awfully stupid," said Ivan peevishly. "Fib more cleverly or I won't listen. You want to get the better of me by realism, to convince me that you exist, but I don't want to believe you exist! I won't believe it!" "But I am not fibbing, it's all the truth; the truth is unhappily hardly ever amusing. I see you persist in expecting something big of me, and perhaps something fine. That's a great pity, for I only give what I can--" "Don't talk philosophy, you ass!" "Philosophy, indeed, when all my right side is numb and I am moaning and groaning. I've tried all the medical faculty: they can diagnose beautifully, they have the whole of your disease at their finger-tips, but they've no idea how to cure you. There was an enthusiastic little student here, 'You may die,' said he, 'but you'll know perfectly what disease you are dying of!' And then what a way they have sending people to specialists! 'We only diagnose,' they say, 'but go to such-and-such a specialist, he'll cure you.' The old doctor who used to cure all sorts of disease has completely disappeared, I assure you, now there are only specialists and they all advertise in the newspapers. If anything is wrong with your nose, they send you to Paris: there, they say, is a European specialist who cures noses. If you go to Paris, he'll look at your nose; I can only cure your right nostril, he'll tell you, for I don't cure the left nostril, that's not my speciality, but go to Vienna, there there's a specialist who will cure your left nostril. What are you to do? I fell back on popular remedies, a German doctor advised me to rub myself with honey and salt in the bath-house. Solely to get an extra bath I went, smeared myself all over and it did me no good at all. In despair I wrote to Count Mattei in Milan. He sent me a book and some drops, bless him, and, only fancy, Hoff's malt extract cured me! I bought it by accident, drank a bottle and a half of it, and I was ready to dance, it took it away completely. I made up my mind to write to the papers to thank him, I was prompted by a feeling of gratitude, and only fancy, it led to no end of a bother: not a single paper would take my letter. 'It would be very reactionary,' they said, 'no one will believe it. _Le diable n'existe point._ You'd better remain anonymous,' they advised me. What use is a letter of thanks if it's anonymous? I laughed with the men at the newspaper office; 'It's reactionary to believe in God in our days,' I said, 'but I am the devil, so I may be believed in.' 'We quite understand that,' they said. 'Who doesn't believe in the devil? Yet it won't do, it might injure our reputation. As a joke, if you like.' But I thought as a joke it wouldn't be very witty. So it wasn't printed. And do you know, I have felt sore about it to this day. My best feelings, gratitude, for instance, are literally denied me simply from my social position." "Philosophical reflections again?" Ivan snarled malignantly. "God preserve me from it, but one can't help complaining sometimes. I am a slandered man. You upbraid me every moment with being stupid. One can see you are young. My dear fellow, intelligence isn't the only thing! I have naturally a kind and merry heart. 'I also write vaudevilles of all sorts.' You seem to take me for Hlestakov grown old, but my fate is a far more serious one. Before time was, by some decree which I could never make out, I was pre-destined 'to deny' and yet I am genuinely good-hearted and not at all inclined to negation. 'No, you must go and deny, without denial there's no criticism and what would a journal be without a column of criticism?' Without criticism it would be nothing but one 'hosannah.' But nothing but hosannah is not enough for life, the hosannah must be tried in the crucible of doubt and so on, in the same style. But I don't meddle in that, I didn't create it, I am not answerable for it. Well, they've chosen their scapegoat, they've made me write the column of criticism and so life was made possible. We understand that comedy; I, for instance, simply ask for annihilation. No, live, I am told, for there'd be nothing without you. If everything in the universe were sensible, nothing would happen. There would be no events without you, and there must be events. So against the grain I serve to produce events and do what's irrational because I am commanded to. For all their indisputable intelligence, men take this farce as something serious, and that is their tragedy. They suffer, of course ... but then they live, they live a real life, not a fantastic one, for suffering is life. Without suffering what would be the pleasure of it? It would be transformed into an endless church service; it would be holy, but tedious. But what about me? I suffer, but still, I don't live. I am x in an indeterminate equation. I am a sort of phantom in life who has lost all beginning and end, and who has even forgotten his own name. You are laughing-- no, you are not laughing, you are angry again. You are for ever angry, all you care about is intelligence, but I repeat again that I would give away all this super-stellar life, all the ranks and honors, simply to be transformed into the soul of a merchant's wife weighing eighteen stone and set candles at God's shrine." "Then even you don't believe in God?" said Ivan, with a smile of hatred. "What can I say?--that is, if you are in earnest--" "Is there a God or not?" Ivan cried with the same savage intensity. "Ah, then you are in earnest! My dear fellow, upon my word I don't know. There! I've said it now!" "You don't know, but you see God? No, you are not some one apart, you are myself, you are I and nothing more! You are rubbish, you are my fancy!" "Well, if you like, I have the same philosophy as you, that would be true. _Je pense, donc je suis_, I know that for a fact; all the rest, all these worlds, God and even Satan--all that is not proved, to my mind. Does all that exist of itself, or is it only an emanation of myself, a logical development of my ego which alone has existed for ever: but I make haste to stop, for I believe you will be jumping up to beat me directly." "You'd better tell me some anecdote!" said Ivan miserably. "There is an anecdote precisely on our subject, or rather a legend, not an anecdote. You reproach me with unbelief, you see, you say, yet you don't believe. But, my dear fellow, I am not the only one like that. We are all in a muddle over there now and all through your science. Once there used to be atoms, five senses, four elements, and then everything hung together somehow. There were atoms in the ancient world even, but since we've learned that you've discovered the chemical molecule and protoplasm and the devil knows what, we had to lower our crest. There's a regular muddle, and, above all, superstition, scandal; there's as much scandal among us as among you, you know; a little more in fact, and spying, indeed, for we have our secret police department where private information is received. Well, this wild legend belongs to our middle ages--not yours, but ours--and no one believes it even among us, except the old ladies of eighteen stone, not your old ladies I mean, but ours. We've everything you have, I am revealing one of our secrets out of friendship for you; though it's forbidden. This legend is about Paradise. There was, they say, here on earth a thinker and philosopher. He rejected everything, 'laws, conscience, faith,' and, above all, the future life. He died; he expected to go straight to darkness and death and he found a future life before him. He was astounded and indignant. 'This is against my principles!' he said. And he was punished for that ... that is, you must excuse me, I am just repeating what I heard myself, it's only a legend ... he was sentenced to walk a quadrillion kilometers in the dark (we've adopted the metric system, you know) and when he has finished that quadrillion, the gates of heaven would be opened to him and he'll be forgiven--" "And what tortures have you in the other world besides the quadrillion kilometers?" asked Ivan, with a strange eagerness. "What tortures? Ah, don't ask. In old days we had all sorts, but now they have taken chiefly to moral punishments--'the stings of conscience' and all that nonsense. We got that, too, from you, from the softening of your manners. And who's the better for it? Only those who have got no conscience, for how can they be tortured by conscience when they have none? But decent people who have conscience and a sense of honor suffer for it. Reforms, when the ground has not been prepared for them, especially if they are institutions copied from abroad, do nothing but mischief! The ancient fire was better. Well, this man, who was condemned to the quadrillion kilometers, stood still, looked round and lay down across the road. 'I won't go, I refuse on principle!' Take the soul of an enlightened Russian atheist and mix it with the soul of the prophet Jonah, who sulked for three days and nights in the belly of the whale, and you get the character of that thinker who lay across the road." "What did he lie on there?" "Well, I suppose there was something to lie on. You are not laughing?" "Bravo!" cried Ivan, still with the same strange eagerness. Now he was listening with an unexpected curiosity. "Well, is he lying there now?" "That's the point, that he isn't. He lay there almost a thousand years and then he got up and went on." "What an ass!" cried Ivan, laughing nervously and still seeming to be pondering something intently. "Does it make any difference whether he lies there for ever or walks the quadrillion kilometers? It would take a billion years to walk it?" "Much more than that. I haven't got a pencil and paper or I could work it out. But he got there long ago, and that's where the story begins." "What, he got there? But how did he get the billion years to do it?" "Why, you keep thinking of our present earth! But our present earth may have been repeated a billion times. Why, it's become extinct, been frozen; cracked, broken to bits, disintegrated into its elements, again 'the water above the firmament,' then again a comet, again a sun, again from the sun it becomes earth--and the same sequence may have been repeated endlessly and exactly the same to every detail, most unseemly and insufferably tedious--" "Well, well, what happened when he arrived?" "Why, the moment the gates of Paradise were open and he walked in, before he had been there two seconds, by his watch (though to my thinking his watch must have long dissolved into its elements on the way), he cried out that those two seconds were worth walking not a quadrillion kilometers but a quadrillion of quadrillions, raised to the quadrillionth power! In fact, he sang 'hosannah' and overdid it so, that some persons there of lofty ideas wouldn't shake hands with him at first--he'd become too rapidly reactionary, they said. The Russian temperament. I repeat, it's a legend. I give it for what it's worth. So that's the sort of ideas we have on such subjects even now." "I've caught you!" Ivan cried, with an almost childish delight, as though he had succeeded in remembering something at last. "That anecdote about the quadrillion years, I made up myself! I was seventeen then, I was at the high school. I made up that anecdote and told it to a schoolfellow called Korovkin, it was at Moscow.... The anecdote is so characteristic that I couldn't have taken it from anywhere. I thought I'd forgotten it ... but I've unconsciously recalled it--I recalled it myself--it was not you telling it! Thousands of things are unconsciously remembered like that even when people are being taken to execution ... it's come back to me in a dream. You are that dream! You are a dream, not a living creature!" "From the vehemence with which you deny my existence," laughed the gentleman, "I am convinced that you believe in me." "Not in the slightest! I haven't a hundredth part of a grain of faith in you!" "But you have the thousandth of a grain. Homeopathic doses perhaps are the strongest. Confess that you have faith even to the ten-thousandth of a grain." "Not for one minute," cried Ivan furiously. "But I should like to believe in you," he added strangely. "Aha! There's an admission! But I am good-natured. I'll come to your assistance again. Listen, it was I caught you, not you me. I told you your anecdote you'd forgotten, on purpose, so as to destroy your faith in me completely." "You are lying. The object of your visit is to convince me of your existence!" "Just so. But hesitation, suspense, conflict between belief and disbelief--is sometimes such torture to a conscientious man, such as you are, that it's better to hang oneself at once. Knowing that you are inclined to believe in me, I administered some disbelief by telling you that anecdote. I lead you to belief and disbelief by turns, and I have my motive in it. It's the new method. As soon as you disbelieve in me completely, you'll begin assuring me to my face that I am not a dream but a reality. I know you. Then I shall have attained my object, which is an honorable one. I shall sow in you only a tiny grain of faith and it will grow into an oak-tree--and such an oak-tree that, sitting on it, you will long to enter the ranks of 'the hermits in the wilderness and the saintly women,' for that is what you are secretly longing for. You'll dine on locusts, you'll wander into the wilderness to save your soul!" "Then it's for the salvation of my soul you are working, is it, you scoundrel?" "One must do a good work sometimes. How ill-humored you are!" "Fool! did you ever tempt those holy men who ate locusts and prayed seventeen years in the wilderness till they were overgrown with moss?" "My dear fellow, I've done nothing else. One forgets the whole world and all the worlds, and sticks to one such saint, because he is a very precious diamond. One such soul, you know, is sometimes worth a whole constellation. We have our system of reckoning, you know. The conquest is priceless! And some of them, on my word, are not inferior to you in culture, though you won't believe it. They can contemplate such depths of belief and disbelief at the same moment that sometimes it really seems that they are within a hair's-breadth of being 'turned upside down,' as the actor Gorbunov says." "Well, did you get your nose pulled?"(8) "My dear fellow," observed the visitor sententiously, "it's better to get off with your nose pulled than without a nose at all. As an afflicted marquis observed not long ago (he must have been treated by a specialist) in confession to his spiritual father--a Jesuit. I was present, it was simply charming. 'Give me back my nose!' he said, and he beat his breast. 'My son,' said the priest evasively, 'all things are accomplished in accordance with the inscrutable decrees of Providence, and what seems a misfortune sometimes leads to extraordinary, though unapparent, benefits. If stern destiny has deprived you of your nose, it's to your advantage that no one can ever pull you by your nose.' 'Holy father, that's no comfort,' cried the despairing marquis. 'I'd be delighted to have my nose pulled every day of my life, if it were only in its proper place.' 'My son,' sighs the priest, 'you can't expect every blessing at once. This is murmuring against Providence, who even in this has not forgotten you, for if you repine as you repined just now, declaring you'd be glad to have your nose pulled for the rest of your life, your desire has already been fulfilled indirectly, for when you lost your nose, you were led by the nose.' " "Fool, how stupid!" cried Ivan. "My dear friend, I only wanted to amuse you. But I swear that's the genuine Jesuit casuistry and I swear that it all happened word for word as I've told you. It happened lately and gave me a great deal of trouble. The unhappy young man shot himself that very night when he got home. I was by his side till the very last moment. Those Jesuit confessionals are really my most delightful diversion at melancholy moments. Here's another incident that happened only the other day. A little blonde Norman girl of twenty--a buxom, unsophisticated beauty that would make your mouth water--comes to an old priest. She bends down and whispers her sin into the grating. 'Why, my daughter, have you fallen again already?' cries the priest. 'O Sancta Maria, what do I hear! Not the same man this time, how long is this going on? Aren't you ashamed!' '_Ah, mon pere_,' answers the sinner with tears of penitence, '_ca lui fait tant de plaisir, et a moi si peu de peine!_' Fancy, such an answer! I drew back. It was the cry of nature, better than innocence itself, if you like. I absolved her sin on the spot and was turning to go, but I was forced to turn back. I heard the priest at the grating making an appointment with her for the evening--though he was an old man hard as flint, he fell in an instant! It was nature, the truth of nature asserted its rights! What, you are turning up your nose again? Angry again? I don't know how to please you--" "Leave me alone, you are beating on my brain like a haunting nightmare," Ivan moaned miserably, helpless before his apparition. "I am bored with you, agonizingly and insufferably. I would give anything to be able to shake you off!" "I repeat, moderate your expectations, don't demand of me 'everything great and noble' and you'll see how well we shall get on," said the gentleman impressively. "You are really angry with me for not having appeared to you in a red glow, with thunder and lightning, with scorched wings, but have shown myself in such a modest form. You are wounded, in the first place, in your esthetic feelings, and, secondly, in your pride. How could such a vulgar devil visit such a great man as you! Yes, there is that romantic strain in you, that was so derided by Byelinsky. I can't help it, young man, as I got ready to come to you I did think as a joke of appearing in the figure of a retired general who had served in the Caucasus, with a star of the Lion and the Sun on my coat. But I was positively afraid of doing it, for you'd have thrashed me for daring to pin the Lion and the Sun on my coat, instead of, at least, the Polar Star or the Sirius. And you keep on saying I am stupid, but, mercy on us! I make no claim to be equal to you in intelligence. Mephistopheles declared to Faust that he desired evil, but did only good. Well, he can say what he likes, it's quite the opposite with me. I am perhaps the one man in all creation who loves the truth and genuinely desires good. I was there when the Word, Who died on the Cross, rose up into heaven bearing on His bosom the soul of the penitent thief. I heard the glad shrieks of the cherubim singing and shouting hosannah and the thunderous rapture of the seraphim which shook heaven and all creation, and I swear to you by all that's sacred, I longed to join the choir and shout hosannah with them all. The word had almost escaped me, had almost broken from my lips ... you know how susceptible and esthetically impressionable I am. But common sense--oh, a most unhappy trait in my character--kept me in due bounds and I let the moment pass! For what would have happened, I reflected, what would have happened after my hosannah? Everything on earth would have been extinguished at once and no events could have occurred. And so, solely from a sense of duty and my social position, I was forced to suppress the good moment and to stick to my nasty task. Somebody takes all the credit of what's good for Himself, and nothing but nastiness is left for me. But I don't envy the honor of a life of idle imposture, I am not ambitious. Why am I, of all creatures in the world, doomed to be cursed by all decent people and even to be kicked, for if I put on mortal form I am bound to take such consequences sometimes? I know, of course, there's a secret in it, but they won't tell me the secret for anything, for then perhaps, seeing the meaning of it, I might bawl hosannah, and the indispensable minus would disappear at once, and good sense would reign supreme throughout the whole world. And that, of course, would mean the end of everything, even of magazines and newspapers, for who would take them in? I know that at the end of all things I shall be reconciled. I, too, shall walk my quadrillion and learn the secret. But till that happens I am sulking and fulfill my destiny though it's against the grain--that is, to ruin thousands for the sake of saving one. How many souls have had to be ruined and how many honorable reputations destroyed for the sake of that one righteous man, Job, over whom they made such a fool of me in old days! Yes, till the secret is revealed, there are two sorts of truths for me--one, their truth, yonder, which I know nothing about so far, and the other my own. And there's no knowing which will turn out the better.... Are you asleep?" "I might well be," Ivan groaned angrily. "All my stupid ideas--outgrown, thrashed out long ago, and flung aside like a dead carcass--you present to me as something new!" "There's no pleasing you! And I thought I should fascinate you by my literary style. That hosannah in the skies really wasn't bad, was it? And then that ironical tone _a la_ Heine, eh?" "No, I was never such a flunkey! How then could my soul beget a flunkey like you?" "My dear fellow, I know a most charming and attractive young Russian gentleman, a young thinker and a great lover of literature and art, the author of a promising poem entitled _The Grand Inquisitor_. I was only thinking of him!" "I forbid you to speak of _The Grand Inquisitor_," cried Ivan, crimson with shame. "And the _Geological Cataclysm_. Do you remember? That was a poem, now!" "Hold your tongue, or I'll kill you!" "You'll kill me? No, excuse me, I will speak. I came to treat myself to that pleasure. Oh, I love the dreams of my ardent young friends, quivering with eagerness for life! 'There are new men,' you decided last spring, when you were meaning to come here, 'they propose to destroy everything and begin with cannibalism. Stupid fellows! they didn't ask my advice! I maintain that nothing need be destroyed, that we only need to destroy the idea of God in man, that's how we have to set to work. It's that, that we must begin with. Oh, blind race of men who have no understanding! As soon as men have all of them denied God--and I believe that period, analogous with geological periods, will come to pass--the old conception of the universe will fall of itself without cannibalism, and, what's more, the old morality, and everything will begin anew. Men will unite to take from life all it can give, but only for joy and happiness in the present world. Man will be lifted up with a spirit of divine Titanic pride and the man- god will appear. From hour to hour extending his conquest of nature infinitely by his will and his science, man will feel such lofty joy from hour to hour in doing it that it will make up for all his old dreams of the joys of heaven. Every one will know that he is mortal and will accept death proudly and serenely like a god. His pride will teach him that it's useless for him to repine at life's being a moment, and he will love his brother without need of reward. Love will be sufficient only for a moment of life, but the very consciousness of its momentariness will intensify its fire, which now is dissipated in dreams of eternal love beyond the grave'... and so on and so on in the same style. Charming!" Ivan sat with his eyes on the floor, and his hands pressed to his ears, but he began trembling all over. The voice continued. "The question now is, my young thinker reflected, is it possible that such a period will ever come? If it does, everything is determined and humanity is settled for ever. But as, owing to man's inveterate stupidity, this cannot come about for at least a thousand years, every one who recognizes the truth even now may legitimately order his life as he pleases, on the new principles. In that sense, 'all things are lawful' for him. What's more, even if this period never comes to pass, since there is anyway no God and no immortality, the new man may well become the man-god, even if he is the only one in the whole world, and promoted to his new position, he may lightheartedly overstep all the barriers of the old morality of the old slave-man, if necessary. There is no law for God. Where God stands, the place is holy. Where I stand will be at once the foremost place ... 'all things are lawful' and that's the end of it! That's all very charming; but if you want to swindle why do you want a moral sanction for doing it? But that's our modern Russian all over. He can't bring himself to swindle without a moral sanction. He is so in love with truth--" The visitor talked, obviously carried away by his own eloquence, speaking louder and louder and looking ironically at his host. But he did not succeed in finishing; Ivan suddenly snatched a glass from the table and flung it at the orator. "_Ah, mais c'est bete enfin_," cried the latter, jumping up from the sofa and shaking the drops of tea off himself. "He remembers Luther's inkstand! He takes me for a dream and throws glasses at a dream! It's like a woman! I suspected you were only pretending to stop up your ears." A loud, persistent knocking was suddenly heard at the window. Ivan jumped up from the sofa. "Do you hear? You'd better open," cried the visitor; "it's your brother Alyosha with the most interesting and surprising news, I'll be bound!" "Be silent, deceiver, I knew it was Alyosha, I felt he was coming, and of course he has not come for nothing; of course he brings 'news,' " Ivan exclaimed frantically. "Open, open to him. There's a snowstorm and he is your brother. _Monsieur sait-il le temps qu'il fait? C'est a ne pas mettre un chien dehors_." The knocking continued. Ivan wanted to rush to the window, but something seemed to fetter his arms and legs. He strained every effort to break his chains, but in vain. The knocking at the window grew louder and louder. At last the chains were broken and Ivan leapt up from the sofa. He looked round him wildly. Both candles had almost burnt out, the glass he had just thrown at his visitor stood before him on the table, and there was no one on the sofa opposite. The knocking on the window frame went on persistently, but it was by no means so loud as it had seemed in his dream; on the contrary, it was quite subdued. "It was not a dream! No, I swear it was not a dream, it all happened just now!" cried Ivan. He rushed to the window and opened the movable pane. "Alyosha, I told you not to come," he cried fiercely to his brother. "In two words, what do you want? In two words, do you hear?" "An hour ago Smerdyakov hanged himself," Alyosha answered from the yard. "Come round to the steps, I'll open at once," said Ivan, going to open the door to Alyosha.

book 11, Chapter 9

https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section14/

The Devil. Ivan Fyodorovich's Nightmare Ivan returns home, thinking that he will now be able to prove Dmitri's innocence at the trial tomorrow. But in his room, he has a nightmarish hallucination or vision: a luridly dressed middle-aged man who claims to be a devil. The devil taunts Ivan about his doubt and insecurity, and though Ivan is harshly critical of the devil, the apparition eventually drives him mad

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/174-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_13_part_0.txt

The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapter 14

chapter 14

{"name": "Chapter 14", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210304030722/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/picture-dorian-gray/summary/chapter-14", "summary": "The next morning, Dorian is awakened at nine by his valet. At first, he doesn't remember what happened the night before--his sleep was untroubled by conscience. Then, the memories come back; Dorian can't stop thinking about how much he suffered, but totally unsympathetic towards Basil . Dorian tries not to think too much about all of this unpleasant stuff, and goes about his business, getting dressed, reading letters, and having breakfast. He then writes two letters, and has one sent to the mysterious Alan Campbell. Dorian then lounges about in the library, comforting himself with poetry. Caught up in emotion, he briefly feels a little bad for Basil, then tries again to forget about it. However, though Dorian keeps trying to think of more pleasant things , he is overcome by nerves. What if Alan Campbell doesn't show up? We learn that Alan is one of the ex-friends that now hates Dorian. He's a brilliant young man--a scientist--and he and Dorian were great friends for a while. They were brought together by their love for music and were totally besties for about a year and half. Then, all of a sudden, they weren't friends anymore--nobody knows why. Alan then devoted his life to science. While Dorian's waiting for Alan, time drags on. He might not realize it, but this is the thing called \"fear\" that the rest of us are well acquainted with. Finally, Alan shows up. He's cold and unsympathetic--we have to wonder what terrible thing Dorian did to him. Dorian knows that he has to do another terrible thing to Alan, and there's pity in his eyes. He tells Alan about the corpse upstairs, and requests that Alan use \"science\" to get rid of it. You know, because \"science\" can do anything, including make dead bodies disappear. Trying to get the reluctant Alan on his side, Dorian claims that Basil committed suicide, but then admits to the murder when Alan still refuses. The two ex-friends argue fruitlessly for a while. When it seems as though Alan's just going to keep refusing, Dorian pulls out all the stops and resorts to blackmail. He writes something on a piece of paper and shows it to the astonished, horrified Alan. Whatever it is, it must be damning. Alan is totally miserable--wouldn't you be? Dorian has him backed into a corner; he has to take this mission, or Dorian will ruin his life. Alan agrees to dispose of the body. Dorian sends his servant to get Alan's lab equipment and supplies from his house, and, while they wait, things are totally, horrifically awkward. Finally, the servant returns, and Dorian dismisses him for the rest of the day. They're ready to start the gruesome \"experiment.\" Dorian takes Alan upstairs, and leaves him in the schoolroom with the dead man. He flees the room, and Alan begins what he has to do. Hours later, Alan emerges, pale and drawn. He's finished the job, and he never wants to see Dorian again. Dorian goes to check out the schoolroom--it smells like acid, but Alan got the job done. The body is gone.", "analysis": ""}

At nine o'clock the next morning his servant came in with a cup of chocolate on a tray and opened the shutters. Dorian was sleeping quite peacefully, lying on his right side, with one hand underneath his cheek. He looked like a boy who had been tired out with play, or study. The man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he woke, and as he opened his eyes a faint smile passed across his lips, as though he had been lost in some delightful dream. Yet he had not dreamed at all. His night had been untroubled by any images of pleasure or of pain. But youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms. He turned round, and leaning upon his elbow, began to sip his chocolate. The mellow November sun came streaming into the room. The sky was bright, and there was a genial warmth in the air. It was almost like a morning in May. Gradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent, blood-stained feet into his brain and reconstructed themselves there with terrible distinctness. He winced at the memory of all that he had suffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing for Basil Hallward that had made him kill him as he sat in the chair came back to him, and he grew cold with passion. The dead man was still sitting there, too, and in the sunlight now. How horrible that was! Such hideous things were for the darkness, not for the day. He felt that if he brooded on what he had gone through he would sicken or grow mad. There were sins whose fascination was more in the memory than in the doing of them, strange triumphs that gratified the pride more than the passions, and gave to the intellect a quickened sense of joy, greater than any joy they brought, or could ever bring, to the senses. But this was not one of them. It was a thing to be driven out of the mind, to be drugged with poppies, to be strangled lest it might strangle one itself. When the half-hour struck, he passed his hand across his forehead, and then got up hastily and dressed himself with even more than his usual care, giving a good deal of attention to the choice of his necktie and scarf-pin and changing his rings more than once. He spent a long time also over breakfast, tasting the various dishes, talking to his valet about some new liveries that he was thinking of getting made for the servants at Selby, and going through his correspondence. At some of the letters, he smiled. Three of them bored him. One he read several times over and then tore up with a slight look of annoyance in his face. "That awful thing, a woman's memory!" as Lord Henry had once said. After he had drunk his cup of black coffee, he wiped his lips slowly with a napkin, motioned to his servant to wait, and going over to the table, sat down and wrote two letters. One he put in his pocket, the other he handed to the valet. "Take this round to 152, Hertford Street, Francis, and if Mr. Campbell is out of town, get his address." As soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette and began sketching upon a piece of paper, drawing first flowers and bits of architecture, and then human faces. Suddenly he remarked that every face that he drew seemed to have a fantastic likeness to Basil Hallward. He frowned, and getting up, went over to the book-case and took out a volume at hazard. He was determined that he would not think about what had happened until it became absolutely necessary that he should do so. When he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the title-page of the book. It was Gautier's Emaux et Camees, Charpentier's Japanese-paper edition, with the Jacquemart etching. The binding was of citron-green leather, with a design of gilt trellis-work and dotted pomegranates. It had been given to him by Adrian Singleton. As he turned over the pages, his eye fell on the poem about the hand of Lacenaire, the cold yellow hand "_du supplice encore mal lavee_," with its downy red hairs and its "_doigts de faune_." He glanced at his own white taper fingers, shuddering slightly in spite of himself, and passed on, till he came to those lovely stanzas upon Venice: Sur une gamme chromatique, Le sein de perles ruisselant, La Venus de l'Adriatique Sort de l'eau son corps rose et blanc. Les domes, sur l'azur des ondes Suivant la phrase au pur contour, S'enflent comme des gorges rondes Que souleve un soupir d'amour. L'esquif aborde et me depose, Jetant son amarre au pilier, Devant une facade rose, Sur le marbre d'un escalier. How exquisite they were! As one read them, one seemed to be floating down the green water-ways of the pink and pearl city, seated in a black gondola with silver prow and trailing curtains. The mere lines looked to him like those straight lines of turquoise-blue that follow one as one pushes out to the Lido. The sudden flashes of colour reminded him of the gleam of the opal-and-iris-throated birds that flutter round the tall honeycombed Campanile, or stalk, with such stately grace, through the dim, dust-stained arcades. Leaning back with half-closed eyes, he kept saying over and over to himself: "Devant une facade rose, Sur le marbre d'un escalier." The whole of Venice was in those two lines. He remembered the autumn that he had passed there, and a wonderful love that had stirred him to mad delightful follies. There was romance in every place. But Venice, like Oxford, had kept the background for romance, and, to the true romantic, background was everything, or almost everything. Basil had been with him part of the time, and had gone wild over Tintoret. Poor Basil! What a horrible way for a man to die! He sighed, and took up the volume again, and tried to forget. He read of the swallows that fly in and out of the little _cafe_ at Smyrna where the Hadjis sit counting their amber beads and the turbaned merchants smoke their long tasselled pipes and talk gravely to each other; he read of the Obelisk in the Place de la Concorde that weeps tears of granite in its lonely sunless exile and longs to be back by the hot, lotus-covered Nile, where there are Sphinxes, and rose-red ibises, and white vultures with gilded claws, and crocodiles with small beryl eyes that crawl over the green steaming mud; he began to brood over those verses which, drawing music from kiss-stained marble, tell of that curious statue that Gautier compares to a contralto voice, the "_monstre charmant_" that couches in the porphyry-room of the Louvre. But after a time the book fell from his hand. He grew nervous, and a horrible fit of terror came over him. What if Alan Campbell should be out of England? Days would elapse before he could come back. Perhaps he might refuse to come. What could he do then? Every moment was of vital importance. They had been great friends once, five years before--almost inseparable, indeed. Then the intimacy had come suddenly to an end. When they met in society now, it was only Dorian Gray who smiled: Alan Campbell never did. He was an extremely clever young man, though he had no real appreciation of the visible arts, and whatever little sense of the beauty of poetry he possessed he had gained entirely from Dorian. His dominant intellectual passion was for science. At Cambridge he had spent a great deal of his time working in the laboratory, and had taken a good class in the Natural Science Tripos of his year. Indeed, he was still devoted to the study of chemistry, and had a laboratory of his own in which he used to shut himself up all day long, greatly to the annoyance of his mother, who had set her heart on his standing for Parliament and had a vague idea that a chemist was a person who made up prescriptions. He was an excellent musician, however, as well, and played both the violin and the piano better than most amateurs. In fact, it was music that had first brought him and Dorian Gray together--music and that indefinable attraction that Dorian seemed to be able to exercise whenever he wished--and, indeed, exercised often without being conscious of it. They had met at Lady Berkshire's the night that Rubinstein played there, and after that used to be always seen together at the opera and wherever good music was going on. For eighteen months their intimacy lasted. Campbell was always either at Selby Royal or in Grosvenor Square. To him, as to many others, Dorian Gray was the type of everything that is wonderful and fascinating in life. Whether or not a quarrel had taken place between them no one ever knew. But suddenly people remarked that they scarcely spoke when they met and that Campbell seemed always to go away early from any party at which Dorian Gray was present. He had changed, too--was strangely melancholy at times, appeared almost to dislike hearing music, and would never himself play, giving as his excuse, when he was called upon, that he was so absorbed in science that he had no time left in which to practise. And this was certainly true. Every day he seemed to become more interested in biology, and his name appeared once or twice in some of the scientific reviews in connection with certain curious experiments. This was the man Dorian Gray was waiting for. Every second he kept glancing at the clock. As the minutes went by he became horribly agitated. At last he got up and began to pace up and down the room, looking like a beautiful caged thing. He took long stealthy strides. His hands were curiously cold. The suspense became unbearable. Time seemed to him to be crawling with feet of lead, while he by monstrous winds was being swept towards the jagged edge of some black cleft of precipice. He knew what was waiting for him there; saw it, indeed, and, shuddering, crushed with dank hands his burning lids as though he would have robbed the very brain of sight and driven the eyeballs back into their cave. It was useless. The brain had its own food on which it battened, and the imagination, made grotesque by terror, twisted and distorted as a living thing by pain, danced like some foul puppet on a stand and grinned through moving masks. Then, suddenly, time stopped for him. Yes: that blind, slow-breathing thing crawled no more, and horrible thoughts, time being dead, raced nimbly on in front, and dragged a hideous future from its grave, and showed it to him. He stared at it. Its very horror made him stone. At last the door opened and his servant entered. He turned glazed eyes upon him. "Mr. Campbell, sir," said the man. A sigh of relief broke from his parched lips, and the colour came back to his cheeks. "Ask him to come in at once, Francis." He felt that he was himself again. His mood of cowardice had passed away. The man bowed and retired. In a few moments, Alan Campbell walked in, looking very stern and rather pale, his pallor being intensified by his coal-black hair and dark eyebrows. "Alan! This is kind of you. I thank you for coming." "I had intended never to enter your house again, Gray. But you said it was a matter of life and death." His voice was hard and cold. He spoke with slow deliberation. There was a look of contempt in the steady searching gaze that he turned on Dorian. He kept his hands in the pockets of his Astrakhan coat, and seemed not to have noticed the gesture with which he had been greeted. "Yes: it is a matter of life and death, Alan, and to more than one person. Sit down." Campbell took a chair by the table, and Dorian sat opposite to him. The two men's eyes met. In Dorian's there was infinite pity. He knew that what he was going to do was dreadful. After a strained moment of silence, he leaned across and said, very quietly, but watching the effect of each word upon the face of him he had sent for, "Alan, in a locked room at the top of this house, a room to which nobody but myself has access, a dead man is seated at a table. He has been dead ten hours now. Don't stir, and don't look at me like that. Who the man is, why he died, how he died, are matters that do not concern you. What you have to do is this--" "Stop, Gray. I don't want to know anything further. Whether what you have told me is true or not true doesn't concern me. I entirely decline to be mixed up in your life. Keep your horrible secrets to yourself. They don't interest me any more." "Alan, they will have to interest you. This one will have to interest you. I am awfully sorry for you, Alan. But I can't help myself. You are the one man who is able to save me. I am forced to bring you into the matter. I have no option. Alan, you are scientific. You know about chemistry and things of that kind. You have made experiments. What you have got to do is to destroy the thing that is upstairs--to destroy it so that not a vestige of it will be left. Nobody saw this person come into the house. Indeed, at the present moment he is supposed to be in Paris. He will not be missed for months. When he is missed, there must be no trace of him found here. You, Alan, you must change him, and everything that belongs to him, into a handful of ashes that I may scatter in the air." "You are mad, Dorian." "Ah! I was waiting for you to call me Dorian." "You are mad, I tell you--mad to imagine that I would raise a finger to help you, mad to make this monstrous confession. I will have nothing to do with this matter, whatever it is. Do you think I am going to peril my reputation for you? What is it to me what devil's work you are up to?" "It was suicide, Alan." "I am glad of that. But who drove him to it? You, I should fancy." "Do you still refuse to do this for me?" "Of course I refuse. I will have absolutely nothing to do with it. I don't care what shame comes on you. You deserve it all. I should not be sorry to see you disgraced, publicly disgraced. How dare you ask me, of all men in the world, to mix myself up in this horror? I should have thought you knew more about people's characters. Your friend Lord Henry Wotton can't have taught you much about psychology, whatever else he has taught you. Nothing will induce me to stir a step to help you. You have come to the wrong man. Go to some of your friends. Don't come to me." "Alan, it was murder. I killed him. You don't know what he had made me suffer. Whatever my life is, he had more to do with the making or the marring of it than poor Harry has had. He may not have intended it, the result was the same." "Murder! Good God, Dorian, is that what you have come to? I shall not inform upon you. It is not my business. Besides, without my stirring in the matter, you are certain to be arrested. Nobody ever commits a crime without doing something stupid. But I will have nothing to do with it." "You must have something to do with it. Wait, wait a moment; listen to me. Only listen, Alan. All I ask of you is to perform a certain scientific experiment. You go to hospitals and dead-houses, and the horrors that you do there don't affect you. If in some hideous dissecting-room or fetid laboratory you found this man lying on a leaden table with red gutters scooped out in it for the blood to flow through, you would simply look upon him as an admirable subject. You would not turn a hair. You would not believe that you were doing anything wrong. On the contrary, you would probably feel that you were benefiting the human race, or increasing the sum of knowledge in the world, or gratifying intellectual curiosity, or something of that kind. What I want you to do is merely what you have often done before. Indeed, to destroy a body must be far less horrible than what you are accustomed to work at. And, remember, it is the only piece of evidence against me. If it is discovered, I am lost; and it is sure to be discovered unless you help me." "I have no desire to help you. You forget that. I am simply indifferent to the whole thing. It has nothing to do with me." "Alan, I entreat you. Think of the position I am in. Just before you came I almost fainted with terror. You may know terror yourself some day. No! don't think of that. Look at the matter purely from the scientific point of view. You don't inquire where the dead things on which you experiment come from. Don't inquire now. I have told you too much as it is. But I beg of you to do this. We were friends once, Alan." "Don't speak about those days, Dorian--they are dead." "The dead linger sometimes. The man upstairs will not go away. He is sitting at the table with bowed head and outstretched arms. Alan! Alan! If you don't come to my assistance, I am ruined. Why, they will hang me, Alan! Don't you understand? They will hang me for what I have done." "There is no good in prolonging this scene. I absolutely refuse to do anything in the matter. It is insane of you to ask me." "You refuse?" "Yes." "I entreat you, Alan." "It is useless." The same look of pity came into Dorian Gray's eyes. Then he stretched out his hand, took a piece of paper, and wrote something on it. He read it over twice, folded it carefully, and pushed it across the table. Having done this, he got up and went over to the window. Campbell looked at him in surprise, and then took up the paper, and opened it. As he read it, his face became ghastly pale and he fell back in his chair. A horrible sense of sickness came over him. He felt as if his heart was beating itself to death in some empty hollow. After two or three minutes of terrible silence, Dorian turned round and came and stood behind him, putting his hand upon his shoulder. "I am so sorry for you, Alan," he murmured, "but you leave me no alternative. I have a letter written already. Here it is. You see the address. If you don't help me, I must send it. If you don't help me, I will send it. You know what the result will be. But you are going to help me. It is impossible for you to refuse now. I tried to spare you. You will do me the justice to admit that. You were stern, harsh, offensive. You treated me as no man has ever dared to treat me--no living man, at any rate. I bore it all. Now it is for me to dictate terms." Campbell buried his face in his hands, and a shudder passed through him. "Yes, it is my turn to dictate terms, Alan. You know what they are. The thing is quite simple. Come, don't work yourself into this fever. The thing has to be done. Face it, and do it." A groan broke from Campbell's lips and he shivered all over. The ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to him to be dividing time into separate atoms of agony, each of which was too terrible to be borne. He felt as if an iron ring was being slowly tightened round his forehead, as if the disgrace with which he was threatened had already come upon him. The hand upon his shoulder weighed like a hand of lead. It was intolerable. It seemed to crush him. "Come, Alan, you must decide at once." "I cannot do it," he said, mechanically, as though words could alter things. "You must. You have no choice. Don't delay." He hesitated a moment. "Is there a fire in the room upstairs?" "Yes, there is a gas-fire with asbestos." "I shall have to go home and get some things from the laboratory." "No, Alan, you must not leave the house. Write out on a sheet of notepaper what you want and my servant will take a cab and bring the things back to you." Campbell scrawled a few lines, blotted them, and addressed an envelope to his assistant. Dorian took the note up and read it carefully. Then he rang the bell and gave it to his valet, with orders to return as soon as possible and to bring the things with him. As the hall door shut, Campbell started nervously, and having got up from the chair, went over to the chimney-piece. He was shivering with a kind of ague. For nearly twenty minutes, neither of the men spoke. A fly buzzed noisily about the room, and the ticking of the clock was like the beat of a hammer. As the chime struck one, Campbell turned round, and looking at Dorian Gray, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. There was something in the purity and refinement of that sad face that seemed to enrage him. "You are infamous, absolutely infamous!" he muttered. "Hush, Alan. You have saved my life," said Dorian. "Your life? Good heavens! what a life that is! You have gone from corruption to corruption, and now you have culminated in crime. In doing what I am going to do--what you force me to do--it is not of your life that I am thinking." "Ah, Alan," murmured Dorian with a sigh, "I wish you had a thousandth part of the pity for me that I have for you." He turned away as he spoke and stood looking out at the garden. Campbell made no answer. After about ten minutes a knock came to the door, and the servant entered, carrying a large mahogany chest of chemicals, with a long coil of steel and platinum wire and two rather curiously shaped iron clamps. "Shall I leave the things here, sir?" he asked Campbell. "Yes," said Dorian. "And I am afraid, Francis, that I have another errand for you. What is the name of the man at Richmond who supplies Selby with orchids?" "Harden, sir." "Yes--Harden. You must go down to Richmond at once, see Harden personally, and tell him to send twice as many orchids as I ordered, and to have as few white ones as possible. In fact, I don't want any white ones. It is a lovely day, Francis, and Richmond is a very pretty place--otherwise I wouldn't bother you about it." "No trouble, sir. At what time shall I be back?" Dorian looked at Campbell. "How long will your experiment take, Alan?" he said in a calm indifferent voice. The presence of a third person in the room seemed to give him extraordinary courage. Campbell frowned and bit his lip. "It will take about five hours," he answered. "It will be time enough, then, if you are back at half-past seven, Francis. Or stay: just leave my things out for dressing. You can have the evening to yourself. I am not dining at home, so I shall not want you." "Thank you, sir," said the man, leaving the room. "Now, Alan, there is not a moment to be lost. How heavy this chest is! I'll take it for you. You bring the other things." He spoke rapidly and in an authoritative manner. Campbell felt dominated by him. They left the room together. When they reached the top landing, Dorian took out the key and turned it in the lock. Then he stopped, and a troubled look came into his eyes. He shuddered. "I don't think I can go in, Alan," he murmured. "It is nothing to me. I don't require you," said Campbell coldly. Dorian half opened the door. As he did so, he saw the face of his portrait leering in the sunlight. On the floor in front of it the torn curtain was lying. He remembered that the night before he had forgotten, for the first time in his life, to hide the fatal canvas, and was about to rush forward, when he drew back with a shudder. What was that loathsome red dew that gleamed, wet and glistening, on one of the hands, as though the canvas had sweated blood? How horrible it was!--more horrible, it seemed to him for the moment, than the silent thing that he knew was stretched across the table, the thing whose grotesque misshapen shadow on the spotted carpet showed him that it had not stirred, but was still there, as he had left it. He heaved a deep breath, opened the door a little wider, and with half-closed eyes and averted head, walked quickly in, determined that he would not look even once upon the dead man. Then, stooping down and taking up the gold-and-purple hanging, he flung it right over the picture. There he stopped, feeling afraid to turn round, and his eyes fixed themselves on the intricacies of the pattern before him. He heard Campbell bringing in the heavy chest, and the irons, and the other things that he had required for his dreadful work. He began to wonder if he and Basil Hallward had ever met, and, if so, what they had thought of each other. "Leave me now," said a stern voice behind him. He turned and hurried out, just conscious that the dead man had been thrust back into the chair and that Campbell was gazing into a glistening yellow face. As he was going downstairs, he heard the key being turned in the lock. It was long after seven when Campbell came back into the library. He was pale, but absolutely calm. "I have done what you asked me to do," he muttered. "And now, good-bye. Let us never see each other again." "You have saved me from ruin, Alan. I cannot forget that," said Dorian simply. As soon as Campbell had left, he went upstairs. There was a horrible smell of nitric acid in the room. But the thing that had been sitting at the table was gone.

Chapter 14

https://web.archive.org/web/20210304030722/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/picture-dorian-gray/summary/chapter-14

The next morning, Dorian is awakened at nine by his valet. At first, he doesn't remember what happened the night before--his sleep was untroubled by conscience. Then, the memories come back; Dorian can't stop thinking about how much he suffered, but totally unsympathetic towards Basil . Dorian tries not to think too much about all of this unpleasant stuff, and goes about his business, getting dressed, reading letters, and having breakfast. He then writes two letters, and has one sent to the mysterious Alan Campbell. Dorian then lounges about in the library, comforting himself with poetry. Caught up in emotion, he briefly feels a little bad for Basil, then tries again to forget about it. However, though Dorian keeps trying to think of more pleasant things , he is overcome by nerves. What if Alan Campbell doesn't show up? We learn that Alan is one of the ex-friends that now hates Dorian. He's a brilliant young man--a scientist--and he and Dorian were great friends for a while. They were brought together by their love for music and were totally besties for about a year and half. Then, all of a sudden, they weren't friends anymore--nobody knows why. Alan then devoted his life to science. While Dorian's waiting for Alan, time drags on. He might not realize it, but this is the thing called "fear" that the rest of us are well acquainted with. Finally, Alan shows up. He's cold and unsympathetic--we have to wonder what terrible thing Dorian did to him. Dorian knows that he has to do another terrible thing to Alan, and there's pity in his eyes. He tells Alan about the corpse upstairs, and requests that Alan use "science" to get rid of it. You know, because "science" can do anything, including make dead bodies disappear. Trying to get the reluctant Alan on his side, Dorian claims that Basil committed suicide, but then admits to the murder when Alan still refuses. The two ex-friends argue fruitlessly for a while. When it seems as though Alan's just going to keep refusing, Dorian pulls out all the stops and resorts to blackmail. He writes something on a piece of paper and shows it to the astonished, horrified Alan. Whatever it is, it must be damning. Alan is totally miserable--wouldn't you be? Dorian has him backed into a corner; he has to take this mission, or Dorian will ruin his life. Alan agrees to dispose of the body. Dorian sends his servant to get Alan's lab equipment and supplies from his house, and, while they wait, things are totally, horrifically awkward. Finally, the servant returns, and Dorian dismisses him for the rest of the day. They're ready to start the gruesome "experiment." Dorian takes Alan upstairs, and leaves him in the schoolroom with the dead man. He flees the room, and Alan begins what he has to do. Hours later, Alan emerges, pale and drawn. He's finished the job, and he never wants to see Dorian again. Dorian goes to check out the schoolroom--it smells like acid, but Alan got the job done. The body is gone.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/22.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_3_part_7.txt

Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapter xxii

chapter xxii

{"name": "Chapter XXII", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase3-chapter16-24", "summary": "The Cricks receive a letter from a customer complaining about a foul taste in the butter, a \"twang,\" as he calls it. Mr. Crick determines that some of the cows wandered outside the fence and ate wild garlic. The workers attempt to find the culprit weed. Tess praises the other milkmaids to Angel, particularly Izz and Retty, but Angel loves Tess. All the milkmaids toss and turn in romantic dreams of Angel Clare", "analysis": ""}

They came downstairs yawning next morning; but skimming and milking were proceeded with as usual, and they went indoors to breakfast. Dairyman Crick was discovered stamping about the house. He had received a letter, in which a customer had complained that the butter had a twang. "And begad, so 't have!" said the dairyman, who held in his left hand a wooden slice on which a lump of butter was stuck. "Yes--taste for yourself!" Several of them gathered round him; and Mr Clare tasted, Tess tasted, also the other indoor milkmaids, one or two of the milking-men, and last of all Mrs Crick, who came out from the waiting breakfast-table. There certainly was a twang. The dairyman, who had thrown himself into abstraction to better realize the taste, and so divine the particular species of noxious weed to which it appertained, suddenly exclaimed-- "'Tis garlic! and I thought there wasn't a blade left in that mead!" Then all the old hands remembered that a certain dry mead, into which a few of the cows had been admitted of late, had, in years gone by, spoilt the butter in the same way. The dairyman had not recognized the taste at that time, and thought the butter bewitched. "We must overhaul that mead," he resumed; "this mustn't continny!" All having armed themselves with old pointed knives, they went out together. As the inimical plant could only be present in very microscopic dimensions to have escaped ordinary observation, to find it seemed rather a hopeless attempt in the stretch of rich grass before them. However, they formed themselves into line, all assisting, owing to the importance of the search; the dairyman at the upper end with Mr Clare, who had volunteered to help; then Tess, Marian, Izz Huett, and Retty; then Bill Lewell, Jonathan, and the married dairywomen--Beck Knibbs, with her wooly black hair and rolling eyes; and flaxen Frances, consumptive from the winter damps of the water-meads--who lived in their respective cottages. With eyes fixed upon the ground they crept slowly across a strip of the field, returning a little further down in such a manner that, when they should have finished, not a single inch of the pasture but would have fallen under the eye of some one of them. It was a most tedious business, not more than half a dozen shoots of garlic being discoverable in the whole field; yet such was the herb's pungency that probably one bite of it by one cow had been sufficient to season the whole dairy's produce for the day. Differing one from another in natures and moods so greatly as they did, they yet formed, bending, a curiously uniform row--automatic, noiseless; and an alien observer passing down the neighbouring lane might well have been excused for massing them as "Hodge". As they crept along, stooping low to discern the plant, a soft yellow gleam was reflected from the buttercups into their shaded faces, giving them an elfish, moonlit aspect, though the sun was pouring upon their backs in all the strength of noon. Angel Clare, who communistically stuck to his rule of taking part with the rest in everything, glanced up now and then. It was not, of course, by accident that he walked next to Tess. "Well, how are you?" he murmured. "Very well, thank you, sir," she replied demurely. As they had been discussing a score of personal matters only half-an-hour before, the introductory style seemed a little superfluous. But they got no further in speech just then. They crept and crept, the hem of her petticoat just touching his gaiter, and his elbow sometimes brushing hers. At last the dairyman, who came next, could stand it no longer. "Upon my soul and body, this here stooping do fairly make my back open and shut!" he exclaimed, straightening himself slowly with an excruciated look till quite upright. "And you, maidy Tess, you wasn't well a day or two ago--this will make your head ache finely! Don't do any more, if you feel fainty; leave the rest to finish it." Dairyman Crick withdrew, and Tess dropped behind. Mr Clare also stepped out of line, and began privateering about for the weed. When she found him near her, her very tension at what she had heard the night before made her the first to speak. "Don't they look pretty?" she said. "Who?" "Izzy Huett and Retty." Tess had moodily decided that either of these maidens would make a good farmer's wife, and that she ought to recommend them, and obscure her own wretched charms. "Pretty? Well, yes--they are pretty girls--fresh looking. I have often thought so." "Though, poor dears, prettiness won't last long!" "O no, unfortunately." "They are excellent dairywomen." "Yes: though not better than you." "They skim better than I." "Do they?" Clare remained observing them--not without their observing him. "She is colouring up," continued Tess heroically. "Who?" "Retty Priddle." "Oh! Why it that?" "Because you are looking at her." Self-sacrificing as her mood might be, Tess could not well go further and cry, "Marry one of them, if you really do want a dairywoman and not a lady; and don't think of marrying me!" She followed Dairyman Crick, and had the mournful satisfaction of seeing that Clare remained behind. From this day she forced herself to take pains to avoid him--never allowing herself, as formerly, to remain long in his company, even if their juxtaposition were purely accidental. She gave the other three every chance. Tess was woman enough to realize from their avowals to herself that Angel Clare had the honour of all the dairymaids in his keeping, and her perception of his care to avoid compromising the happiness of either in the least degree bred a tender respect in Tess for what she deemed, rightly or wrongly, the self-controlling sense of duty shown by him, a quality which she had never expected to find in one of the opposite sex, and in the absence of which more than one of the simple hearts who were his house-mates might have gone weeping on her pilgrimage.

Chapter XXII

https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase3-chapter16-24

The Cricks receive a letter from a customer complaining about a foul taste in the butter, a "twang," as he calls it. Mr. Crick determines that some of the cows wandered outside the fence and ate wild garlic. The workers attempt to find the culprit weed. Tess praises the other milkmaids to Angel, particularly Izz and Retty, but Angel loves Tess. All the milkmaids toss and turn in romantic dreams of Angel Clare

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/part_2_chapters_10_to_20.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Red and the Black/section_6_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 2.chapters 10-20

book 2, chapters 10-20

{"name": "", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210301223854/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/redblack/section7/", "summary": "Julien is shocked one morning to see Mathilde dressed all in black. He tries to figure out who she is mourning, and learns that it is the anniversary of her famous ancestor's death. Her ancestor, Boniface de la Mole, was decapitated for leading an insurrection in 1574. His lover, Queen Margot, asked for his head and buried it. Impressed by this romantic tale, Julien spends more and more time with Mathilde and soon begins to confide in her. They find that they both admire Napoleon and a time when men were heroes. Mathilde is an admired beauty in high demand by Parisian society, so Julien decides to seduce her. But Mathilde has already fallen in love with him. Unlike the noblemen who declare their love to her everyday, she finds Julien exciting. More importantly, she is extremely attracted to the bold notion of a forbidden love between an aristocratic woman and a man so far below her on the social scale. Mathilde also finds his fiery ambitions and liberal political aspirations a welcome change from the boring nobles she is used to. Even before Julien forms a plan of seduction, Mathilde declares her love. Julien feels he has triumphed over the countless noblemen who have tried to seduce Mathilde, but worries that her declaration might be an elaborate trap to humiliate him. Mathilde is so impressed with Julien's precautions to come to her room at one in the morning that she calls him her master and husband. They become lovers, but Mathilde feels less passion than a sense of duty toward Julien. The next day, Mathilde worries that Julien now holds too much power over her. They begin to argue, and Julien becomes so enraged that he threatens her with one of the Marquis's antique swords. Mathilde is so moved by the knight-like ferocity of Julien's gesture that she feels transported back to a time when jealous husbands often killed their wives. The sheer intensity of their relationship is too much for both of them and they begin quarreling again, only to rekindle their passion at the opera. Julien returns to her window with a ladder and Mathilde chops off half of her hair to give to Julien as a sign of her obedience. But she soon renounces her love for him again. Julien tries to forget her, but realizes that he is hopelessly in love.", "analysis": "Commentary Mathilde suffers from an acute case of Parisian boredom and, like Julien, yearns for a more adventurous epoch. Rather than looking for excitement in the recent past , Mathilde admires the romantic chivalry of the sixteenth century. She knows its history very well, especially that of her ancestor Boniface. Contemporary readers of Stendhal would also know the story of Boniface de la Mole and Queen Margot's love affair from Alexandre Dumas's Queen Margot. The plot of Dumas's novel mirrors the second half of The Red and the Black. This technique allows Stendhal to foreshadow Julien's fate as well as evoke the boredom of the nineteenth century: adventure is only experienced in books. Again, triangular desire plays a major role in Mathilde and Julien's relationship. Mathilde is looking for a modern day Boniface to sweep her off her feet. Julien's lack of exposure to Parisian society and fierce ambition make him stand out among the boring members of the salon. Mathilde often laments her \"dull degenerate century\" and thinks that Julien would make a great general in sixteenth-century France. She soon begins to imagine that Julien is a romantic throwback to a more exciting time. She thus loves Julien through the intermediary of the Boniface legend, forming yet another love triangle. Julien's love for Mathilde is tempered by two factors. Stendhal set out to write a novel about a France divided by class; Julien can not think of Mathilde without being aware of the wide social gulf between them. He first thinks that she is an arrogant snob and wants to seduce her just for the challenge. But when Mathilde breaks with tradition and declares her love first, Julien cannot help but think that it is some elaborate form of ridicule. His extreme caution and daring actually end up making Mathilde love him even more. As usual, he treats their secret meeting like a general planning an attack: after making sure that no one is following him, he climbs up to her window with a ladder, pistol in hand. Julien really thinks that he is risking his life, and Mathilde loves him for it. However, Stendhal is never satisfied with simple romanticism, and thus adds a second impediment to Julien's passion: Mathilde is crazy. Stendhal never claims that she is insane--only that the excessive boredom of Parisian life has driven her to excess. Her only understanding of life comes from novels and, as a result, she never quite knows what she wants. She hates Julien one day and is moved to give him half of her hair the next. She is also obsessed with the medieval notion of having a \"master,\" although she can not reconcile the fact that Julien is her social inferior. This comic bickering between the two young lovers is reinforced by their reliance on history and novels to express their love. The strong parallels with Dumas and Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet make Mathilde and Julien's relationship more of a farcical reenactment of triangular desire than true love."}

CHAPTER XL QUEEN MARGUERITE Love! In what madness do you not manage to make us find pleasure! Letters of a Portuguese Nun. Julien reread his letters. "How ridiculous I must have appeared in the eyes of that Parisian doll," he said to himself when the dinner-bell rang. "How foolish to have really told her what I was thinking! Perhaps it was not so foolish. Telling the truth on that occasion was worthy of me. Why did she come to question me on personal matters? That question was indiscreet on her part. She broke the convention. My thoughts about Danton are not part of the sacrifice which her father pays me to make." When he came into the dining-room Julien's thoughts were distracted from his bad temper by mademoiselle de la Mole's mourning which was all the more striking because none of the other members of the family were in black. After dinner he felt completely rid of the feeling which had obsessed him all day. Fortunately the academician who knew Latin was at dinner. "That's the man who will make the least fun of me," said Julien to himself, "if, as I surmise, my question about mademoiselle de la Mole's mourning is in bad taste." Mathilde was looking at him with a singular expression. "So this is the coquetry of the women of this part of the country, just as madame de Renal described it to me," said Julien to himself. "I was not nice to her this morning. I did not humour her caprice of talking to me. I got up in value in her eyes. The Devil doubtless is no loser by it. "Later on her haughty disdain will manage to revenge herself. I defy her to do her worst. What a contrast with what I have lost! What charming naturalness? What naivety! I used to know her thoughts before she did herself. I used to see them come into existence. The only rival she had in her heart was the fear of her childrens' death. It was a reasonable, natural feeling to me, and even though I suffered from it I found it charming. I have been a fool. The ideas I had in my head about Paris prevented me from appreciating that sublime woman. "Great God what a contrast and what do I find here? Arid, haughty vanity: all the fine shades of wounded egotism and nothing more." They got up from table. "I must not let my academician get snapped up," said Julien to himself. He went up to him as they were passing into the garden, assumed an air of soft submissiveness and shared in his fury against the success of Hernani. "If only we were still in the days of _lettres de cachet_!" he said. "Then he would not have dared," exclaimed the academician with a gesture worthy of Talma. Julien quoted some words from Virgil's Georgics in reference to a flower and expressed the opinion that nothing was equal to the abbe Delille's verses. In a word he flattered the academician in every possible way. He then said to him with the utmost indifference, "I suppose mademoiselle de la Mole has inherited something from some uncle for whom she is in mourning." "What! you belong to the house?" said the academician stopping short, "and you do not know her folly? As a matter of fact it is strange her mother should allow her to do such things, but between ourselves, they do not shine in this household exactly by their force of character. Mademoiselle's share has to do for all of them, and governs them. To-day is the thirtieth of April!" and the academician stopped and looked meaningly at Julien. Julien smiled with the most knowing expression he could master. "What connection can there be between ruling a household, wearing a black dress, and the thirtieth April?" he said to himself. "I must be even sillier than I thought." "I must confess...." he said to the academician while he continued to question him with his look. "Let us take a turn round the garden," said the academician delighted at seeing an opportunity of telling a long and well-turned story. "What! is it really possible you do not know what happened on the 30th April, 1574?" "And where?" said Julien in astonishment. "At the place de Greve." Julien was extremely astonished that these words did not supply him with the key. His curiosity and his expectation of a tragic interest which would be in such harmony with his own character gave his eyes that brilliance which the teller of a story likes to see so much in the person who is listening to him. The academician was delighted at finding a virgin ear, and narrated at length to Julien how Boniface de la Mole, the handsomest young man of this century together with Annibal de Coconasso, his friend, a gentleman of Piedmont, had been beheaded on the 30th April, 1574. La Mole was the adored lover of Queen Marguerite of Navarre and "observe," continued the academician, "that mademoiselle de La Mole's full name is Mathilde Marguerite. La Mole was at the same time a favourite of the Duke d'Alencon and the intimate friend of his mistress's husband, the King of Navarre, subsequently Henri IV. On Shrove Tuesday of that year 1574, the court happened to be at St. Germain with the poor king Charles IX. who was dying. La Mole wished to rescue his friends the princes, whom Queen Catherine of Medici was keeping prisoner in her Court. He advanced two hundred cavalry under the walls of St. Germain; the Duke d'Alencon was frightened and La Mole was thrown to the executioner. "But the thing which affects mademoiselle Mathilde, and what she has admitted to me herself seven or eight years ago when she was twelve, is a head! a head!----and the academician lifted up his eyes to the heavens. What struck her in this political catastrophe, was the hiding of Queen Marguerite de Navarre in a house in the place de Greve and her then asking for her lover's head. At midnight on the following day she took that head in her carriage and went and buried it herself in a chapel at the foot of the hill at Montmartre." "Impossible?" cried Julien really moved. "Mademoiselle Mathilde despises her brother because, as you see, he does not bother one whit about this ancient history, and never wears mourning on the thirtieth of April. It is since the time of this celebrated execution and in order to recall the intimate friendship of La Mole for the said Coconasso, who Italian that he was, bore the name of Annibal that all the men of that family bear that name. And," added the academician lowering his voice, "this Coconasso was, according to Charles IX. himself, one of the cruellest assassins of the twenty-fourth August, 1572. But how is it possible, my dear Sorel, that you should be ignorant of these things--you who take your meals with the family." "So that is why mademoiselle de la Mole twice called her brother Annibal at dinner. I thought I had heard wrong." "It was a reproach. It is strange that the marquise should allow such follies. The husband of that great girl will have a fine time of it." This remark was followed by five or six satiric phrases. Julien was shocked by the joy which shone in the academician's eyes. "We are just a couple of servants," he thought, "engaged in talking scandal about our masters. But I ought not to be astonished at anything this academy man does." Julien had surprised him on his knees one day before the marquise de la Mole; he was asking her for a tobacco receivership for a nephew in the provinces. In the evening a little chambermaid of mademoiselle de la Mole, who was paying court to Julien, just as Elisa had used to do, gave him to understand that her mistress's mourning was very far from being worn simply to attract attention. This eccentricity was rooted in her character. She really loved that la Mole, the beloved lover of the most witty queen of the century, who had died through trying to set his friends at liberty--and what friends! The first prince of the blood and Henri IV. Accustomed as he had been to the perfect naturalness which shone throughout madame de Renal's whole demeanour, Julien could not help finding all the women of Paris affected, and, though by no means of a morose disposition, found nothing to say to them. Mademoiselle de la Mole was an exception. He now began to cease taking for coldness of heart that kind of beauty which attaches importance to a noble bearing. He had long conversations with mademoiselle de la Mole, who would sometimes walk with him in the garden after dinner. She told him one day that she was reading the History of D'Aubigne and also Brantome. "Strange books to read," thought Julien; "and the marquis does not allow her to read Walter Scott's novels!" She told him one day, with that pleased brilliancy in her eyes, which is the real test of genuine admiration, about a characteristic act of a young woman of the reign of Henry III., which she had just read in the memoirs of L'Etoile. Finding her husband unfaithful she stabbed him. Julien's vanity was nattered. A person who was surrounded by so much homage, and who governed the whole house, according to the academician, deigned to talk to him on a footing almost resembling friendship. "I made a mistake," thought Julien soon afterwards. "This is not familiarity, I am simply the confidante of a tragedy, she needs to speak to someone. I pass in this family for a man of learning. I will go and read Brantome, D'Aubigne, L'Etoile. I shall then be able to challenge some of the anecdotes which madame de la Mole speaks to me about. I want to leave off this role of the passive confidante." His conversations with this young girl, whose demeanour was so impressive and yet so easy, gradually became more interesting. He forgot his grim role of the rebel plebian. He found her well-informed and even logical. Her opinions in the gardens were very different to those which she owned to in the salon. Sometimes she exhibited an enthusiasm and a frankness which were in absolute contrast to her usual cold haughtiness. "The wars of the League were the heroic days of France," she said to him one day, with eyes shining with enthusiasm. "Then everyone fought to gain something which he desired, for the sake of his party's triumph, and not just in order to win a cross as in the days of your emperor. Admit that there was then less egotism and less pettiness. I love that century." "And Boniface de la Mole was the hero of it," he said to her. "At least he was loved in a way that it is perhaps sweet to be loved. What woman alive now would not be horrified at touching the head of her decapitated lover?" Madame de la Mole called her daughter. To be effective hypocrisy ought to hide itself, yet Julien had half confided his admiration for Napoleon to mademoiselle de la Mole. Julien remained alone in the garden. "That is the immense advantage they have over us," he said to himself. "Their ancestors lift them above vulgar sentiments, and they have not got always to be thinking about their subsistence! What misery," he added bitterly. "I am not worthy to discuss these great matters. My life is nothing more than a series of hypocrisies because I have not got a thousand francs a year with which to buy my bread and butter." Mathilde came running back. "What are you dreaming about, monsieur?" she said to him. Julien was tired of despising himself. Through sheer pride he frankly told her his thoughts. He blushed a great deal while talking to such a person about his own poverty. He tried to make it as plain as he could that he was not asking for anything. Mathilde never thought him so handsome; she detected in him an expression of frankness and sensitiveness which he often lacked. Within a month of this episode Julien was pensively walking in the garden of the hotel; but his face had no longer the hardness and philosophic superciliousness which the chronic consciousness of his inferior position had used to write upon it. He had just escorted mademoiselle de la Mole to the door of the salon. She said she had hurt her foot while running with her brother. "She leaned on my arm in a very singular way," said Julien to himself. "Am I a coxcomb, or is it true that she has taken a fancy to me? She listens to me so gently, even when I confess to her all the sufferings of my pride! She too, who is so haughty to everyone! They would be very astonished in the salon if they saw that expression of hers. It is quite certain that she does not show anyone else such sweetness and goodness." Julien endeavoured not to exaggerate this singular friendship. He himself compared it to an armed truce. When they met again each day, they almost seemed before they took up the almost intimate tone of the previous day to ask themselves "are we going to be friends or enemies to-day?" Julien had realised that to allow himself to be insulted with impunity even once by this haughty girl would mean the loss of everything. "If I have got to quarrel would it not be better that it should be straight away in defending the rights of my own pride, than in parrying the expressions of contempt which would follow the slightest abandonment of my duty to my own self-respect?" On many occasions, on days when she was in a bad temper Mathilde, tried to play the great lady with him. These attempts were extremely subtle, but Julien rebuffed them roughly. One day he brusquely interrupted her. "Has mademoiselle de la Mole any orders to give her father's secretary?" he said to her. "If so he must listen to her orders, and execute them, but apart from that he has not a single word to say to her. He is not paid to tell her his thoughts." This kind of life, together with the singular surmises which it occasioned, dissipated the boredom which he had been accustomed to experience in that magnificent salon, where everyone was afraid, and where any kind of jest was in bad form. "It would be humorous if she loved me but whether she loves me or not," went on Julien, "I have for my confidential friend a girl of spirit before whom I see the whole household quake, while the marquis de Croisenois does so more than anyone else. Yes, to be sure, that same young man who is so polite, so gentle, and so brave, and who has combined all those advantages of birth and fortune a single one of which would put my heart at rest--he is madly in love with her, he ought to marry her. How many letters has M. de la Mole made me write to the two notaries in order to arrange the contract? And I, though I am an absolute inferior when I have my pen in my hand, why, I triumph over that young man two hours afterwards in this very garden; for, after all, her preference is striking and direct. Perhaps she hates him because she sees in him a future husband. She is haughty enough for that. As for her kindness to me, I receive it in my capacity of confidential servant. "But no, I am either mad or she is making advances to me; the colder and more respectful I show myself to her, the more she runs after me. It may be a deliberate piece of affectation; but I see her eyes become animated when I appear unexpectedly. Can the women of Paris manage to act to such an extent. What does it matter to me! I have appearances in my favour, let us enjoy appearances. Heavens, how beautiful she is! How I like her great blue eyes when I see them at close quarters, and they look at me in the way they often do? What a difference between this spring and that of last year, when I lived an unhappy life among three hundred dirty malicious hypocrites, and only kept myself afloat through sheer force of character, I was almost as malicious as they were." "That young girl is making fun of me," Julien would think in his suspicious days. "She is acting in concert with her brother to make a fool of me. But she seems to have an absolute contempt for her brother's lack of energy. He is brave and that is all. He has not a thought which dares to deviate from the conventional. It is always I who have to take up the cudgels in his defence. A young girl of nineteen! Can one at that age act up faithfully every second of the day to the part which one has determined to play. On the other hand whenever mademoiselle de la Mole fixes her eyes on me with a singular expression comte Norbert always goes away. I think that suspicious. Ought he not to be indignant at his sister singling out a servant of her household? For that is how I heard the Duke de Chaulnes speak about me. This recollection caused anger to supersede every other emotion. It is simply a fashion for old fashioned phraseology on the part of the eccentric duke?" "Well, she is pretty!" continued Julien with a tigerish expression, "I will have her, I will then go away, and woe to him who disturbs me in my flight." This idea became Julien's sole preoccupation. He could not think of anything else. His days passed like hours. Every moment when he tried to concentrate on some important matter his mind became a blank, and he would wake up a quarter of an hour afterwards with a beating heart and an anxious mind, brooding over this idea "does she love me?" CHAPTER XLI A YOUNG GIRL'S DOMINION I admire her beauty but I fear her intellect.--_Merimee_. If Julien had employed the time which he spent in exaggerating Matilde's beauty or in working himself up into a rage against that family haughtiness which she was forgetting for his sake in examining what was going on in the salon, he would have understood the secret of her dominion over all that surrounded her. When anyone displeased mademoiselle de La Mole she managed to punish the offender by a jest which was so guarded, so well chosen, so polite and so neatly timed, that the more the victim thought about it, the sorer grew the wound. She gradually became positively terrible to wounded vanity. As she attached no value to many things which the rest of her family very seriously wanted, she always struck them as self-possessed. The salons of the aristocracy are nice enough to brag about when you leave them, but that is all; mere politeness alone only counts for something in its own right during the first few days. Julien experienced this after the first fascination and the first astonishment had passed off. "Politeness," he said to himself "is nothing but the absence of that bad temper which would be occasioned by bad manners." Mathilde was frequently bored; perhaps she would have been bored anywhere. She then found a real distraction and real pleasure in sharpening an epigram. It was perhaps in order to have more amusing victims than her great relations, the academician and the five or six other men of inferior class who paid her court, that she had given encouragement to the marquis de Croisenois, the comte Caylus and two or three other young men of the highest rank. They simply represented new subjects for epigrams. We will admit with reluctance, for we are fond of Mathilde, that she had received many letters from several of them and had sometimes answered them. We hasten to add that this person constitutes an exception to the manners of the century. Lack of prudence is not generally the fault with which the pupils of the noble convent of the Sacred Heart can be reproached. One day the marquis de Croisenois returned to Mathilde a fairly compromising letter which she had written the previous night. He thought that he was thereby advancing his cause a great deal by taking this highly prudent step. But the very imprudence of her correspondence was the very element in it Mathilde liked. Her pleasure was to stake her fate. She did not speak to him again for six weeks. She amused herself with the letters of these young men, but in her view they were all like each other. It was invariably a case of the most profound, the most melancholy, passion. "They all represent the same perfect man, ready to leave for Palestine," she exclaimed to her cousin. "Can you conceive of anything more insipid? So these are the letters I am going to receive all my life! There can only be a change every twenty years according to the kind of vogue which happens to be fashionable. They must have had more colour in them in the days of the Empire. In those days all these young society men had seen or accomplished feats which really had an element of greatness. The Duke of N---- my uncle was at Wagram." "What brains do you need to deal a sabre blow? And when they have had the luck to do that they talk of it so often!" said mademoiselle de Sainte-Heredite, Mathilde's cousin. "Well, those tales give me pleasure. Being in a real battle, a battle of Napoleon, where six thousand soldiers were killed, why, that's proof of courage. Exposing one's self to danger elevates the soul and saves it from the boredom in which my poor admirers seem to be sunk; and that boredom is contagious. Which of them ever thought of doing anything extraordinary? They are trying to win my hand, a pretty business to be sure! I am rich and my father will procure advancement for his son-in-law. Well! I hope he'll manage to find someone who is a little bit amusing." Mathilde's keen, sharp and picturesque view of life spoilt her language as one sees. An expression of hers would often constitute a blemish in the eyes of her polished friends. If she had been less fashionable they would almost have owned that her manner of speaking was, from the standpoint of feminine delicacy, to some extent unduly coloured. She, on her side, was very unjust towards the handsome cavaliers who fill the Bois de Boulogne. She envisaged the future not with terror, that would have been a vivid emotion, but with a disgust which was very rare at her age. What could she desire? Fortune, good birth, wit, beauty, according to what the world said, and according to what she believed, all these things had been lavished upon her by the hands of chance. So this was the state of mind of the most envied heiress of the faubourg Saint-Germain when she began to find pleasure in walking with Julien. She was astonished at his pride; she admired the ability of the little bourgeois. "He will manage to get made a bishop like the abbe Mouray," she said to herself. Soon the sincere and unaffected opposition with which our hero received several of her ideas filled her mind; she continued to think about it, she told her friend the slightest details of the conversation, but thought that she would never succeed in fully rendering all their meaning. An idea suddenly flashed across her; "I have the happiness of loving," she said to herself one day with an incredible ecstasy of joy. "I am in love, I am in love, it is clear! Where can a young, witty and beautiful girl of my own age find sensations if not in love? It is no good. I shall never feel any love for Croisenois, Caylus, and _tutti quanti_. They are unimpeachable, perhaps too unimpeachable; any way they bore me." She rehearsed in her mind all the descriptions of passion which she had read in _Manon Lescaut_, the _Nouvelle Heloise_, the _Letters of a Portuguese Nun_, etc., etc. It was only a question of course of the grand passion; light love was unworthy of a girl of her age and birth. She vouchsafed the name of love to that heroic sentiment which was met with in France in the time of Henri III. and Bassompierre. That love did not basely yield to obstacles, but, far from it, inspired great deeds. "How unfortunate for me that there is not a real court like that of Catherine de' Medici or of Louis XIII. I feel equal to the boldest and greatest actions. What would I not make of a king who was a man of spirit like Louis XIII. if he were sighing at my feet! I would take him to the Vendee, as the Baron de Tolly is so fond of saying, and from that base he would re-conquer his kingdom; then no more about a charter--and Julien would help me. What does he lack? name and fortune. He will make a name, he will win a fortune. "Croisenois lacks nothing, and he will never be anything else all his life but a duke who is half 'ultra' and half Liberal, an undecided being who never goes to extremes and consequently always plays second fiddle. "What great action is not an extreme at the moment when it is undertaken? It is only after accomplishment that it seems possible to commonplace individuals. Yes, it is love with all its miracles which is going to reign over my heart; I feel as much from the fire which is thrilling me. Heaven owed me this boon. It will not then have lavished in vain all its bounties on one single person. My happiness will be worthy of me. Each day will no longer be the cold replica of the day before. There is grandeur and audacity in the very fact of daring to love a man, placed so far beneath me by his social position. Let us see what happens, will he continue to deserve me? I will abandon him at the first sign of weakness which I detect. A girl of my birth and of that mediaeval temperament which they are good enough to ascribe to me (she was quoting from her father) must not behave like a fool. "But should I not be behaving like a fool if I were to love the marquis de Croisenois? I should simply have a new edition over again of that happiness enjoyed by my girl cousins which I so utterly despise. I already know everything the poor marquis would say to me and every answer I should make. What's the good of a love which makes one yawn? One might as well be in a nunnery. I shall have a celebration of the signing of a contract just like my younger cousin when the grandparents all break down, provided of course that they are not annoyed by some condition introduced into the contract at the eleventh hour by the notary on the other side." CHAPTER XLII IS HE A DANTON? The need of anxiety. These words summed up the character of my aunt, the beautiful Marguerite de Valois, who was soon to marry the King of Navarre whom we see reigning at present in France under the name of Henry IV. The need of staking something was the key to the character of this charming princess; hence her quarrels and reconciliations with her brothers from the time when she was sixteen. Now, what can a young girl stake? The most precious thing she has: her reputation, the esteem of a lifetime. _Memoirs of the Duke d' Angouleme._ _the natural son of Charles IX_. "There is no contract to sign for Julien and me, there is no notary; everything is on the heroic plane, everything is the child of chance. Apart from the noble birth which he lacks, it is the love of Marguerite de Valois for the young La Mole, the most distinguished man of the time, over again. Is it my fault that the young men of the court are such great advocates of the conventional, and turn pale at the mere idea of the slightest adventure which is a little out of the ordinary? A little journey in Greece or Africa represents the highest pitch of their audacity, and moreover they can only march in troops. As soon as they find themselves alone they are frightened, not of the Bedouin's lance, but of ridicule and that fear makes them mad. "My little Julien on the other hand only likes to act alone. This unique person never thinks for a minute of seeking help or support in others! He despises others, and that is why I do not despise him. "If Julien were noble as well as poor, my love would simply be a vulgar piece of stupidity, a sheer mesalliance; I would have nothing to do with it; it would be absolutely devoid of the characteristic traits of grand passion--the immensity of the difficulty to be overcome and the black uncertainty cf the result." Mademoiselle de la Mole was so engrossed in these pretty arguments that without realising what she was doing, she praised Julien to the marquis de Croisenois and her brother on the following day. Her eloquence went so far that it provoked them. "You be careful of this young man who has so much energy," exclaimed her brother; "if we have another revolution he will have us all guillotined." She was careful not to answer, but hastened to rally her brother and the marquis de Croisenois on the apprehension which energy caused them. "It is at bottom simply the fear of meeting the unexpected, the fear of being non-plussed in the presence of the unexpected--" "Always, always, gentlemen, the fear of ridicule, a monster which had the misfortune to die in 1816." "Ridicule has ceased to exist in a country where there are two parties," M. de la Mole was fond of saying. His daughter had understood the idea. "So, gentlemen," she would say to Julien's enemies, "you will be frightened all your life and you will be told afterwards, "Ce n'etait pas un loup, ce n'en etait que l'ombre." Matilde soon left them. Her brother's words horrified her; they occasioned her much anxiety, but the day afterwards she regarded them as tantamount to the highest praise. "His energy frightens them in this age where all energy is dead. I will tell him my brother's phrase. I want to see what answer he will make. But I will choose one of the moments when his eyes are shining. Then he will not be able to lie to me. "He must be a Danton!" she added after a long and vague reverie. "Well, suppose the revolution begins again, what figures will Croisenois and my brother cut then? It is settled in advance: Sublime resignation. They will be heroic sheep who will allow their throats to be cut without saying a word. Their one fear when they die will still be the fear of being bad form. If a Jacobin came to arrest my little Julien he would blow his brains out, however small a chance he had of escaping. He is not frightened of doing anything in bad form." These last words made her pensive; they recalled painful memories and deprived her of all her boldness. These words reminded her of the jests of MM. de Caylus, Croisenois, de Luz and her brother; these gentlemen joined in censuring Julien for his priestly demeanour, which they said was humble and hypocritical. "But," she went on suddenly with her eyes gleaming with joy, "the very bitterness and the very frequency of their jests prove in spite of themselves that he is the most distinguished man whom we have seen this winter. What matter his defects and the things which they make fun of? He has the element of greatness and they are shocked by it. Yes, they, the very men who are so good and so charitable in other matters. It is a fact that he is poor and that he has studied in order to be a priest; they are the heads of a squadron and never had any need of studying; they found it less trouble. "In spite of all the handicap of his everlasting black suit and of that priestly expression which he must wear, poor boy, if he isn't to die of hunger, his merit frightens them, nothing could be clearer. And as for that priest-like expression, why he no longer has it after we have been alone for some moments, and after those gentlemen have evolved what they imagine to be a subtle and impromptu epigram, is not their first look towards Julien? I have often noticed it. And yet they know well that he never speaks to them unless he is questioned. I am the only one whom he speaks to. He thinks I have a lofty soul. He only answers the points they raise sufficiently to be polite. He immediately reverts into respectfulness. But with me he will discuss things for whole hours, he is not certain of his ideas so long as I find the slightest objection to them. There has not been a single rifle-shot fired all this winter; words have been the only means of attracting attention. Well, my father, who is a superior man and will carry the fortunes of our house very far, respects Julien. Every one else hates him, no one despises him except my mother's devout friends." The Comte de Caylus had or pretended to have a great passion for horses; he passed his life in his stables and often breakfasted there. This great passion, together with his habit of never laughing, won for him much respect among his friends: he was the eagle of the little circle. As soon as they had reassembled the following day behind madame de la Mole's armchair, M. de Caylus, supported by Croisenois and by Norbert, began in Julien's absence to attack sharply the high opinion which Mathilde entertained for Julien. He did this without any provocation, and almost the very minute that he caught sight of mademoiselle de la Mole. She tumbled to the subtlety immediately and was delighted with it. "So there they are all leagued together," she said to herself, "against a man of genius who has not ten louis a year to bless himself with and who cannot answer them except in so far as he is questioned. They are frightened of him, black coat and all. But how would things stand if he had epaulettes?" She had never been more brilliant, hardly had Caylus and his allies opened their attack than she riddled them with sarcastic jests. When the fire of these brilliant officers was at length extinguished she said to M. de Caylus, "Suppose that some gentleman in the Franche-Comte mountains finds out to-morrow that Julien is his natural son and gives him a name and some thousands of francs, why in six months he will be an officer of hussars like you, gentlemen, in six weeks he will have moustaches like you gentlemen. And then his greatness of character will no longer be an object of ridicule. I shall then see you reduced, monsieur the future duke, to this stale and bad argument, the superiority of the court nobility over the provincial nobility. But where will you be if I choose to push you to extremities and am mischievous enough to make Julien's father a Spanish duke, who was a prisoner of war at Besancon in the time of Napoleon, and who out of conscientious scruples acknowledges him on his death bed?" MM. de Caylus, and de Croisenois found all these assumptions of illegitimacy in rather bad taste. That was all they saw in Mathilde's reasoning. His sister's words were so clear that Norbert, in spite of his submissiveness, assumed a solemn air, which one must admit did not harmonise very well with his amiable, smiling face. He ventured to say a few words. "Are you ill? my dear," answered Mathilde with a little air of seriousness. "You must be very bad to answer jests by moralizing." "Moralizing from you! Are you soliciting a job as prefect?" Mathilde soon forgot the irritation of the comte de Caylus, the bad temper of Norbert, and the taciturn despair of M. de Croisenois. She had to decide one way or the other a fatal question which had just seized upon her soul. "Julien is sincere enough with me," she said to herself, "a man at his age, in a inferior position, and rendered unhappy as he is by an extraordinary ambition, must have need of a woman friend. I am perhaps that friend, but I see no sign of love in him. Taking into account the audacity of his character he would surely have spoken to me about his love." This uncertainty and this discussion with herself which henceforth monopolised Mathilde's time, and in connection with which she found new arguments each time that Julien spoke to her, completely routed those fits of boredom to which she had been so liable. Daughter as she was of a man of intellect who might become a minister, mademoiselle de la Mole had been when in the convent of the Sacred Heart, the object of the most excessive flattery. This misfortune can never be compensated for. She had been persuaded that by reason of all her advantages of birth, fortune, etc., she ought to be happier than any one else. This is the cause of the boredom of princes and of all their follies. Mathilde had not escaped the deadly influence of this idea. However intelligent one may be, one cannot at the age of ten be on one's guard against the flatteries of a whole convent, which are apparently so well founded. From the moment that she had decided that she loved Julien, she was no longer bored. She congratulated herself every day on having deliberately decided to indulge in a grand passion. "This amusement is very dangerous," she thought. "All the better, all the better, a thousand times. Without a grand passion I should be languishing in boredom during the finest time of my life, the years from sixteen to twenty. I have already wasted my finest years: all my pleasure consisted in being obliged to listen to the silly arguments of my mother's friends who when at Coblentz in 1792 were not quite so strict, so they say, as their words of to-day." It was while Mathilde was a prey to these great fits of uncertainty that Julien was baffled by those long looks of hers which lingered upon him. He noticed, no doubt, an increased frigidity in the manner of comte Norbert, and a fresh touch of haughtiness in the manner of MM. de Caylus, de Luz and de Croisenois. He was accustomed to that. He would sometimes be their victim in this way at the end of an evening when, in view of the position he occupied, he had been unduly brilliant. Had it not been for the especial welcome with which Mathilde would greet him, and the curiosity with which all this society inspired him, he would have avoided following these brilliant moustachioed young men into the garden, when they accompanied mademoiselle de La Mole there, in the hour after dinner. "Yes," Julien would say to himself, "it is impossible for me to deceive myself, mademoiselle de la Mole looks at me in a very singular way. But even when her fine blue open eyes are fixed on me, wide open with the most abandon, I always detect behind them an element of scrutiny, self-possession and malice. Is it possible that this may be love? But how different to madame de Renal's looks!" One evening after dinner Julien, who had followed M. de la Mole into his study, was rapidly walking back to the garden. He approached Mathilde's circle without any warning, and caught some words pronounced in a very loud voice. She was teasing her brother. Julien heard his name distinctly pronounced twice. He appeared. There was immediately a profound silence and abortive efforts were made to dissipate it. Mademoiselle de la Mole and her brother were too animated to find another topic of conversation. MM. de Caylus, de Croisenois, de Luz, and one of their friends, manifested an icy coldness to Julien. He went away. CHAPTER XLIII A PLOT Disconnected remarks, casual meetings, become transformed in the eyes of an imaginative man into the most convincing proofs, if he has any fire in his temperament.--_Schiller_. The following day he again caught Norbert and his sister talking about him. A funereal silence was established on his arrival as on the previous day. His suspicions were now unbounded. "Can these charming young people have started to make fun of me? I must own this is much more probable, much more natural than any suggested passion on the part of mademoiselle de La Mole for a poor devil of a secretary. In the first place, have those people got any passions at all? Mystification is their strong point. They are jealous of my poor little superiority in speaking. Being jealous again is one of their weaknesses. On that basis everything is explicable. Mademoiselle de La Mole simply wants to persuade me that she is marking me out for special favour in order to show me off to her betrothed?" This cruel suspicion completely changed Julien's psychological condition. The idea found in his heart a budding love which it had no difficulty in destroying. This love was only founded on Mathilde's rare beauty, or rather on her queenly manners and her admirable dresses. Julien was still a parvenu in this respect. We are assured that there is nothing equal to a pretty society women for dazzling a peasant who is at the same time a man of intellect, when he is admitted to first class society. It had not been Mathilde's character which had given Julien food for dreams in the days that had just passed. He had sufficient sense to realise that he knew nothing about her character. All he saw of it might be merely superficial. For instance, Mathilde would not have missed mass on Sunday for anything in the world. She accompanied her mother there nearly every time. If when in the salon of the Hotel de La Mole some indiscreet man forgot where he was, and indulged in the remotest allusion to any jest against the real or supposed interests of Church or State, Mathilde immediately assumed an icy seriousness. Her previously arch expression re-assumed all the impassive haughtiness of an old family portrait. But Julien had assured himself that she always had one or two of Voltaire's most philosophic volumes in her room. He himself would often steal some tomes of that fine edition which was so magnificently bound. By moving each volume a little distance from the one next to it he managed to hide the absence of the one he took away, but he soon noticed that someone else was reading Voltaire. He had recourse to a trick worthy of the seminary and placed some pieces of hair on those volumes which he thought were likely to interest mademoiselle de La Mole. They disappeared for whole weeks. M. de La Mole had lost patience with his bookseller, who always sent him all the spurious memoirs, and had instructed Julien to buy all the new books, which were at all stimulating. But in order to prevent the poison spreading over the household, the secretary was ordered to place the books in a little book-case that stood in the marquis's own room. He was soon quite certain that although the new books were hostile to the interests of both State and Church, they very quickly disappeared. It was certainly not Norbert who read them. Julien attached undue importance to this discovery, and attributed to mademoiselle de la Mole a Machiavellian role. This seeming depravity constituted a charm in his eyes, the one moral charm, in fact, which she possessed. He was led into this extravagance by his boredom with hypocrisy and moral platitudes. It was more a case of his exciting his own imagination than of his being swept away by his love. It was only after he had abandoned himself to reveries about the elegance of mademoiselle de la Mole's figure, the excellent taste of he dress, the whiteness of her hand, the beauty of her arm, the _disinvoltura_ of all her movements, that he began to find himself in love. Then in order to complete the charm he thought her a Catherine de' Medici. Nothing was too deep or too criminal for the character which he ascribed to her. She was the ideal of the Maslons, the Frilairs, and the Castanedes whom he had admired so much in his youth. To put it shortly, she represented in his eyes the Paris ideal. Could anything possibly be more humorous than believing in the depth or in the depravity of the Parisian character? It is impossible that this _trio_ is making fun of me thought Julien. The reader knows little of his character if he has not begun already to imagine his cold and gloomy expression when he answered Mathilde's looks. A bitter irony rebuffed those assurances of friendship which the astonished mademoiselle de la Mole ventured to hazard on two or three occasions. Piqued by this sudden eccentricity, the heart of this young girl, though naturally cold, bored and intellectual, became as impassioned as it was naturally capable of being. But there was also a large element of pride in Mathilde's character, and the birth of a sentiment which made all her happiness dependent on another, was accompanied by a gloomy melancholy. Julien had derived sufficient advantage from his stay in Paris to appreciate that this was not the frigid melancholy of ennui. Instead of being keen as she had been on at homes, theatres, and all kinds of distractions, she now shunned them. Music sung by Frenchmen bored Mathilde to death, yet Julien, who always made a point of being present when the audience came out of the Opera, noticed that she made a point of getting taken there as often as she could. He thought he noticed that she had lost a little of that brilliant neatness of touch which used to be manifest in everything she did. She would sometimes answer her friends with jests rendered positively outrageous through the sheer force of their stinging energy. He thought that she made a special butt of the marquis de Croisenois. That young man must be desperately in love with money not to give the go-by to that girl, however rich she maybe, thought Julien. And as for himself, indignant at these outrages on masculine self-respect, he redoubled his frigidity towards her. Sometimes he went so far as to answer her with scant courtesy. In spite of his resolution not to become the dupe of Mathilde's signs of interest, these manifestations were so palpable on certain days, and Julien, whose eyes were beginning to be opened, began to find her so pretty, that he was sometimes embarrassed. "These young people of society will score in the long run by their skill and their coolness over my inexperience," he said to himself. "I must leave and put an end to all this." The marquis had just entrusted him with the administration of a number of small estates and houses which he possessed in Lower Languedoc. A journey was necessary; M. de la Mole reluctantly consented. Julien had become his other self, except in those matters which concerned his political career. "So, when we come to balance the account," Julien said to himself, as he prepared his departure, "they have not caught me. Whether the jests that mademoiselle de la Mole made to those gentlemen are real, or whether they were only intended to inspire me with confidence, they have simply amused me. "If there is no conspiracy against the carpenter's son, mademoiselle de la Mole is an enigma, but at any rate, she is quite as much an enigma for the marquis de Croisenois as she is to me. Yesterday, for instance, her bad temper was very real, and I had the pleasure of seeing her snub, thanks to her favour for me, a young man who is as noble and as rich as I am a poor scoundrel of a plebeian. That is my finest triumph; it will divert me in my post-chaise as I traverse the Languedoc plains." He had kept his departure a secret, but Mathilde knew, even better than he did himself, that he was going to leave Paris the following day for a long time. She developed a maddening headache, which was rendered worse by the stuffy salon. She walked a great deal in the garden, and persecuted Norbert, the marquis de Croisenois, Caylus, de Luz, and some other young men who had dined at the Hotel de la Mole, to such an extent by her mordant witticisms, that she drove them to take their leave. She kept looking at Julien in a strange way. "Perhaps that look is a pose," thought Julien, "but how about that hurried breathing and all that agitation? Bah," he said to himself, "who am I to judge of such things? We are dealing with the cream of Parisian sublimity and subtlety. As for that hurried breathing which was on the point of affecting me, she no doubt studied it with Leontine Fay, whom she likes so much." They were left alone; the conversation was obviously languishing. "No, Julien has no feeling for me," said Mathilde to herself, in a state of real unhappiness. As he was taking leave of her she took his arm violently. "You will receive a letter from me this evening," she said to him in a voice that was so changed that its tone was scarcely recognisable. This circumstance affected Julien immediately. "My father," she continued, "has a proper regard for the services you render him. You must not leave to-morrow; find an excuse." And she ran away. Her figure was charming. It was impossible to have a prettier foot. She ran with a grace which fascinated Julien, but will the reader guess what he began to think about after she had finally left him? He felt wounded by the imperious tone with which she had said the words, "you must." Louis XV. too, when on his death-bed, had been keenly irritated by the words "you must," which had been tactlessly pronounced by his first physician, and yet Louis XV. was not a parvenu. An hour afterwards a footman gave Julien a letter. It was quite simply a declaration of love. "The style is too affected," said Julien to himself, as he endeavoured to control by his literary criticism the joy which was spreading over his cheeks and forcing him to smile in spite of himself. At last his passionate exultation was too strong to be controlled. "So I," he suddenly exclaimed, "I, the poor peasant, get a declaration of love from a great lady." "As for myself, I haven't done so badly," he added, restraining his joy as much as he could. "I have managed to preserve my self-respect. I did not say that I loved her." He began to study the formation of the letters. Mademoiselle de la Mole had a pretty little English handwriting. He needed some concrete occupation to distract him from a joy which verged on delirium. "Your departure forces me to speak.... I could not bear not to see you again." A thought had just struck Julien like a new discovery. It interrupted his examination of Mathilde's letter, and redoubled his joy. "So I score over the marquis de Croisenois," he exclaimed. "Yes, I who could only talk seriously! And he is so handsome. He has a moustache and a charming uniform. He always manages to say something witty and clever just at the psychological moment." Julien experienced a delightful minute. He was wandering at random in the garden, mad with happiness. Afterwards he went up to his desk, and had himself ushered in to the marquis de la Mole, who was fortunately still in. He showed him several stamped papers which had come from Normandy, and had no difficulty in convincing him that he was obliged to put off his departure for Languedoc in order to look after the Normandy lawsuits. "I am very glad that you are not going," said the marquis to him, when they had finished talking business. "I like seeing you." Julien went out; the words irritated him. "And I--I am going to seduce his daughter! and perhaps render impossible that marriage with the marquis de Croisenois to which the marquis looks forward with such delight. If he does not get made a duke, at any rate his daughter will have a coronet." Julien thought of leaving for Languedoc in spite of Mathilde's letter, and in spite of the explanation he had just given to the marquis. This flash of virtue quickly disappeared. "How kind it is of me," he said to himself, "me ... a plebeian, takes pity on a family of this rank! Yes, me, whom the duke of Chaulnes calls a servant! How does the marquis manage to increase his immense fortune? By selling stock when he picks up information at the castle that there will be a panic of a _coup d'etat_ on the following day. And shall I, who have been flung down into the lowest class by a cruel providence--I, whom providence has given a noble heart but not an income of a thousand francs, that is to say, not enough to buy bread with, literally not enough to buy bread with--shall I refuse a pleasure that presents itself? A limpid fountain which will quench my thirst in this scorching desert of mediocrity which I am traversing with such difficulty! Upon my word, I am not such a fool! Each man for himself in that desert of egoism which is called life." And he remembered certain disdainful looks which madame de la Mole, and especially her lady friends, had favoured him with. The pleasure of scoring over the marquis de Croisenois completed the rout of this echo of virtue. "How I should like to make him angry," said Julien. "With what confidence would I give him a sword thrust now!" And he went through the segoon thrust. "Up till now I have been a mere usher, who exploited basely the little courage he had. After this letter I am his equal. "Yes," he slowly said to himself, with an infinite pleasure, "the merits of the marquis and myself have been weighed in the balance, and it is the poor carpenter from the Jura who turns the scale. "Good!" he exclaimed, "this is how I shall sign my answer. Don't imagine, mademoiselle de la Mole, that I am forgetting my place. I will make you realise and fully appreciate that it is for a carpenter's son that you are betraying a descendant of the famous Guy de Croisenois who followed St. Louis to the Crusade." Julien was unable to control his joy. He was obliged to go down into the garden. He had locked himself in his room, but he found it too narrow to breathe in. "To think of it being me, the poor peasant from the Jura," he kept on repeating to himself, "to think of it being me who am eternally condemned to wear this gloomy black suit! Alas twenty years ago I would have worn a uniform like they do! In those days a man like me either got killed or became a general at thirty-six. The letter which he held clenched in his hand gave him a heroic pose and stature. Nowadays, it is true, if one sticks to this black suit, one gets at forty an income of a hundred thousand francs and the blue ribbon like my lord bishop of Beauvais. "Well," he said to himself with a Mephistophelian smile, "I have more brains than they. I am shrewd enough to choose the uniform of my century. And he felt a quickening of his ambition and of his attachment to his ecclesiastical dress. What cardinals of even lower birth than mine have not succeeded in governing! My compatriot Granvelle, for instance." Julien's agitation became gradually calmed! Prudence emerged to the top. He said to himself like his master Tartuffe whose part he knew by heart: Je puis croire ces mots, un artifice honnete. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Je ne me firai point a des propos si doux, Qu'un peu de ses faveurs apres quoi je soupire Ne vienne m'assurer tout ce qu'ils m'ont pudire. _Tartuffe, act iv. Scene v_. "Tartuffe, too, was ruined by a woman, and he was as good as most men.... My answer may be shown.... and the way out of that is this," he added pronouncing his words slowly with an intonation of deliberate and restrained ferocity. "We will begin by quoting the most vivid passages from the letter of the sublime Mathilde." "Quite so, but M. de Croisenois' lackeys will hurl themselves upon me and snatch the original away." "No, they won't, for I am well armed, and as we know I am accustomed to firing on lackeys." "Well, suppose one of them has courage, and hurls himself upon me. He has been promised a hundred napoleons. I kill him, or wound him, good, that's what they want. I shall be thrown into prison legally. I shall be had up in the police court and the judges will send me with all justice and all equity to keep Messieurs Fontan and Magalon company in Poissy. There I shall be landed in the middle of four hundred scoundrels.... And am I to have the slightest pity on these people," he exclaimed getting up impetuously! "Do they show any to persons of the third estate when they have them in their power!" With these words his gratitude to M. de la Mole, which had been in spite of himself torturing his conscience up to this time, breathed its last. "Softly, gentlemen, I follow this little Machiavellian trick, the abbe Maslon or M. Castanede of the seminary could not have done better. You will take the provocative letter away from me and I shall exemplify the second volume of Colonel Caron at Colmar." "One moment, gentlemen, I will send the fatal letter in a well-sealed packet to M. the abbe Pirard to take care of. He's an honest man, a Jansenist, and consequently incorruptible. Yes, but he will open the letters.... Fouque is the man to whom I must send it." We must admit that Julien's expression was awful, his countenance ghastly; it breathed unmitigated criminality. It represented the unhappy man at war with all society. "To arms," exclaimed Julien. And he bounded up the flight of steps of the hotel with one stride. He entered the stall of the street scrivener; he frightened him. "Copy this," he said, giving him mademoiselle de la Mole's letter. While the scrivener was working, he himself wrote to Fouque. He asked him to take care of a valuable deposit. "But he said to himself," breaking in upon his train of thought, "the secret service of the post-office will open my letter, and will give you gentlemen the one you are looking for ... not quite, gentlemen." He went and bought an enormous Bible from a Protestant bookseller, skillfully hid Mathilde's letter in the cover, and packed it all up. His parcel left by the diligence addressed to one of Fouque's workmen, whose name was known to nobody at Paris. This done, he returned to the Hotel de la Mole, joyous and buoyant. Now it's our turn he exclaimed as he locked himself into the room and threw off his coat. "What! mademoiselle," he wrote to Mathilde, "is it mademoiselle de la Mole who gets Arsene her father's lackey to hand an only too flattering letter to a poor carpenter from the Jura, in order no doubt to make fun of his simplicity?" And he copied out the most explicit phrases in the letter which he had just received. His own letter would have done honour to the diplomatic prudence of M. the Chevalier de Beauvoisis. It was still only ten o'clock when Julien entered the Italian opera, intoxicated with happiness and that feeling of his own power which was so novel for a poor devil like him. He heard his friend Geronimo sing. Music had never exalted him to such a pitch. CHAPTER XLIV A YOUNG GIRL'S THOUGHTS What perplexity! What sleepless nights! Great God. Am I going to make myself contemptible? He will despise me himself. But he is leaving, he is going away. _Alfred de Musset_ Mathilde had not written without a struggle. Whatever might have been the beginning of her interest in Julien, it soon dominated that pride which had reigned unchallenged in her heart since she had begun to know herself. This cold and haughty soul was swept away for the first time by a sentiment of passion, but if this passion dominated her pride, it still kept faithfully to the habits of that pride. Two months of struggles and new sensations had transformed, so to speak her whole moral life. Mathilde thought she was in sight of happiness. This vista, irresistible as it is for those who combine a superior intellect with a courageous soul, had to struggle for a long time against her self respect and all her vulgar duties. One day she went into her mother's room at seven o'clock in the morning and asked permission to take refuge in Villequier. The marquise did not even deign to answer her, and advised her to go back to bed. This was the last effort of vulgar prudence and respect for tradition. The fear of doing wrong and of offending those ideas which the Caylus's, the de Luz's, the Croisenois' held for sacred had little power over her soul. She considered such creatures incapable of understanding her. She would have consulted them, if it had been a matter of buying a carriage or an estate. Her real fear was that Julien was displeased with her. "Perhaps he, too, has only the appearance of a superior man?" She abhorred lack of character; that was her one objection to the handsome young men who surrounded her. The more they made elegant fun of everything which deviated from the prevailing mode, or which conformed to it but indifferently, the lower they fell in her eyes. They were brave and that was all. "And after all in what way were they brave?" she said to herself. "In duels, but the duel is nothing more than a formality. The whole thing is mapped out beforehand, even the correct thing to say when you fall. Stretched on the turf, and with your hand on your heart, you must vouchsafe a generous forgiveness to the adversary, and a few words for a fair lady, who is often imaginary, or if she does exist, will go to a ball on the day of your death for fear of arousing suspicion." "One braves danger at the head of a squadron brilliant with steel, but how about that danger which is solitary, strange, unforeseen and really ugly." "Alas," said Mathilde to herself, "it was at the court of Henri III. that men who were great both by character and by birth were to be found! Yes! If Julien had served at Jarnac or Moncontour, I should no longer doubt. In those days of strength and vigour Frenchmen were not dolls. The day of the battle was almost the one which presented the fewest problems." Their life was not imprisoned, like an Egyptian mummy in a covering which was common to all, and always the same. "Yes," she added, "there was more real courage in going home alone at eleven o'clock in the evening when one came out of the Hotel de Soissons where Catherine de' Medici lived than there is nowadays in running over to Algiers. A man's life was then a series of hazards. Nowadays civilisation has banished hazard. There are no more surprises. If anything new appears in any idea there are not sufficient epigrams to immortalise it, but if anything new appears in actual life, our panic reaches the lowest depth of cowardice. Whatever folly panic makes us commit is excused. What a degenerate and boring age! What would Boniface de la Mole have said if, lifting his cut-off head out of the tomb, he had seen seventeen of his descendants allow themselves to be caught like sheep in 1793 in order to be guillotined two days afterwards! Death was certain, but it would have been bad form to have defended themselves and to have killed at least one or two Jacobins. Yes! in the heroic days of France, in the age of Boniface de la Mole, Julien would have been the chief of a squadron, while my brother would have been the young priest with decorous manners, with wisdom in his eyes and reason on his lips." Some months previously Mathilde had given up all hope of meeting any being who was a little different from the common pattern. She had found some happiness in allowing herself to write to some young society men. This rash procedure, which was so unbecoming and so imprudent in a young girl, might have disgraced her in the eyes of M. de Croisenois, the Duke de Chaulnes, his father, and the whole Hotel de Chaulnes, who on seeing the projected marriage broken off would have wanted to know the reason. At that time Mathilde had been unable to sleep on those days when she had written one of her letters. But those letters were only answers. But now she ventured to declare her own love. She wrote first (what a terrible word!) to a man of the lowest social grade. This circumstance rendered her eternal disgrace quite inevitable in the event of detection. Who of the women who visited her mother would have dared to take her part? What official excuse could be evolved which could successfully cope with the awful contempt of society. Besides speaking was awful enough, but writing! "There are some things which are not written!" Napoleon had exclaimed on learning of the capitulation of Baylen. And it was Julien who had told her that epigram, as though giving her a lesson that was to come in useful subsequently. But all this was comparatively unimportant, Mathilde's anguish had other causes. Forgetting the terrible effect it would produce on society, and the ineffable blot on her scutcheon that would follow such an outrage on her own caste, Mathilde was going to write to a person of a very different character to the Croisenois', the de Luz's, the Caylus's. She would have been frightened at the depth and mystery in Julien's character, even if she had merely entered into a conventional acquaintance with him. And she was going to make him her lover, perhaps her master. "What will his pretensions not be, if he is ever in a position to do everything with me? Well! I shall say, like Medea: _Au milieu de tant de perils il me reste Moi_." She believed that Julien had no respect for nobility of blood. What was more, he probably did not love her. In these last moments of awful doubt her feminine pride suggested to her certain ideas. "Everything is bound to be extraordinary in the life of a girl like me," exclaimed Mathilde impatiently. The pride, which had been drilled into her since her cradle, began to struggle with her virtue. It was at this moment that Julien's departure precipitated everything. (Such characters are luckily very rare.) Very late in the evening, Julien was malicious enough to have a very heavy trunk taken down to the porter's lodge. He called the valet, who was courting mademoiselle de la Mole's chambermaid, to move it. "This manoeuvre cannot result in anything," he said to himself, "but if it does succeed, she will think that I have gone." Very tickled by this humorous thought, he fell asleep. Mathilde did not sleep a wink. Julien left the hotel very early the next morning without being seen, but he came back before eight o'clock. He had scarcely entered the library before M. de la Mole appeared on the threshold. He handed her his answer. He thought that it was his duty to speak to her, it was certainly perfectly feasible, but mademoiselle de la Mole would not listen to him and disappeared. Julien was delighted. He did not know what to say. "If all this is not a put up job with comte Norbert, it is clear that it is my cold looks which have kindled the strange love which this aristocratic girl chooses to entertain for me. I should be really too much of a fool if I ever allowed myself to take a fancy to that big blonde doll." This train of reasoning left him colder and more calculating than he had ever been. "In the battle for which we are preparing," he added, "pride of birth will be like a high hill which constitutes a military position between her and me. That must be the field of the manoeuvres. I made a great mistake in staying in Paris; this postponing of my departure cheapens and exposes me, if all this is simply a trick. What danger was there in leaving? If they were making fun of me, I was making fun of them. If her interest for me was in any way real, I was making that interest a hundred times more intense." Mademoiselle de la Mole's letter had given Julien's vanity so keen a pleasure, that wreathed as he was in smiles at his good fortune he had forgotten to think seriously about the propriety of leaving. It was one of the fatal elements of his character to be extremely sensitive to his own weaknesses. He was extremely upset by this one, and had almost forgotten the incredible victory which had preceded this slight check, when about nine o'clock mademoiselle de la Mole appeared on the threshold of the library, flung him a letter and ran away. "So this is going to be the romance by letters," he said as he picked it up. "The enemy makes a false move; I will reply by coldness and virtue." He was asked with a poignancy which merely increased his inner gaiety to give a definite answer. He indulged in the pleasure of mystifying those persons who he thought wanted to make fun of him for two pages, and it was out of humour again that he announced towards the end of his answer his definite departure on the following morning. "The garden will be a useful place to hand her the letter," he thought after he had finished it, and he went there. He looked at the window of mademoiselle de la Mole's room. It was on the first storey, next to her mother's apartment, but there was a large ground floor. This latter was so high that, as Julien walked under the avenue of pines with his letter in his hands, he could not be seen from mademoiselle de la Mole's window. The dome formed by the well clipped pines intercepted the view. "What!" said Julien to himself angrily, "another indiscretion! If they have really begun making fun of me, showing myself with a letter is playing into my enemy's hands." Norbert's room was exactly above his sister's and if Julien came out from under the dome formed by the clipped branches of the pine, the comte and his friend could follow all his movements. Mademoiselle de la Mole appeared behind her window; he half showed his letter; she lowered her head, then Julien ran up to his own room and met accidentally on the main staircase the fair Mathilde, who seized the letter with complete self-possession and smiling eyes. "What passion there was in the eyes of that poor madame de Renal," said Julien to himself, "when she ventured to receive a letter from me, even after six months of intimate relationship! I don't think she ever looked at me with smiling eyes in her whole life." He did not formulate so precisely the rest of his answer; was he perhaps ashamed of the triviality of the motive which were actuating him? "But how different too," he went on to think, "are her elegant morning dress and her distinguished appearance! A man of taste on seeing mademoiselle de la Mole thirty yards off would infer the position which she occupies in society. That is what can be called a specific merit." In spite of all this humorousness, Julien was not yet quite honest with himself; madame de Renal had no marquis de Croisenois to sacrifice to him. His only rival was that grotesque sub-prefect, M. Charcot, who assumed the name of Maugiron, because there were no Maugirons left in France. At five o'clock Julien received a third letter. It was thrown to him from the library door. Mademoiselle de la Mole ran away again. "What a mania for writing," he said to himself with a laugh, "when one can talk so easily. The enemy wants my letters, that is clear, and many of them." He did not hurry to open this one. "More elegant phrases," he thought; but he paled as he read it. There were only eight lines. "I need to speak to you; I must speak to you this evening. Be in the garden at the moment when one o'clock is striking. Take the big gardeners' ladder near the well; place it against my window, and climb up to my room. It is moonlight; never mind." CHAPTER XLV IS IT A PLOT? Oh, how cruel is the interval between the conception and the execution of a great project. What vain fears, what fits of irresolution! It is a matter of life and death--even more is at stake honour!--_Schiller_. "This is getting serious," thought Julien, "and a little too clear," he added after thinking a little. "Why to be sure! This fine young lady can talk to me in the library with a freedom which, thank heaven, is absolutely complete; the marquis, frightened as he is that I show him accounts, never sets foot in it. Why! M. de la Mole and the comte Norbert, the only persons who ever come here, are absent nearly the whole day, and the sublime Mathilde for whom a sovereign prince would not be too noble a suitor, wants me to commit an abominable indiscretion. "It is clear they want to ruin me, or at the least make fun of me. First they wanted to ruin me by my own letters; they happen to be discreet; well, they want some act which is clearer than daylight. These handsome little gentlemen think I am too silly or too conceited. The devil! To think of climbing like this up a ladder to a storey twenty-five feet high in the finest moonlight. They would have time to see me, even from the neighbouring houses. I shall cut a pretty figure to be sure on my ladder!" Julien went up to his room again and began to pack his trunk whistling. He had decided to leave and not even to answer. But this wise resolution did not give him peace of mind. "If by chance," he suddenly said to himself after he had closed his trunk, "Mathilde is in good faith, why then I cut the figure of an arrant coward in her eyes. I have no birth myself, so I need great qualities attested straight away by speaking actions--money down--no charitable credit." He spent a quarter-of-an-hour in reflecting. "What is the good of denying it?" he said at last. "She will think me a coward. I shall lose not only the most brilliant person in high society, as they all said at M. the duke de Retz's ball, but also the heavenly pleasure of seeing the marquis de Croisenois, the son of a duke, who will be one day a duke himself, sacrificed to me. A charming young man who has all the qualities I lack. A happy wit, birth, fortune.... "This regret will haunt me all my life, not on her account, 'there are so many mistresses!... but there is only one honour!' says old don Diego. And here am I clearly and palpably shrinking from the first danger that presents itself; for the duel with M. de Beauvoisis was simply a joke. This is quite different. A servant may fire at me point blank, but that is the least danger; I may be disgraced. "This is getting serious, my boy," he added with a Gascon gaiety and accent. "Honour is at stake. A poor devil flung by chance into as low a grade as I am will never find such an opportunity again. I shall have my conquests, but they will be inferior ones...." He reflected for a long time, he walked up and down hurriedly, and then from time to time would suddenly stop. A magnificent marble bust of cardinal de Richelieu had been placed in his room. It attracted his gaze in spite of himself. This bust seemed to look at him severely as though reproaching him with the lack of that audacity which ought to be so natural to the French character. "Would I have hesitated in your age great man?" "At the worst," said Julien to himself, "suppose all this is a trap, it is pretty black and pretty compromising for a young girl. They know that I am not the man to hold my tongue. They will therefore have to kill me. That was right enough in 1574 in the days of Boniface de la Mole, but nobody today would ever have the pluck. They are not the same men. Mademoiselle de la Mole is the object of so much jealousy. Four hundred salons would ring with her disgrace to-morrow, and how pleased they would all be. "The servants gossip among themselves about marked the favours of which I am the recipient. I know it, I have heard them.... "On the other hand they're her letters. They may think that I have them on me. They may surprise me in her room and take them from me. I shall have to deal with two, three, or four men. How can I tell? But where are they going to find these men? Where are they to find discreet subordinates in Paris? Justice frightens them.... By God! It may be the Caylus's, the Croisenois', the de Luz's themselves. The idea of the ludicrous figure I should cut in the middle of them at the particular minute may have attracted them. Look out for the fate of Abelard, M. the secretary. "Well, by heaven, I'll mark you. I'll strike at your faces like Caesar's soldiers at Pharsalia. As for the letters, I can put them in a safe place." Julien copied out the two last, hid them in a fine volume of Voltaire in the library and himself took the originals to the post. "What folly am I going to rush into," he said to himself with surprise and terror when he returned. He had been a quarter of an hour without contemplating what he was to do on this coming night. "But if I refuse, I am bound to despise myself afterwards. This matter will always occasion me great doubt during my whole life, and to a man like me such doubts are the most poignant unhappiness. Did I not feel like that for Amanda's lover! I think I would find it easier to forgive myself for a perfectly clear crime; once admitted, I could leave off thinking of it. "Why! I shall have been the rival of a man who bears one of the finest names in France, and then out of pure light-heartedness, declared myself his inferior! After all, it is cowardly not to go; these words clinch everything," exclaimed Julien as he got up ... "besides she is quite pretty." "If this is not a piece of treachery, what a folly is she not committing for my sake. If it's a piece of mystification, by heaven, gentlemen, it only depends on me to turn the jest into earnest and that I will do. "But supposing they tie my hands together at the moment I enter the room: they may have placed some ingenious machine there. "It's like a duel," he said to himself with a laugh. "Everyone makes a full parade, says my _maitre d'armes_, but the good God, who wishes the thing to end, makes one of them forget to parry. Besides, here's something to answer them with." He drew his pistols out of his pocket, and although the priming was shining, he renewed it. There was still several hours to wait. Julien wrote to Fouque in order to have something to do. "My friend, do not open the enclosed letter except in the event of an accident, if you hear that something strange has happened to me. In that case blot out the proper names in the manuscript which I am sending you, make eight copies of it, and send it to the papers of Marseilles, Bordeaux, Lyons, Brussels, etc. Ten days later have the manuscript printed, send the first copy to M. the marquis de la Mole, and a fortnight after that throw the other copies at night into the streets of Verrieres." Julien made this little memoir in defence of his position as little compromising as possible for mademoiselle de la Mole. Fouque was only to open it in the event of an accident. It was put in the form of a story, but in fact it exactly described his situation. Julien had just fastened his packet when the dinner bell rang. It made his heart beat. His imagination was distracted by the story which he had just composed, and fell a prey to tragic presentiments. He saw himself seized by servants, trussed, and taken into a cellar with a gag in his mouth. A servant was stationed there, who never let him out of sight, and if the family honour required that the adventure should have a tragic end, it was easy to finish everything with those poisons which leave no trace. They could then say that he had died of an illness and would carry his dead body back into his room. Thrilled like a dramatic author by his own story, Julien was really afraid when he entered the dining-room. He looked at all those liveried servants--he studied their faces. "Which ones are chosen for to-night's expedition?" he said to himself. "The memories of the court of Henri III. are so vivid in this family, and so often recalled, that if they think they have been insulted they will show more resolution than other persons of the same rank." He looked at mademoiselle de la Mole in order to read the family plans in her eyes; she was pale and looked quite middle-aged. He thought that she had never looked so great: she was really handsome and imposing; he almost fell in love with her. "_Pallida morte futura_," he said to himself (her pallor indicates her great plans). It was in vain that after dinner he made a point of walking for a long time in the garden, mademoiselle did not appear. Speaking to her at that moment would have lifted a great weight off his heart. Why not admit it? he was afraid. As he had resolved to act, he was not ashamed to abandon himself to this emotion. "So long as I show the necessary courage at the actual moment," he said to himself, "what does it matter what I feel at this particular moment?" He went to reconnoitre the situation and find out the weight of the ladder. "This is an instrument," he said to himself with a smile, "which I am fated to use both here and at Verrieres. What a difference! In those days," he added with a sigh, "I was not obliged to distrust the person for whom I exposed myself to danger. What a difference also in the danger!" "There would have been no dishonour for me if I had been killed in M. de Renal's gardens. It would have been easy to have made my death into a mystery. But here all kinds of abominable scandal will be talked in the salons of the Hotel de Chaulnes, the Hotel de Caylus, de Retz, etc., everywhere in fact. I shall go down to posterity as a monster." "For two or three years," he went on with a laugh, making fun of himself; but the idea paralysed him. "And how am I going to manage to get justified? Suppose that Fouque does print my posthumous pamphlet, it will only be taken for an additional infamy. Why! I get received into a house, and I reward the hospitality which I have received, the kindness with which I have been loaded by printing a pamphlet about what has happened and attacking the honour of women! Nay! I'd a thousand times rather be duped." The evening was awful. CHAPTER XLVI ONE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING This garden was very big, it had been planned a few years ago in perfect taste. But the trees were more than a century old. It had a certain rustic atmosphere.--_Massinger_. He was going to write a countermanding letter to Fouque when eleven o'clock struck. He noisily turned the lock of the door of his room as though he had locked himself in. He went with a sleuth-like step to observe what was happening over the house, especially on the fourth storey where the servants slept. There was nothing unusual. One of madame de la Mole's chambermaids was giving an entertainment, the servants were taking punch with much gaiety. "Those who laugh like that," thought Julien, "cannot be participating in the nocturnal expedition; if they were, they would be more serious." Eventually he stationed himself in an obscure corner of the garden. "If their plan is to hide themselves from the servants of the house, they will despatch the persons whom they have told off to surprise me over the garden wall. "If M. de Croisenois shows any sense of proportion in this matter, he is bound to find it less compromising for the young person, whom he wishes to make his wife if he has me surprised before I enter her room." He made a military and extremely detailed reconnaissance. "My honour is at stake," he thought. "If I tumble into some pitfall it will not be an excuse in my own eyes to say, 'I never thought of it.'" The weather was desperately serene. About eleven o'clock the moon rose, at half-past twelve it completely illuminated the facade of the hotel looking out upon the garden. "She is mad," Julien said to himself. As one o'clock struck there was still a light in comte Norbert's windows. Julien had never been so frightened in his life, he only saw the dangers of the enterprise and had no enthusiasm at all. He went and took the immense ladder, waited five minutes to give her time to tell him not to go, and five minutes after one placed the ladder against Mathilde's window. He mounted softly, pistol in hand, astonished at not being attacked. As he approached the window it opened noiselessly. "So there you are, monsieur," said Mathilde to him with considerable emotion. "I have been following your movements for the last hour." Julien was very much embarrassed. He did not know how to conduct himself. He did not feel at all in love. He thought in his embarrassment that he ought to be venturesome. He tried to kiss Mathilde. "For shame," she said to him, pushing him away. Extremely glad at being rebuffed, he hastened to look round him. The moon was so brilliant that the shadows which it made in mademoiselle de la Mole's room were black. "It's quite possible for men to be concealed without my seeing them," he thought. "What have you got in your pocket at the side of your coat?" Mathilde said to him, delighted at finding something to talk about. She was suffering strangely; all those sentiments of reserve and timidity which were so natural to a girl of good birth, had reasserted their dominion and were torturing her. "I have all kinds of arms and pistols," answered Julien equally glad at having something to say. "You must take the ladder away," said Mathilde. "It is very big, and may break the windows of the salon down below or the room on the ground floor." "You must not break the windows," replied Mathilde making a vain effort to assume an ordinary conversational tone; "it seems to me you can lower the ladder by tying a cord to the first rung. I have always a supply of cords at hand." "So this is a woman in love," thought Julien. "She actually dares to say that she is in love. So much self-possession and such shrewdness in taking precautions are sufficient indications that I am not triumphing over M. de Croisenois as I foolishly believed, but that I am simply succeeding him. As a matter of fact, what does it matter to me? Do I love her? I am triumphing over the marquis in so far as he would be very angry at having a successor, and angrier still at that successor being myself. How haughtily he looked at me this evening in the Cafe Tortoni when he pretended not to recognise me! And how maliciously he bowed to me afterwards, when he could not get out of it." Julien had tied the cord to the last rung of the ladder. He lowered it softly and leant far out of the balcony in order to avoid its touching the window pane. "A fine opportunity to kill me," he thought, "if anyone is hidden in Mathilde's room;" but a profound silence continued to reign everywhere. The ladder touched the ground. Julien succeeded in laying it on the border of the exotic flowers along side the wall. "What will my mother say," said Mathilde, "when she sees her beautiful plants all crushed? You must throw down the cord," she added with great self-possession. "If it were noticed going up to the balcony, it would be a difficult circumstance to explain." "And how am I to get away?" said Julien in a jesting tone affecting the Creole accent. (One of the chambermaids of the household had been born in Saint-Domingo.) "You? Why you will leave by the door," said Mathilde, delighted at the idea. "Ah! how worthy this man is of all my love," she thought. Julien had just let the cord fall into the garden; Mathilde grasped his arm. He thought he had been seized by an enemy and turned round sharply, drawing a dagger. She had thought that she had heard a window opening. They remained motionless and scarcely breathed. The moonlight lit up everything. The noise was not renewed and there was no more cause for anxiety. Then their embarrassment began again; it was great on both sides. Julien assured himself that the door was completely locked; he thought of looking under the bed, but he did not dare; "they might have stationed one or two lackeys there." Finally he feared that he might reproach himself in the future for this lack of prudence, and did look. Mathilde had fallen into all the anguish of the most extreme timidity. She was horrified at her position. "What have you done with my letters?" she said at last. "What a good opportunity to upset these gentlemen, if they are eavesdropping, and thus avoiding the battle," thought Julien. "The first is hid in a big Protestant Bible, which last night's diligence is taking far away from here." He spoke very distinctly as he went into these details, so as to be heard by any persons who might be concealed in two large mahogany cupboards which he had not dared to inspect. "The other two are in the post and are bound for the same destination as the first." "Heavens, why all these precautions?" said Mathilde in alarm. "What is the good of my lying?" thought Julien, and he confessed all his suspicions. "So that's the cause for the coldness of your letters, dear," exclaimed Mathilde in a tone of madness rather than of tenderness. Julien did not notice that nuance. The endearment made him lose his head, or at any rate his suspicions vanished. He dared to clasp in his arms that beautiful girl who inspired him with such respect. He was only partially rebuffed. He fell back on his memory as he had once at Besancon with Armanda Binet, and recited by heart several of the finest phrases out of the _Nouvelle Heloise_. "You have the heart of a man," was the answer she made without listening too attentively to his phrases; "I wanted to test your courage, I confess it. Your first suspicions and your resolutions show you even more intrepid, dear, than I had believed." Mathilde had to make an effort to call him "dear," and was evidently paying more attention to this strange method of speech than to the substance of what she was saying. Being called "dear" without any tenderness in the tone afforded no pleasure to Julien; he was astonished at not being happy, and eventually fell back on his reasoning in order to be so. He saw that he was respected by this proud young girl who never gave undeserved praise; by means of this reasoning he managed to enjoy the happiness of satisfied vanity. It was not, it was true, that soulful pleasure which he had sometimes found with madame de Renal. There was no element of tenderness in the feelings of these first few minutes. It was the keen happiness of a gratified ambition, and Julien was, above all, ambitious. He talked again of the people whom he had suspected and of the precautions which he had devised. As he spoke, he thought of the best means of exploiting his victory. Mathilde was still very embarrassed and seemed paralysed by the steps which she had taken. She appeared delighted to find a topic of conversation. They talked of how they were to see each other again. Julien extracted a delicious joy from the consciousness of the intelligence and the courage, of which he again proved himself possessed during this discussion. They had to reckon with extremely sharp people, the little Tanbeau was certainly a spy, but Mathilde and himself as well had their share of cleverness. What was easier than to meet in the library, and there make all arrangements? "I can appear in all parts of the hotel," added Julien, "without rousing suspicion almost, in fact, in madame de la Mole's own room." It was absolutely necessary to go through it in order to reach her daughter's room. If Mathilde thought it preferable for him always to come by a ladder, then he would expose himself to that paltry danger with a heart intoxicated with joy. As she listened to him speaking, Mathilde was shocked by this air of triumph. "So he is my master," she said to herself, she was already a prey to remorse. Her reason was horrified at the signal folly which she had just committed. If she had had the power she would have annihilated both herself and Julien. When for a few moments she managed by sheer will-power to silence her pangs of remorse, she was rendered very unhappy by her timidity and wounded shame. She had quite failed to foresee the awful plight in which she now found herself. "I must speak to him, however," she said at last. "That is the proper thing to do. One does talk to one's lover." And then with a view of accomplishing a duty, and with a tenderness which was manifested rather in the words which she employed than in the inflection of her voice, she recounted various resolutions which she had made concerning him during the last few days. She had decided that if he should dare to come to her room by the help of the gardener's ladder according to his instructions, she would be entirely his. But never were such tender passages spoken in a more polite and frigid tone. Up to the present this assignation had been icy. It was enough to make one hate the name of love. What a lesson in morality for a young and imprudent girl! Is it worth while to ruin one's future for moments such as this? After long fits of hesitation which a superficial observer might have mistaken for the result of the most emphatic hate (so great is the difficulty which a woman's self-respect finds in yielding even to so firm a will as hers) Mathilde became eventually a charming mistress. In point of fact, these ecstasies were a little artificial. Passionate love was still more the model which they imitated than a real actuality. Mademoiselle de la Mole thought she was fulfilling a duty towards herself and towards her lover. "The poor boy," she said to herself, "has shewn a consummate bravery. He deserves to be happy or it is really I who will be shewing a lack of character." But she would have been glad to have redeemed the cruel necessity in which she found herself even at the price of an eternity of unhappiness. In spite of the awful violence she was doing to herself she was completely mistress of her words. No regret and no reproach spoiled that night which Julien found extraordinary rather than happy. Great heavens! what a difference to his last twenty-four hours' stay in Verrieres. These fine Paris manners manage to spoil everything, even love, he said to himself, quite unjustly. He abandoned himself to these reflections as he stood upright in one of the great mahogany cupboards into which he had been put at the sign of the first sounds of movement in the neighbouring apartment, which was madame de la Mole's. Mathilde followed her mother to mass, the servants soon left the apartment and Julien easily escaped before they came back to finish their work. He mounted a horse and tried to find the most solitary spots in one of the forests near Paris. He was more astonished than happy. The happiness which filled his soul from time to time resembled that of a young sub-lieutenant who as the result of some surprising feat has just been made a full-fledged colonel by the commander-in-chief; he felt himself lifted up to an immense height. Everything which was above him the day before was now on a level with him or even below him. Little by little Julien's happiness increased in proportion as he got further away from Paris. If there was no tenderness in his soul, the reason was that, however strange it may appear to say so, Mathilde had in everything she had done, simply accomplished a duty. The only thing she had not foreseen in all the events of that night, was the shame and unhappiness which she had experienced instead of that absolute felicity which is found in novels. "Can I have made a mistake, and not be in love with him?" she said to herself. CHAPTER XLVII AN OLD SWORD I now mean to be serious; it is time Since laughter now-a-days is deemed too serious. A jest at vice by virtues called a crime. _Don Juan, c. xiii._ She did not appear at dinner. She came for a minute into the salon in the evening, but did not look at Julien. He considered this behaviour strange, "but," he thought, "I do not know their usages. She will give me some good reason for all this." None the less he was a prey to the most extreme curiosity; he studied the expression of Mathilde's features; he was bound to own to himself that she looked cold and malicious. It was evidently not the same woman who on the proceeding night had had, or pretended to have, transports of happiness which were too extravagant to be genuine. The day after, and the subsequent day she showed the same coldness; she did not look at him, she did not notice his existence. Julien was devoured by the keenest anxiety and was a thousand leagues removed from that feeling of triumph which had been his only emotion on the first day. "Can it be by chance," he said to himself, "a return to virtue?" But this was a very bourgeois word to apply to the haughty Mathilde. "Placed in an ordinary position in life she would disbelieve in religion," thought Julien, "she only likes it in so far as it is very useful to the interests of her class." But perhaps she may as a mere matter of delicacy be keenly reproaching herself for the mistake which she has committed. Julien believed that he was her first lover. "But," he said to himself at other moments, "I must admit that there is no trace of naivety, simplicity, or tenderness in her own demeanour; I have never seen her more haughty, can she despise me? It would be worthy of her to reproach herself simply because of my low birth, for what she has done for me." While Julien, full of those preconceived ideas which he had found in books and in his memories of Verrieres, was chasing the phantom of a tender mistress, who from the minute when she has made her lover happy no longer thinks of her own existence, Mathilde's vanity was infuriated against him. As for the last two months she had no longer been bored, she was not frightened of boredom; consequently, without being able to have the slightest suspicion of it, Julien had lost his greatest advantage. "I have given myself a master," said mademoiselle de la Mole to herself, a prey to the blackest sorrow. "Luckily he is honour itself, but if I offend his vanity, he will revenge himself by making known the nature of our relations." Mathilde had never had a lover, and though passing through a stage of life which affords some tender illusions even to the coldest souls, she fell a prey to the most bitter reflections. "He has an immense dominion over me since his reign is one of terror, and he is capable, if I provoke him, of punishing me with an awful penalty." This idea alone was enough to induce mademoiselle de la Mole to insult him. Courage was the primary quality in her character. The only thing which could give her any thrill and cure her from a fundamental and chronically recurring ennui was the idea that she was staking her entire existence on a single throw. As mademoiselle de la Mole obstinately refused to look at him, Julien on the third day in spite of her evident objection, followed her into the billiard-room after dinner. "Well, sir, you think you have acquired some very strong rights over me?" she said to him with scarcely controlled anger, "since you venture to speak to me, in spite of my very clearly manifested wish? Do you know that no one in the world has had such effrontery?" The dialogue of these two lovers was incomparably humourous. Without suspecting it, they were animated by mutual sentiments of the most vivid hate. As neither the one nor the other had a meekly patient character, while they were both disciples of good form, they soon came to informing each other quite clearly that they would break for ever. "I swear eternal secrecy to you," said Julien. "I should like to add that I would never address a single word to you, were it not that a marked change might perhaps jeopardise your reputation." He saluted respectfully and left. He accomplished easily enough what he believed to be a duty; he was very far from thinking himself much in love with mademoiselle de la Mole. He had certainly not loved her three days before, when he had been hidden in the big mahogany cupboard. But the moment that he found himself estranged from her for ever his mood underwent a complete and rapid change. His memory tortured him by going over the least details in that night, which had as a matter of fact left him so cold. In the very night that followed this announcement of a final rupture, Julien almost went mad at being obliged to own to himself that he loved mademoiselle de la Mole. This discovery was followed by awful struggles: all his emotions were overwhelmed. Two days later, instead of being haughty towards M. de Croisenois, he could have almost burst out into tears and embraced him. His habituation to unhappiness gave him a gleam of commonsense, he decided to leave for Languedoc, packed his trunk and went to the post. He felt he would faint, when on arriving at the office of the mails, he was told that by a singular chance there was a place in the Toulouse mail. He booked it and returned to the Hotel de la Mole to announce his departure to the marquis. M. de la Mole had gone out. More dead than alive Julien went into the library to wait for him. What was his emotion when he found mademoiselle de la Mole there. As she saw him come, she assumed a malicious expression which it was impossible to mistake. In his unhappiness and surprise Julien lost his head and was weak enough to say to her in a tone of the most heartfelt tenderness. "So you love me no more." "I am horrified at having given myself to the first man who came along," said Mathilde crying with rage against herself. "The first man who came along," cried Julien, and he made for an old mediaeval sword which was kept in the library as a curiosity. His grief--which he thought was at its maximum at the moment when he had spoken to mademoiselle de la Mole--had been rendered a hundred times more intense by the tears of shame which he saw her shedding. He would have been the happiest of men if he had been able to kill her. When he was on the point of drawing the sword with some difficulty from its ancient scabbard, Mathilde, rendered happy by so novel a sensation, advanced proudly towards him, her tears were dry. The thought of his benefactor--the marquis de la Mole--presented itself vividly to Julien. "Shall I kill his daughter?" he said to himself, "how horrible." He made a movement to throw down the sword. "She will certainly," he thought, "burst out laughing at the sight of such a melodramatic pose:" that idea was responsible for his regaining all his self-possession. He looked curiously at the blade of the old sword as though he had been looking for some spot of rust, then put it back in the scabbard and replaced it with the utmost tranquillity on the gilt bronze nail from which it hung. The whole manoeuvre, which towards the end was very slow, lasted quite a minute; mademoiselle de la Mole looked at him in astonishment. "So I have been on the verge of being killed by my lover," she said to herself. This idea transported her into the palmiest days of the age of Charles IX. and of Henri III. She stood motionless before Julien, who had just replaced the sword; she looked at him with eyes whose hatred had disappeared. It must be owned that she was very fascinating at this moment, certainly no woman looked less like a Parisian doll (this expression symbolised Julien's great objection to the women of this city). "I shall relapse into some weakness for him," thought Mathilde; "it is quite likely that he will think himself my lord and master after a relapse like that at the very moment that I have been talking to him so firmly." She ran away. "By heaven, she is pretty said Julien as he watched her run and that's the creature who threw herself into my arms with so much passion scarcely a week ago ... and to think that those moments will never come back? And that it's my fault, to think of my being lacking in appreciation at the very moment when I was doing something so extraordinarily interesting! I must own that I was born with a very dull and unfortunate character." The marquis appeared; Julien hastened to announce his departure. "Where to?" said M. de la Mole. "For Languedoc." "No, if you please, you are reserved for higher destinies. If you leave it will be for the North.... In military phraseology I actually confine you in the hotel. You will compel me to be never more than two or three hours away. I may have need of you at any moment." Julien bowed and retired without a word, leaving the marquis in a state of great astonishment. He was incapable of speaking. He shut himself up in his room. He was there free to exaggerate to himself all the awfulness of his fate. "So," he thought, "I cannot even get away. God knows how many days the marquis will keep me in Paris. Great God, what will become of me, and not a friend whom I can consult? The abbe Pirard will never let me finish my first sentence, while the comte Altamira will propose enlisting me in some conspiracy. And yet I am mad; I feel it, I am mad. Who will be able to guide me, what will become of me?" CHAPTER XLVIII CRUEL MOMENTS And she confesses it to me! She goes into even the smallest details! Her beautiful eyes fixed on mine, and describes the love which she felt for another.--_Schiller_. The delighted mademoiselle de la Mole thought of nothing but the happiness of having been nearly killed. She went so far as to say to herself, "he is worthy of being my master since he was on the point of killing me. How many handsome young society men would have to be melted together before they were capable of so passionate a transport." "I must admit that he was very handsome at the time when he climbed up on the chair to replace the sword in the same picturesque position in which the decorator hung it! After all it was not so foolish of me to love him." If at that moment some honourable means of reconciliation had presented itself, she would have embraced it with pleasure. Julien locked in his room was a prey to the most violent despair. He thought in his madness of throwing himself at her feet. If instead of hiding himself in an out of the way place, he had wandered about the garden of the hotel so as to keep within reach of any opportunity, he would perhaps have changed in a single moment his awful unhappiness into the keenest happiness. But the tact for whose lack we are now reproaching him would have been incompatible with that sublime seizure of the sword, which at the present time rendered him so handsome in the eyes of mademoiselle de la Mole. This whim in Julien's favour lasted the whole day; Mathilde conjured up a charming image of the short moments during which she had loved him: she regretted them. "As a matter of fact," she said to herself, "my passion for this poor boy can from his point of view only have lasted from one hour after midnight when I saw him arrive by his ladder with all his pistols in his coat pocket, till eight o'clock in the morning. It was a quarter of an hour after that as I listened to mass at Sainte-Valere that I began to think that he might very well try to terrify me into obedience." After dinner mademoiselle de la Mole, so far from avoiding Julien, spoke to him and made him promise to follow her into the garden. He obeyed. It was a new experience. Without suspecting it Mathilde was yielding to the love which she was now feeling for him again. She found an extreme pleasure in walking by his side, and she looked curiously at those hands which had seized the sword to kill her that very morning. After such an action, after all that had taken place, some of the former conversation was out of the question. Mathilde gradually began to talk confidentially to him about the state of her heart. She found a singular pleasure in this kind of conversation, she even went so far as to describe to him the fleeting moments of enthusiasm which she had experienced for M. de Croisenois, for M. de Caylus---- "What! M. de Caylus as well!" exclaimed Julien, and all the jealousy of a discarded lover burst out in those words, Mathilde thought as much, but did not feel at all insulted. She continued torturing Julien by describing her former sentiments with the most picturesque detail and the accent of the most intimate truth. He saw that she was portraying what she had in her mind's eye. He had the pain of noticing that as she spoke she made new discoveries in her own heart. The unhappiness of jealousy could not be carried further. It is cruel enough to suspect that a rival is loved, but there is no doubt that to hear the woman one adores confess in detail the love which rivals inspires, is the utmost limit of anguish. Oh, how great a punishment was there now for those impulses of pride which had induced Julien to place himself as superior to the Caylus and the Croisenois! How deeply did he feel his own unhappiness as he exaggerated to himself their most petty advantages. With what hearty good faith he despised himself. Mathilde struck him as adorable. All words are weak to express his excessive admiration. As he walked beside her he looked surreptitiously at her hands, her arms, her queenly bearing. He was so completely overcome by love and unhappiness as to be on the point of falling at her feet and crying "pity." "Yes, and that person who is so beautiful, who is so superior to everything and who loved me once, will doubtless soon love M. de Caylus." Julien could have no doubts of mademoiselle de la Mole's sincerity, the accent of truth was only too palpable in everything she said. In order that nothing might be wanting to complete his unhappiness there were moments when, as a result of thinking about the sentiments which she had once experienced for M. de Caylus, Mathilde came to talk of him, as though she loved him at the present time. She certainly put an inflection of love into her voice. Julien distinguished it clearly. He would have suffered less if his bosom had been filled inside with molten lead. Plunged as he was in this abyss of unhappiness how could the poor boy have guessed that it was simply because she was talking to him, that mademoiselle de la Mole found so much pleasure in recalling those weaknesses of love which she had formerly experienced for M. de Caylus or M. de Luz. Words fail to express Julien's anguish. He listened to these detailed confidences of the love she had experienced for others in that very avenue of pines where he had waited so few days ago for one o'clock to strike that he might invade her room. No human being can undergo a greater degree of unhappiness. This kind of familiar cruelty lasted for eight long days. Mathilde sometimes seemed to seek opportunities of speaking to him and sometimes not to avoid them; and the one topic of conversation to which they both seemed to revert with a kind of cruel pleasure, was the description of the sentiments she had felt for others. She told him about the letters which she had written, she remembered their very words, she recited whole sentences by heart. She seemed during these last days to be envisaging Julien with a kind of malicious joy. She found a keen enjoyment in his pangs. One sees that Julien had no experience of life; he had not even read any novels. If he had been a little less awkward and he had coolly said to the young girl, whom he adored so much and who had been giving him such strange confidences: "admit that though I am not worth as much as all these gentlemen, I am none the less the man whom you loved," she would perhaps have been happy at being at thus guessed; at any rate success would have entirely depended on the grace with which Julien had expressed the idea, and on the moment which he had chosen to do so. In any case he would have extricated himself well and advantageously from a situation which Mathilde was beginning to find monotonous. "And you love me no longer, me, who adores you!" said Julien to her one day, overcome by love and unhappiness. This piece of folly was perhaps the greatest which he could have committed. These words immediately destroyed all the pleasure which mademoiselle de la Mole found in talking to him about the state of her heart. She was beginning to be surprised that he did not, after what had happened, take offence at what she told him. She had even gone so far as to imagine at the very moment when he made that foolish remark that perhaps he did not love her any more. "His pride has doubtless extinguished his love," she was saying to herself. "He is not the man to sit still and see people like Caylus, de Luz, Croisenois whom he admits are so superior, preferred to him. No, I shall never see him at my feet again." Julien had often in the naivety of his unhappiness, during the previous days praised sincerely the brilliant qualities of these gentlemen; he would even go so far as to exaggerate them. This nuance had not escaped mademoiselle de la Mole, she was astonished by it, but did not guess its reason. Julien's frenzied soul, in praising a rival whom he thought was loved, was sympathising with his happiness. These frank but stupid words changed everything in a single moment; confident that she was loved, Mathilde despised him utterly. She was walking with him when he made his ill-timed remark; she left him, and her parting look expressed the most awful contempt. She returned to the salon and did not look at him again during the whole evening. This contempt monopolised her mind the following day. The impulse which during the last week had made her find so much pleasure in treating Julien as her most intimate friend was out of the question; the very sight of him was disagreeable. The sensation Mathilde felt reached the point of disgust; nothing can express the extreme contempt which she experienced when her eyes fell upon him. Julien had understood nothing of the history of Mathilde's heart during the last week, but he distinguished the contempt. He had the good sense only to appear before her on the rarest possible occasions, and never looked at her. But it was not without a mortal anguish that he, as it were, deprived himself of her presence. He thought he felt his unhappiness increasing still further. "The courage of a man's heart cannot be carried further," he said to himself. He passed his life seated at a little window at the top of the hotel; the blind was carefully closed, and from here at any rate he could see mademoiselle de la Mole when she appeared in the garden. What were his emotions when he saw her walking after dinner with M. de Caylus, M. de Luz, or some other for whom she had confessed to him some former amorous weakness! Julien had no idea that unhappiness could be so intense; he was on the point of shouting out. This firm soul was at last completely overwhelmed. Thinking about anything else except mademoiselle de la Mole had become odious to him; he became incapable of writing the simplest letters. "You are mad," the marquis said to him. Julien was frightened that his secret might be guessed, talked about illness and succeeded in being believed. Fortunately for him the marquis rallied him at dinner about his next journey; Mathilde understood that it might be a very long one. It was now several days that Julien had avoided her, and the brilliant young men who had all that this pale sombre being she had once loved was lacking, had no longer the power of drawing her out of her reverie. "An ordinary girl," she said to herself, "would have sought out the man she preferred among those young people who are the cynosure of a salon; but one of the characteristics of genius is not to drive its thoughts over the rut traced by the vulgar. "Why, if I were the companion of a man like Julien, who only lacks the fortune that I possess, I should be continually exciting attention, I should not pass through life unnoticed. Far from incessantly fearing a revolution like my cousins who are so frightened of the people that they have not the pluck to scold a postillion who drives them badly, I should be certain of playing a role and a great role, for the man whom I have chosen has a character and a boundless ambition. What does he lack? Friends, money? I will give them him." But she treated Julien in her thought as an inferior being whose love one could win whenever one wanted. CHAPTER XLIX THE OPERA BOUFFE How the spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away.--_Shakespeare_. Engrossed by thoughts of her future and the singular role which she hoped to play, Mathilde soon came to miss the dry metaphysical conversations which she had often had with Julien. Fatigued by these lofty thoughts she would sometimes also miss those moments of happiness which she had found by his side; these last memories were not unattended by remorse which at certain times even overwhelmed her. "But one may have a weakness," she said to herself, "a girl like I am should only forget herself for a man of real merit; they will not say that it is his pretty moustache or his skill in horsemanship which have fascinated me, but rather his deep discussions on the future of France and his ideas on the analogy between the events which are going to burst upon us and the English revolution of 1688." "I have been seduced," she answered in her remorse. "I am a weak woman, but at least I have not been led astray like a doll by exterior advantages." "If there is a revolution why should not Julien Sorel play the role of Roland and I the role of Madame Roland? I prefer that part to Madame de Stael's; the immorality of my conduct will constitute an obstacle in this age of ours. I will certainly not let them reproach me with an act of weakness; I should die of shame." Mathilde's reveries were not all as grave, one must admit, as the thoughts which we have just transcribed. She would look at Julien and find a charming grace in his slightest action. "I have doubtless," she would say, "succeeded in destroying in him the very faintest idea he had of any one else's rights." "The air of unhappiness and deep passion with which the poor boy declared his love to me eight days ago proves it; I must own it was very extraordinary of me to manifest anger at words in which there shone so much respect and so much of passion. Am I not his real wife? Those words of his were quite natural, and I must admit, were really very nice. Julien still continued to love me, even after those eternal conversations in which I had only spoken to him (cruelly enough I admit), about those weaknesses of love which the boredom of the life I lead had inspired me for those young society men of whom he is so jealous. Ah, if he only knew what little danger I have to fear from them; how withered and stereotyped they seem to me in comparison with him." While indulging in these reflections Mathilde made a random pencil sketch of a profile on a page of her album. One of the profiles she had just finished surprised and delighted her. It had a striking resemblance to Julien. "It is the voice of heaven. That's one of the miracles of love," she cried ecstatically; "Without suspecting it, I have drawn his portrait." She fled to her room, shut herself up in it, and with much application made strenuous endeavours to draw Julien's portrait, but she was unable to succeed; the profile she had traced at random still remained the most like him. Mathilde was delighted with it. She saw in it a palpable proof of the grand passion. She only left her album very late when the marquise had her called to go to the Italian Opera. Her one idea was to catch sight of Julien, so that she might get her mother to request him to keep them company. He did not appear, and the ladies had only ordinary vulgar creatures in their box. During the first act of the opera, Mathilde dreamt of the man she loved with all the ecstasies of the most vivid passion; but a love-maxim in the second act sung it must be owned to a melody worthy of Cimarosa pierced her heart. The heroine of the opera said "You must punish me for the excessive adoration which I feel for him. I love him too much." From the moment that Mathilde heard this sublime song everything in the world ceased to exist. She was spoken to, she did not answer; her mother reprimanded her, she could scarcely bring herself to look at her. Her ecstasy reached a state of exultation and passion analogous to the most violent transports which Julien had felt for her for some days. The divinely graceful melody to which the maxim, which seemed to have such a striking application to her own position, was sung, engrossed all the minutes when she was not actually thinking of Julien. Thanks to her love for music she was on this particular evening like madame de Renal always was, when she thought of Julien. Love of the head has doubtless more intelligence than true love, but it only has moments of enthusiasm. It knows itself too well, it sits in judgment on itself incessantly; far from distracting thought it is made by sheer force of thought. On returning home Mathilde, in spite of madame de la Mole's remonstrances, pretended to have a fever and spent a part of the night in going over this melody on her piano. She sang the words of the celebrated air which had so fascinated her:-- Devo punirmi, devo punirmi. Se troppo amai, etc. As the result of this night of madness, she imagined that she had succeeded in triumphing over her love. This page will be prejudicial in more than one way to the unfortunate author. Frigid souls will accuse him of indecency. But the young ladies who shine in the Paris salons have no right to feel insulted at the supposition that one of their number might be liable to those transports of madness which have been degrading the character of Mathilde. That character is purely imaginary, and is even drawn quite differently from that social code which will guarantee so distinguished a place in the world's history to nineteenth century civilization. The young girls who have adorned this winter's balls are certainly not lacking in prudence. I do not think either that they can be accused of being unduly scornful of a brilliant fortune, horses, fine estates and all the guarantees of a pleasant position in society. Far from finding these advantages simply equivalent to boredom, they usually concentrate on them their most constant desires and and devote to them such passion as their hearts possess. Nor again is it love which is the dominant principle in the career of young men who, like Julien, are gifted with some talent; they attach themselves with an irresistible grip to some coterie, and when the coterie succeeds all the good things of society are rained upon them. Woe to the studious man who belongs to no coterie, even his smallest and most doubtful successes will constitute a grievance, and lofty virtue will rob him and triumph. Yes, monsieur, a novel is a mirror which goes out on a highway. Sometimes it reflects the azure of the heavens, sometimes the mire of the pools of mud on the way, and the man who carries this mirror in his knapsack is forsooth to be accused by you of being immoral! His mirror shows the mire, and you accuse the mirror! Rather accuse the main road where the mud is, or rather the inspector of roads who allows the water to accumulate and the mud to form. Now that it is quite understood that Mathilde's character is impossible in our own age, which is as discreet as it is virtuous, I am less frightened of offence by continuing the history of the follies of this charming girl. During the whole of the following day she looked out for opportunities of convincing herself of her triumph over her mad passion. Her great aim was to displease Julien in everything; but not one of his movements escaped her. Julien was too unhappy, and above all too agitated to appreciate so complicated a stratagem of passion. Still less was he capable of seeing how favourable it really was to him. He was duped by it. His unhappiness had perhaps never been so extreme. His actions were so little controlled by his intellect that if some mournful philosopher had said to him, "Think how to exploit as quickly as you can those symptoms which promise to be favourable to you. In this kind of head-love which is seen at Paris, the same mood cannot last more than two days," he would not have understood him. But however ecstatic he might feel, Julien was a man of honour. Discretion was his first duty. He appreciated it. Asking advice, describing his agony to the first man who came along would have constituted a happiness analogous to that of the unhappy man who, when traversing a burning desert receives from heaven a drop of icy water. He realised the danger, was frightened of answering an indiscreet question by a torrent of tears, and shut himself up in his own room. He saw Mathilde walking in the garden for a long time. When she at last left it, he went down there and approached the rose bush from which she had taken a flower. The night was dark and he could abandon himself to his unhappiness without fear of being seen. It was obvious to him that mademoiselle de la Mole loved one of those young officers with whom she had chatted so gaily. She had loved him, but she had realised his little merit, "and as a matter of fact I had very little," Julien said to himself with full conviction. "Taking me all round I am a very dull, vulgar person, very boring to others and quite unbearable to myself." He was mortally disgusted with all his good qualities, and with all the things which he had once loved so enthusiastically; and it was when his imagination was in this distorted condition that he undertook to judge life by means of its aid. This mistake is typical of a superior man. The idea of suicide presented itself to him several times; the idea was full of charm, and like a delicious rest; because it was the glass of iced water offered to the wretch dying of thirst and heat in the desert. "My death will increase the contempt she has for me," he exclaimed. "What a memory I should leave her." Courage is the only resource of a human being who has fallen into this last abyss of unhappiness. Julien did not have sufficient genius to say to himself, "I must dare," but as he looked at the window of Mathilde's room he saw through the blinds that she was putting out her light. He conjured up that charming room which he had seen, alas! once in his whole life. His imagination did not go any further. One o'clock struck. Hearing the stroke of the clock and saying to himself, "I will climb up the ladder," scarcely took a moment. It was the flash of genius, good reasons crowded on his mind. "May I be more fortunate than before," he said to himself. He ran to the ladder. The gardener had chained it up. With the help of the cock of one of his little pistols which he broke, Julien, who for the time being was animated by a superhuman force, twisted one of the links of the chain which held the ladder. He was master of it in a few minutes, and placed it against Mathilde's window. "She will be angry and riddle me with scornful words! What does it matter? I will give her a kiss, one last kiss. I will go up to my room and kill myself ... my lips will touch her cheek before I die." He flew up the ladder and knocked at the blind; Mathilde heard him after some minutes and tried to open the blind but the ladder was in the way. Julien hung to the iron hook intending to keep the blind open, and at the imminent risk of falling down, gave the ladder a violent shake which moved it a little. Mathilde was able to open the blind. He threw himself into the window more dead than alive. "So it is you, dear," she said as she rushed into his arms. * * * * * The excess of Julien's happiness was indescribable. Mathilde's almost equalled his own. She talked against herself to him and denounced herself. "Punish me for my awful pride," she said to him, clasping him in her arms so tightly as almost to choke him. "You are my master, dear, I am your slave. I must ask your pardon on my knees for having tried to rebel." She left his arms to fall at his feet. "Yes," she said to him, still intoxicated with happiness and with love, "you are my master, reign over me for ever. When your slave tries to revolt, punish her severely." In another moment she tore herself from his arms, and lit a candle, and it was only by a supreme effort that Julien could prevent her from cutting off a whole tress of her hair. "I want to remind myself," she said to him, "that I am your handmaid. If I am ever led astray again by my abominable pride, show me this hair and say, 'It is not a question of the emotion which your soul may be feeling at present, you have sworn to obey, obey on your honour.'" But it is wiser to suppress the description of so intense a transport of delirious happiness. Julien's unselfishness was equal to his happiness. "I must go down by the ladder," he said to Mathilde, when he saw the dawn of day appear from the quarter of the east over the distant chimneys beyond the garden. "The sacrifice that I impose on myself is worthy of you. I deprive myself of some hours of the most astonishing happiness that a human soul can savour, but it is a sacrifice I make for the sake of your reputation. If you know my heart you will appreciate how violent is the strain to which I am putting myself. Will you always be to me what you are now? But honour speaks, it suffices. Let me tell you that since our last interview, thieves have not been the only object of suspicion. M. de la Mole has set a guard in the garden. M. Croisenois is surrounded by spies: they know what he does every night." Mathilde burst out laughing at this idea. Her mother and a chamber-maid were woken up, they suddenly began to speak to her through the door. Julien looked at her, she grew pale as she scolded the chamber-maid, and she did not deign to speak to her mother. "But suppose they think of opening the window, they will see the ladder," Julien said to her. He clasped her again in his arms, rushed on to the ladder, and slid, rather than climbed down; he was on the ground in a moment. Three seconds after the ladder was in the avenue of pines, and Mathilde's honour was saved. Julien returned to his room and found that he was bleeding and almost naked. He had wounded himself in sliding down in that dare-devil way. Extreme happiness had made him regain all the energy of his character. If twenty men had presented themselves it would have proved at this moment only an additional pleasure to have attacked them unaided. Happily his military prowess was not put to the proof. He laid the ladder in its usual place and replaced the chain which held it. He did not forget to efface the mark which the ladder had left on the bed of exotic flowers under Mathilde's window. As he was moving his hand over the soft ground in the darkness and satisfying himself that the mark had entirely disappeared, he felt something fall down on his hands. It was a whole tress of Mathilde's hair which she had cut off and thrown down to him. She was at the window. "That's what your servant sends you," she said to him in a fairly loud voice, "It is the sign of eternal gratitude. I renounce the exercise of my reason, be my master." Julien was quite overcome and was on the point of going to fetch the ladder again and climbing back into her room. Finally reason prevailed. Getting back into the hotel from the garden was not easy. He succeeded in forcing the door of a cellar. Once in the house he was obliged to break through the door of his room as silently as possible. In his agitation he had left in the little room which he had just abandoned so rapidly, the key which was in the pocket of his coat. "I only hope she thinks of hiding that fatal trophy," he thought. Finally fatigue prevailed over happiness, and as the sun was rising he fell into a deep sleep. The breakfast bell only just managed to wake him up. He appeared in the dining-room. Shortly afterwards Mathilde came in. Julien's pride felt deliciously flattered as he saw the love which shone in the eyes of this beautiful creature who was surrounded by so much homage; but soon his discretion had occasion to be alarmed. Making an excuse of the little time that she had had to do her hair, Mathilde had arranged it in such a way that Julien could see at the first glance the full extent of the sacrifice that she had made for his sake, by cutting off her hair on the previous night. If it had been possible to spoil so beautiful a face by anything whatsoever, Mathilde would have succeeded in doing it. A whole tress of her beautiful blonde hair was cut off to within half an inch of the scalp. Mathilde's whole manner during breakfast was in keeping with this initial imprudence. One might have said that she had made a specific point of trying to inform the whole world of her mad passion for Julien. Happily on this particular day M. de la Mole and the marquis were very much concerned about an approaching bestowal of "blue ribbons" which was going to take place, and in which M. de Chaulnes was not comprised. Towards the end of the meal, Mathilde, who was talking to Julien, happened to call him "My Master." He blushed up to the whites of his eyes. Mathilde was not left alone for an instant that day, whether by chance or the deliberate policy of madame de la Mole. In the evening when she passed from the dining-room into the salon, however, she managed to say to Julien: "You may be thinking I am making an excuse, but mamma has just decided that one of her women is to spend the night in my room." This day passed with lightning rapidity. Julien was at the zenith of happiness. At seven o'clock in the morning of the following day he installed himself in the library. He hoped the mademoiselle de la Mole would deign to appear there; he had written her an interminable letter. He only saw her several hours afterwards at breakfast. Her hair was done to-day with the very greatest care; a marvellous art had managed to hide the place where the hair had been cut. She looked at Julien once or twice, but her eyes were polite and calm, and there was no question of calling him "My Master." Julien's astonishment prevented him from breathing--Mathilde was reproaching herself for all she had done for him. After mature reflection, she had come to the conclusion that he was a person who, though not absolutely commonplace, was yet not sufficiently different from the common ruck to deserve all the strange follies that she had ventured for his sake. To sum up she did not give love a single thought; on this particular day she was tired of loving. As for Julien, his emotions were those of a child of sixteen. He was a successive prey to awful doubt, astonishment and despair during this breakfast which he thought would never end. As soon as he could decently get up from the table, he flew rather than ran to the stable, saddled his horse himself, and galloped off. "I must kill my heart through sheer force of physical fatigue," he said to himself as he galloped through the Meudon woods. "What have I done, what have I said to deserve a disgrace like this?" "I must do nothing and say nothing to-day," he thought as he re-entered the hotel. "I must be as dead physically as I am morally." Julien saw nothing any more, it was only his corpse which kept moving. CHAPTER L THE JAPANESE VASE His heart does not first realise the full extremity of his unhappiness: he is more troubled than moved. But as reason returns he feels the depth of his misfortune. All the pleasures of life seem to have been destroyed, he can only feel the sharp barbs of a lacerating despair. But what is the use of talking of physical pain? What pain which is only felt by the body can be compared to this pain?--_Jean Paul_. The dinner bell rang, Julien had barely time to dress: he found Mathilde in the salon. She was pressing her brother and M. de Croisenois to promise her that they would not go and spend the evening at Suresnes with madame the marechale de Fervaques. It would have been difficult to have shown herself more amiable or fascinating to them. M. de Luz, de Caylus and several of their friends came in after dinner. One would have said that mademoiselle de la Mole had commenced again to cultivate the most scrupulous conventionality at the same time as her sisterly affection. Although the weather was delightful this evening, she refused to go out into the garden, and insisted on their all staying near the arm-chair where madame de la Mole was sitting. The blue sofa was the centre of the group as it had been in the winter. Mathilde was out of temper with the garden, or at any rate she found it absolutely boring: it was bound up with the memory of Julien. Unhappiness blunts the edge of the intellect. Our hero had the bad taste to stop by that little straw chair which had formerly witnessed his most brilliant triumphs. To-day none spoke to him, his presence seemed to be unnoticed, and worse than that. Those of mademoiselle de la Mole's friends who were sitting near him at the end of the sofa, made a point of somehow or other turning their back on him, at any rate he thought so. "It is a court disgrace," he thought. He tried to study for a moment the people who were endeavouring to overwhelm him with their contempt. M. de Luz had an important post in the King's suite, the result of which was that the handsome officer began every conversation with every listener who came along by telling him this special piece of information. His uncle had started at seven o'clock for St. Cloud and reckoned on spending the night there. This detail was introduced with all the appearance of good nature but it never failed to be worked in. As Julien scrutinized M. de Croisenois with a stern gaze of unhappiness, he observed that this good amiable young man attributed a great influence to occult causes. He even went so far as to become melancholy and out of temper if he saw an event of the slightest importance ascribed to a simple and perfectly natural cause. "There is an element of madness in this," Julien said to himself. This man's character has a striking analogy with that of the Emperor Alexander, such as the Prince Korasoff described it to me. During the first year of his stay in Paris poor Julien, fresh from the seminary and dazzled by the graces of all these amiable young people, whom he found so novel, had felt bound to admire them. Their true character was only beginning to become outlined in his eyes. "I am playing an undignified role here," he suddenly thought. The question was, how he could leave the little straw chair without undue awkwardness. He wanted to invent something, and tried to extract some novel excuse from an imagination which was otherwise engrossed. He was compelled to fall back on his memory, which was, it must be owned, somewhat poor in resources of this kind. The poor boy was still very much out of his element, and could not have exhibited a more complete and noticeable awkwardness when he got up to leave the salon. His misery was only too palpable in his whole manner. He had been playing, for the last three quarters of an hour, the role of an officious inferior from whom one does not take the trouble to hide what one really thinks. The critical observations he had just made on his rivals prevented him, however, from taking his own unhappiness too tragically. His pride could take support in what had taken place the previous day. "Whatever may be their advantages over me," he thought, as he went into the garden alone, "Mathilde has never been to a single one of them what, twice in my life, she has deigned to be to me!" His penetration did not go further. He absolutely failed to appreciate the character of the extraordinary person whom chance had just made the supreme mistress of all his happiness. He tried, on the following day, to make himself and his horse dead tired with fatigue. He made no attempt in the evening to go near the blue sofa to which Mathilde remained constant. He noticed that comte Norbert did not even deign to look at him when he met him about the house. "He must be doing something very much against the grain," he thought; "he is naturally so polite." Sleep would have been a happiness to Julien. In spite of his physical fatigue, memories which were only too seductive commenced to invade his imagination. He had not the genius to see that, inasmuch as his long rides on horseback over forests on the outskirts of Paris only affected him, and had no affect at all on Mathilde's heart or mind, he was consequently leaving his eventual destiny to the caprice of chance. He thought that one thing would give his pain an infinite relief: it would be to speak to Mathilde. Yet what would he venture to say to her? He was dreaming deeply about this at seven o'clock one morning when he suddenly saw her enter the library. "I know, monsieur, that you are anxious to speak to me." "Great heavens! who told you?" "I know, anyway; that is enough. If you are dishonourable, you can ruin me, or at least try to. But this danger, which I do not believe to be real, will certainly not prevent me from being sincere. I do not love you any more, monsieur, I have been led astray by my foolish imagination." Distracted by love and unhappiness, as a result of this terrible blow, Julien tried to justify himself. Nothing could have been more absurd. Does one make any excuses for failure to please? But reason had no longer any control over his actions. A blind instinct urged him to get the determination of his fate postponed. He thought that, so long as he kept on speaking, all could not be over. Mathilde had not listened to his words; their sound irritated her. She could not conceive how he could have the audacity to interrupt her. She was rendered equally unhappy this morning by remorseful virtue and remorseful pride. She felt to some extent pulverised by the idea of having given a little abbe, who was the son of a peasant, rights over her. "It is almost," she said to herself, in those moments when she exaggerated her own misfortune, "as though I had a weakness for one of my footmen to reproach myself with." In bold, proud natures there is only one step from anger against themselves to wrath against others. In these cases the very transports of fury constitute a vivid pleasure. In a single minute mademoiselle de la Mole reached the point of loading Julien with the signs of the most extreme contempt. She had infinite wit, and this wit was always triumphant in the art of torturing vanity and wounding it cruelly. For the first time in his life Julien found himself subjected to the energy of a superior intellect, which was animated against him by the most violent hate. Far from having at present the slightest thought of defending himself, he came to despise himself. Hearing himself overwhelmed with such marks of contempt which were so cleverly calculated to destroy any good opinion that he might have of himself, he thought that Mathilde was right, and that she did not say enough. As for her, she found it deliciously gratifying to her pride to punish in this way both herself and him for the adoration that she had felt some days previously. She did not have to invent and improvise the cruel remarks which she addressed to him with so much gusto. All she had to do was to repeat what the advocate of the other side had been saying against her love in her own heart for the last eight days. Each word intensified a hundredfold Julien's awful unhappiness. He wanted to run away, but mademoiselle de la Mole took hold of his arm authoritatively. "Be good enough to remark," he said to her, "that you are talking very loud. You will be heard in the next room." "What does it matter?" mademoiselle de la Mole answered haughtily. "Who will dare to say they have heard me? I want to cure your miserable vanity once and for all of any ideas you may have indulged in on my account." When Julien was allowed to leave the library he was so astonished that he was less sensitive to his unhappiness. "She does not love me any more," he repeated to himself, speaking aloud as though to teach himself how he stood. "It seems that she has loved me eight or ten days, but I shall love her all my life." "Is it really possible she was nothing to me, nothing to my heart so few days back?" Mathilde's heart was inundated by the joy of satisfied pride. So she had been able to break with him for ever! So complete a triumph over so strong an inclination rendered her completely happy. "So this little gentleman will understand, once and for all, that he has not, and will never have, any dominion over me." She was so happy that in reality she ceased to love at this particular moment. In a less passionate being than Julien love would have become impossible after a scene of such awful humiliation. Without deviating for a single minute from the requirements of her own self-respect, mademoiselle de la Mole had addressed to him some of those unpleasant remarks which are so well thought out that they may seem true, even when remembered in cold blood. The conclusion which Julien drew in the first moment of so surprising a scene, was that Mathilde was infinitely proud. He firmly believed that all was over between them for ever, and none the less, he was awkward and nervous towards her at breakfast on the following day. This was a fault from which up to now he had been exempt. Both in small things as in big it was his habit to know what he ought and wanted to do, and he used to act accordingly. The same day after breakfast madame de la Mole asked him for a fairly rare, seditious pamphlet which her cure had surreptitiously brought her in the morning, and Julien, as he took it from a bracket, knocked over a blue porcelain vase which was as ugly as it could possibly be. Madame de la Mole got up, uttering a cry of distress, and proceeded to contemplate at close quarters the ruins of her beloved vase. "It was old Japanese," she said. "It came to me from my great aunt, the abbess of Chelles. It was a present from the Dutch to the Regent, the Duke of Orleans, who had given it to his daughter...." Mathilde had followed her mother's movements, and felt delighted at seeing that the blue vase, that she had thought horribly ugly, was broken. Julien was taciturn, and not unduly upset. He saw mademoiselle de la Mole quite near him. "This vase," he said to her, "has been destroyed for ever. The same is the case with the sentiment which was once master of my heart. I would ask you to accept my apologies for all the pieces of madness which it has made me commit." And he went out. "One would really say," said madame de la Mole, as he went out of the room, "that this M. Sorel is quite proud of what he has just done." These words went right home to Mathilde's heart. "It is true," she said to herself; "my mother has guessed right. That is the sentiment which animates him." It was only then that she ceased rejoicing over yesterday's scene. "Well, it is all over," she said to herself, with an apparent calm. "It is a great lesson, anyway. It is an awful and humiliating mistake! It is enough to make me prudent all the rest of my life." "Why didn't I speak the truth?" thought Julien. "Why am I still tortured by the love which I once had for that mad woman?" Far, however, from being extinguished as he had hoped it would be, his love grew more and more rapidly. "She is mad, it is true," he said to himself. "Is she any the less adorable for that? Is it possible for anyone to be prettier? Is not mademoiselle de la Mole the ideal quintessence of all the most vivid pleasures of the most elegant civilisation?" These memories of a bygone happiness seized hold of Julien's mind, and quickly proceeded to destroy all the work of his reason. It is in vain that reason wrestles with memories of this character. Its stern struggles only increase the fascination. Twenty-four hours after the breaking of the Japanese vase, Julien was unquestionably one of the most unhappy men in the world.

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Julien is shocked one morning to see Mathilde dressed all in black. He tries to figure out who she is mourning, and learns that it is the anniversary of her famous ancestor's death. Her ancestor, Boniface de la Mole, was decapitated for leading an insurrection in 1574. His lover, Queen Margot, asked for his head and buried it. Impressed by this romantic tale, Julien spends more and more time with Mathilde and soon begins to confide in her. They find that they both admire Napoleon and a time when men were heroes. Mathilde is an admired beauty in high demand by Parisian society, so Julien decides to seduce her. But Mathilde has already fallen in love with him. Unlike the noblemen who declare their love to her everyday, she finds Julien exciting. More importantly, she is extremely attracted to the bold notion of a forbidden love between an aristocratic woman and a man so far below her on the social scale. Mathilde also finds his fiery ambitions and liberal political aspirations a welcome change from the boring nobles she is used to. Even before Julien forms a plan of seduction, Mathilde declares her love. Julien feels he has triumphed over the countless noblemen who have tried to seduce Mathilde, but worries that her declaration might be an elaborate trap to humiliate him. Mathilde is so impressed with Julien's precautions to come to her room at one in the morning that she calls him her master and husband. They become lovers, but Mathilde feels less passion than a sense of duty toward Julien. The next day, Mathilde worries that Julien now holds too much power over her. They begin to argue, and Julien becomes so enraged that he threatens her with one of the Marquis's antique swords. Mathilde is so moved by the knight-like ferocity of Julien's gesture that she feels transported back to a time when jealous husbands often killed their wives. The sheer intensity of their relationship is too much for both of them and they begin quarreling again, only to rekindle their passion at the opera. Julien returns to her window with a ladder and Mathilde chops off half of her hair to give to Julien as a sign of her obedience. But she soon renounces her love for him again. Julien tries to forget her, but realizes that he is hopelessly in love.

Commentary Mathilde suffers from an acute case of Parisian boredom and, like Julien, yearns for a more adventurous epoch. Rather than looking for excitement in the recent past , Mathilde admires the romantic chivalry of the sixteenth century. She knows its history very well, especially that of her ancestor Boniface. Contemporary readers of Stendhal would also know the story of Boniface de la Mole and Queen Margot's love affair from Alexandre Dumas's Queen Margot. The plot of Dumas's novel mirrors the second half of The Red and the Black. This technique allows Stendhal to foreshadow Julien's fate as well as evoke the boredom of the nineteenth century: adventure is only experienced in books. Again, triangular desire plays a major role in Mathilde and Julien's relationship. Mathilde is looking for a modern day Boniface to sweep her off her feet. Julien's lack of exposure to Parisian society and fierce ambition make him stand out among the boring members of the salon. Mathilde often laments her "dull degenerate century" and thinks that Julien would make a great general in sixteenth-century France. She soon begins to imagine that Julien is a romantic throwback to a more exciting time. She thus loves Julien through the intermediary of the Boniface legend, forming yet another love triangle. Julien's love for Mathilde is tempered by two factors. Stendhal set out to write a novel about a France divided by class; Julien can not think of Mathilde without being aware of the wide social gulf between them. He first thinks that she is an arrogant snob and wants to seduce her just for the challenge. But when Mathilde breaks with tradition and declares her love first, Julien cannot help but think that it is some elaborate form of ridicule. His extreme caution and daring actually end up making Mathilde love him even more. As usual, he treats their secret meeting like a general planning an attack: after making sure that no one is following him, he climbs up to her window with a ladder, pistol in hand. Julien really thinks that he is risking his life, and Mathilde loves him for it. However, Stendhal is never satisfied with simple romanticism, and thus adds a second impediment to Julien's passion: Mathilde is crazy. Stendhal never claims that she is insane--only that the excessive boredom of Parisian life has driven her to excess. Her only understanding of life comes from novels and, as a result, she never quite knows what she wants. She hates Julien one day and is moved to give him half of her hair the next. She is also obsessed with the medieval notion of having a "master," although she can not reconcile the fact that Julien is her social inferior. This comic bickering between the two young lovers is reinforced by their reliance on history and novels to express their love. The strong parallels with Dumas and Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet make Mathilde and Julien's relationship more of a farcical reenactment of triangular desire than true love.

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The Brothers Karamazov.book 3.chapter 1

book 3, chapter 1

{"name": "Book 3, Chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-3-chapter-1", "summary": "The novel shifts back in time and spends a few pages with Grigory Vasilievich and his wife Marfa, Fyodor's servants. Grigory is a pious man who, as was mentioned before, took care of Fyodor's sons when his wives died. Grigory's one child with Marfa was a great disappointment because the child was born with six fingers. Grigory thought the child must be a dragon and only reluctantly had the child baptized. The child died a couple of weeks later, but on the night they buried their child, Marfa woke to hear the cries of a newborn. The two of them went out to the bathhouse in the garden, where they discovered the village holy fool, Stinking Lizaveta, who had just given birth to a son.", "analysis": ""}

Book III. The Sensualists Chapter I. In The Servants' Quarters The Karamazovs' house was far from being in the center of the town, but it was not quite outside it. It was a pleasant-looking old house of two stories, painted gray, with a red iron roof. It was roomy and snug, and might still last many years. There were all sorts of unexpected little cupboards and closets and staircases. There were rats in it, but Fyodor Pavlovitch did not altogether dislike them. "One doesn't feel so solitary when one's left alone in the evening," he used to say. It was his habit to send the servants away to the lodge for the night and to lock himself up alone. The lodge was a roomy and solid building in the yard. Fyodor Pavlovitch used to have the cooking done there, although there was a kitchen in the house; he did not like the smell of cooking, and, winter and summer alike, the dishes were carried in across the courtyard. The house was built for a large family; there was room for five times as many, with their servants. But at the time of our story there was no one living in the house but Fyodor Pavlovitch and his son Ivan. And in the lodge there were only three servants: old Grigory, and his old wife Marfa, and a young man called Smerdyakov. Of these three we must say a few words. Of old Grigory we have said something already. He was firm and determined and went blindly and obstinately for his object, if once he had been brought by any reasons (and they were often very illogical ones) to believe that it was immutably right. He was honest and incorruptible. His wife, Marfa Ignatyevna, had obeyed her husband's will implicitly all her life, yet she had pestered him terribly after the emancipation of the serfs. She was set on leaving Fyodor Pavlovitch and opening a little shop in Moscow with their small savings. But Grigory decided then, once for all, that "the woman's talking nonsense, for every woman is dishonest," and that they ought not to leave their old master, whatever he might be, for "that was now their duty." "Do you understand what duty is?" he asked Marfa Ignatyevna. "I understand what duty means, Grigory Vassilyevitch, but why it's our duty to stay here I never shall understand," Marfa answered firmly. "Well, don't understand then. But so it shall be. And you hold your tongue." And so it was. They did not go away, and Fyodor Pavlovitch promised them a small sum for wages, and paid it regularly. Grigory knew, too, that he had an indisputable influence over his master. It was true, and he was aware of it. Fyodor Pavlovitch was an obstinate and cunning buffoon, yet, though his will was strong enough "in some of the affairs of life," as he expressed it, he found himself, to his surprise, extremely feeble in facing certain other emergencies. He knew his weaknesses and was afraid of them. There are positions in which one has to keep a sharp look out. And that's not easy without a trustworthy man, and Grigory was a most trustworthy man. Many times in the course of his life Fyodor Pavlovitch had only just escaped a sound thrashing through Grigory's intervention, and on each occasion the old servant gave him a good lecture. But it wasn't only thrashings that Fyodor Pavlovitch was afraid of. There were graver occasions, and very subtle and complicated ones, when Fyodor Pavlovitch could not have explained the extraordinary craving for some one faithful and devoted, which sometimes unaccountably came upon him all in a moment. It was almost a morbid condition. Corrupt and often cruel in his lust, like some noxious insect, Fyodor Pavlovitch was sometimes, in moments of drunkenness, overcome by superstitious terror and a moral convulsion which took an almost physical form. "My soul's simply quaking in my throat at those times," he used to say. At such moments he liked to feel that there was near at hand, in the lodge if not in the room, a strong, faithful man, virtuous and unlike himself, who had seen all his debauchery and knew all his secrets, but was ready in his devotion to overlook all that, not to oppose him, above all, not to reproach him or threaten him with anything, either in this world or in the next, and, in case of need, to defend him--from whom? From somebody unknown, but terrible and dangerous. What he needed was to feel that there was _another_ man, an old and tried friend, that he might call him in his sick moments merely to look at his face, or, perhaps, exchange some quite irrelevant words with him. And if the old servant were not angry, he felt comforted, and if he were angry, he was more dejected. It happened even (very rarely however) that Fyodor Pavlovitch went at night to the lodge to wake Grigory and fetch him for a moment. When the old man came, Fyodor Pavlovitch would begin talking about the most trivial matters, and would soon let him go again, sometimes even with a jest. And after he had gone, Fyodor Pavlovitch would get into bed with a curse and sleep the sleep of the just. Something of the same sort had happened to Fyodor Pavlovitch on Alyosha's arrival. Alyosha "pierced his heart" by "living with him, seeing everything and blaming nothing." Moreover, Alyosha brought with him something his father had never known before: a complete absence of contempt for him and an invariable kindness, a perfectly natural unaffected devotion to the old man who deserved it so little. All this was a complete surprise to the old profligate, who had dropped all family ties. It was a new and surprising experience for him, who had till then loved nothing but "evil." When Alyosha had left him, he confessed to himself that he had learnt something he had not till then been willing to learn. I have mentioned already that Grigory had detested Adelaida Ivanovna, the first wife of Fyodor Pavlovitch and the mother of Dmitri, and that he had, on the contrary, protected Sofya Ivanovna, the poor "crazy woman," against his master and any one who chanced to speak ill or lightly of her. His sympathy for the unhappy wife had become something sacred to him, so that even now, twenty years after, he could not bear a slighting allusion to her from any one, and would at once check the offender. Externally, Grigory was cold, dignified and taciturn, and spoke, weighing his words, without frivolity. It was impossible to tell at first sight whether he loved his meek, obedient wife; but he really did love her, and she knew it. Marfa Ignatyevna was by no means foolish; she was probably, indeed, cleverer than her husband, or, at least, more prudent than he in worldly affairs, and yet she had given in to him in everything without question or complaint ever since her marriage, and respected him for his spiritual superiority. It was remarkable how little they spoke to one another in the course of their lives, and only of the most necessary daily affairs. The grave and dignified Grigory thought over all his cares and duties alone, so that Marfa Ignatyevna had long grown used to knowing that he did not need her advice. She felt that her husband respected her silence, and took it as a sign of her good sense. He had never beaten her but once, and then only slightly. Once during the year after Fyodor Pavlovitch's marriage with Adelaida Ivanovna, the village girls and women--at that time serfs--were called together before the house to sing and dance. They were beginning "In the Green Meadows," when Marfa, at that time a young woman, skipped forward and danced "the Russian Dance," not in the village fashion, but as she had danced it when she was a servant in the service of the rich Miuesov family, in their private theater, where the actors were taught to dance by a dancing master from Moscow. Grigory saw how his wife danced, and, an hour later, at home in their cottage he gave her a lesson, pulling her hair a little. But there it ended: the beating was never repeated, and Marfa Ignatyevna gave up dancing. God had not blessed them with children. One child was born but it died. Grigory was fond of children, and was not ashamed of showing it. When Adelaida Ivanovna had run away, Grigory took Dmitri, then a child of three years old, combed his hair and washed him in a tub with his own hands, and looked after him for almost a year. Afterwards he had looked after Ivan and Alyosha, for which the general's widow had rewarded him with a slap in the face; but I have already related all that. The only happiness his own child had brought him had been in the anticipation of its birth. When it was born, he was overwhelmed with grief and horror. The baby had six fingers. Grigory was so crushed by this, that he was not only silent till the day of the christening, but kept away in the garden. It was spring, and he spent three days digging the kitchen garden. The third day was fixed for christening the baby: mean-time Grigory had reached a conclusion. Going into the cottage where the clergy were assembled and the visitors had arrived, including Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was to stand god- father, he suddenly announced that the baby "ought not to be christened at all." He announced this quietly, briefly, forcing out his words, and gazing with dull intentness at the priest. "Why not?" asked the priest with good-humored surprise. "Because it's a dragon," muttered Grigory. "A dragon? What dragon?" Grigory did not speak for some time. "It's a confusion of nature," he muttered vaguely, but firmly, and obviously unwilling to say more. They laughed, and of course christened the poor baby. Grigory prayed earnestly at the font, but his opinion of the new-born child remained unchanged. Yet he did not interfere in any way. As long as the sickly infant lived he scarcely looked at it, tried indeed not to notice it, and for the most part kept out of the cottage. But when, at the end of a fortnight, the baby died of thrush, he himself laid the child in its little coffin, looked at it in profound grief, and when they were filling up the shallow little grave he fell on his knees and bowed down to the earth. He did not for years afterwards mention his child, nor did Marfa speak of the baby before him, and, even if Grigory were not present, she never spoke of it above a whisper. Marfa observed that, from the day of the burial, he devoted himself to "religion," and took to reading the _Lives of the Saints_, for the most part sitting alone and in silence, and always putting on his big, round, silver-rimmed spectacles. He rarely read aloud, only perhaps in Lent. He was fond of the Book of Job, and had somehow got hold of a copy of the sayings and sermons of "the God-fearing Father Isaac the Syrian," which he read persistently for years together, understanding very little of it, but perhaps prizing and loving it the more for that. Of late he had begun to listen to the doctrines of the sect of Flagellants settled in the neighborhood. He was evidently shaken by them, but judged it unfitting to go over to the new faith. His habit of theological reading gave him an expression of still greater gravity. He was perhaps predisposed to mysticism. And the birth of his deformed child, and its death, had, as though by special design, been accompanied by another strange and marvelous event, which, as he said later, had left a "stamp" upon his soul. It happened that, on the very night after the burial of his child, Marfa was awakened by the wail of a new-born baby. She was frightened and waked her husband. He listened and said he thought it was more like some one groaning, "it might be a woman." He got up and dressed. It was a rather warm night in May. As he went down the steps, he distinctly heard groans coming from the garden. But the gate from the yard into the garden was locked at night, and there was no other way of entering it, for it was enclosed all round by a strong, high fence. Going back into the house, Grigory lighted a lantern, took the garden key, and taking no notice of the hysterical fears of his wife, who was still persuaded that she heard a child crying, and that it was her own baby crying and calling for her, went into the garden in silence. There he heard at once that the groans came from the bath-house that stood near the garden gate, and that they were the groans of a woman. Opening the door of the bath-house, he saw a sight which petrified him. An idiot girl, who wandered about the streets and was known to the whole town by the nickname of Lizaveta Smerdyastchaya (Stinking Lizaveta), had got into the bath- house and had just given birth to a child. She lay dying with the baby beside her. She said nothing, for she had never been able to speak. But her story needs a chapter to itself.

Book 3, Chapter 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-3-chapter-1

The novel shifts back in time and spends a few pages with Grigory Vasilievich and his wife Marfa, Fyodor's servants. Grigory is a pious man who, as was mentioned before, took care of Fyodor's sons when his wives died. Grigory's one child with Marfa was a great disappointment because the child was born with six fingers. Grigory thought the child must be a dragon and only reluctantly had the child baptized. The child died a couple of weeks later, but on the night they buried their child, Marfa woke to hear the cries of a newborn. The two of them went out to the bathhouse in the garden, where they discovered the village holy fool, Stinking Lizaveta, who had just given birth to a son.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Prince/section_8_part_0.txt

The Prince.chapter 10

chapter 10

{"name": "Chapter 10", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201108110625/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-prince/summary-and-analysis/chapter-10", "summary": "One other measure of a state's strength is whether a prince can defend himself, or whether he must rely on the help of others. If a ruler can field his own army , he needs no outside help, but if he must hide behind his city walls, he will always need help from others. The first type has already been discussed in Chapter 6, and will be again in Chapters 12 through 14. The second type has no option but to fortify his city and lay in supplies. If he has treated his subjects well and has made preparations, others will hesitate to attack him. The free German cities follow this practice with great success. Therefore, any prince who has a strong city and has not made his people hate him is safe. Some will argue that the stresses of a siege will make the people disloyal, but a wise ruler will know how to keep up their morale, as long as there are enough weapons and supplies.", "analysis": "Winning the people's support is absolutely necessary if a prince faces the possibility of a siege. Sieges were commonplace in medieval and Renaissance warfare, and many medieval cities were surrounded by high walls in anticipation of just such an event. Sieges were often lengthy affairs, with the attacking army camped outside the city walls, hoping to starve out or wear down the residents inside the city's fortifications. As Machiavelli observes, a prince in this position could only wait out the siege or hope for outside help. Machiavelli considers it better for the prince to have an army he can put into the field on the offensive, so that the prince need not be dependent on the favor of others. However, a prince with a strong and loyal city is still in a good position, as long as he has made adequate preparations and keeps his people's spirits up. Finally, he gives some attention to the prince's ability to \"spin\" political events to his advantage; in this case, to reassure his people that the siege will be short, to remind them of the cruelty of the enemy, and to take measures to deal with anyone who is a little too outspoken in his criticism of the prince's policies. The absolute necessity of maintaining one's own troops is a point Machiavelli revisits throughout the book, and particularly in Chapters 12 through 14, which concern how a prince should behave in military matters. Machiavelli had been active in raising a native militia to defend Florence, and he detested the common practice of hiring foreign mercenaries to fight, a practice he believed had helped to ruin Italy. Here, he praises the independence of the German cities, which had their own armies to fight for them. Glossary German cities the Holy Roman Empire, a loose confederacy of states that comprised most of what is now Germany, as well as parts of Italy and France. In Machiavelli's time, the empire included more than 70 imperial cities, which exercised greater and lesser degrees of obedience to the Emperor, Maximilian I."}

It is necessary to consider another point in examining the character of these principalities: that is, whether a prince has such power that, in case of need, he can support himself with his own resources, or whether he has always need of the assistance of others. And to make this quite clear I say that I consider those who are able to support themselves by their own resources who can, either by abundance of men or money, raise a sufficient army to join battle against any one who comes to attack them; and I consider those always to have need of others who cannot show themselves against the enemy in the field, but are forced to defend themselves by sheltering behind walls. The first case has been discussed, but we will speak of it again should it recur. In the second case one can say nothing except to encourage such princes to provision and fortify their towns, and not on any account to defend the country. And whoever shall fortify his town well, and shall have managed the other concerns of his subjects in the way stated above, and to be often repeated, will never be attacked without great caution, for men are always adverse to enterprises where difficulties can be seen, and it will be seen not to be an easy thing to attack one who has his town well fortified, and is not hated by his people. The cities of Germany are absolutely free, they own but little country around them, and they yield obedience to the emperor when it suits them, nor do they fear this or any other power they may have near them, because they are fortified in such a way that every one thinks the taking of them by assault would be tedious and difficult, seeing they have proper ditches and walls, they have sufficient artillery, and they always keep in public depots enough for one year's eating, drinking, and firing. And beyond this, to keep the people quiet and without loss to the state, they always have the means of giving work to the community in those labours that are the life and strength of the city, and on the pursuit of which the people are supported; they also hold military exercises in repute, and moreover have many ordinances to uphold them. Therefore, a prince who has a strong city, and had not made himself odious, will not be attacked, or if any one should attack he will only be driven off with disgrace; again, because that the affairs of this world are so changeable, it is almost impossible to keep an army a whole year in the field without being interfered with. And whoever should reply: If the people have property outside the city, and see it burnt, they will not remain patient, and the long siege and self-interest will make them forget their prince; to this I answer that a powerful and courageous prince will overcome all such difficulties by giving at one time hope to his subjects that the evil will not be for long, at another time fear of the cruelty of the enemy, then preserving himself adroitly from those subjects who seem to him to be too bold. Further, the enemy would naturally on his arrival at once burn and ruin the country at the time when the spirits of the people are still hot and ready for the defence; and, therefore, so much the less ought the prince to hesitate; because after a time, when spirits have cooled, the damage is already done, the ills are incurred, and there is no longer any remedy; and therefore they are so much the more ready to unite with their prince, he appearing to be under obligations to them now that their houses have been burnt and their possessions ruined in his defence. For it is the nature of men to be bound by the benefits they confer as much as by those they receive. Therefore, if everything is well considered, it will not be difficult for a wise prince to keep the minds of his citizens steadfast from first to last, when he does not fail to support and defend them.

Chapter 10

https://web.archive.org/web/20201108110625/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-prince/summary-and-analysis/chapter-10

One other measure of a state's strength is whether a prince can defend himself, or whether he must rely on the help of others. If a ruler can field his own army , he needs no outside help, but if he must hide behind his city walls, he will always need help from others. The first type has already been discussed in Chapter 6, and will be again in Chapters 12 through 14. The second type has no option but to fortify his city and lay in supplies. If he has treated his subjects well and has made preparations, others will hesitate to attack him. The free German cities follow this practice with great success. Therefore, any prince who has a strong city and has not made his people hate him is safe. Some will argue that the stresses of a siege will make the people disloyal, but a wise ruler will know how to keep up their morale, as long as there are enough weapons and supplies.

Winning the people's support is absolutely necessary if a prince faces the possibility of a siege. Sieges were commonplace in medieval and Renaissance warfare, and many medieval cities were surrounded by high walls in anticipation of just such an event. Sieges were often lengthy affairs, with the attacking army camped outside the city walls, hoping to starve out or wear down the residents inside the city's fortifications. As Machiavelli observes, a prince in this position could only wait out the siege or hope for outside help. Machiavelli considers it better for the prince to have an army he can put into the field on the offensive, so that the prince need not be dependent on the favor of others. However, a prince with a strong and loyal city is still in a good position, as long as he has made adequate preparations and keeps his people's spirits up. Finally, he gives some attention to the prince's ability to "spin" political events to his advantage; in this case, to reassure his people that the siege will be short, to remind them of the cruelty of the enemy, and to take measures to deal with anyone who is a little too outspoken in his criticism of the prince's policies. The absolute necessity of maintaining one's own troops is a point Machiavelli revisits throughout the book, and particularly in Chapters 12 through 14, which concern how a prince should behave in military matters. Machiavelli had been active in raising a native militia to defend Florence, and he detested the common practice of hiring foreign mercenaries to fight, a practice he believed had helped to ruin Italy. Here, he praises the independence of the German cities, which had their own armies to fight for them. Glossary German cities the Holy Roman Empire, a loose confederacy of states that comprised most of what is now Germany, as well as parts of Italy and France. In Machiavelli's time, the empire included more than 70 imperial cities, which exercised greater and lesser degrees of obedience to the Emperor, Maximilian I.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/46.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Sense and Sensibility/section_45_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 46

chapter 46

{"name": "Chapter 46", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-46", "summary": "Marianne improves rapidly, and soon receives a visit from Colonel Brandon. Her mother anxiously looks on, seeking signs of love. She believes that Marianne's attitude towards the Colonel is starting to change. Mrs. Dashwood begins to make plans to go back to Barton with her daughters. Mrs. Jennings and Colonel Brandon insist that the Dashwoods take his carriage to make their journey easier. He promises to make a visit to the cottage at Barton soon. As they leave for home, Marianne says goodbye fondly to Mrs. Jennings, and quite cordially to Colonel Brandon. After the Dashwoods leave, Mrs. Jennings and Colonel Brandon are left to their own devices; he goes home to Delaford, and she gossips with her maid. The Dashwoods take two days for their trip home, and Marianne seems particularly calm. Elinor is especially grateful for Marianne's seeming mental health. When they get home, Marianne seems sad, but otherwise OK - she appears to have decided to get over Willoughby. Everything reminds her of him, but she tries to get past these memories. The next day, Marianne is optimistic, and she and Elinor make plans to talk long walks and have a good summer. Marianne is determined to be more serious, and devote her time to reading and music. Elinor is pleased that her sister is taking her life seriously, instead of lolling around, indulging in her romantic fantasies. The only thing that mars her happiness is her promise to Willoughby, that she will tell Marianne everything. One day, the two sisters go for a walk. They pass the place where Marianne first met Willoughby, which sets her off on a pensive train of thought. She says that she would simply like to know that he actually felt something for her sometime. Elinor, happy with this statement, wants to know if it would settle Marianne's mind to know this. Marianne says it would, and Elinor wonders if she should tell all to her sister. Marianne goes on - apparently, her illness has made her think over a lot of things. She's realized that her own emotional weakness and imprudence are what led her to her own situation, and that she almost caused her own death by foolishness. She feels bad for everything she's put Elinor and Mrs. Dashwood through. Furthermore, she feels terrible for all the friends she's slighted or been rude to - the Middletons, Mrs. Jennings, the Palmers, the Steeles, and even John and Fanny. Most of all, Marianne feels as though she's wronged the people who mean the most to her - Elinor and their mother. She should have paid more attention to Elinor's behavior, and tried to be more like her. Even when she knew Elinor was unhappy, she wasn't sympathetic enough to her, and was too wrapped up in her own concerns about Willoughby. Elinor tells her sister that she shouldn't worry about it, and praises her for being so honest with herself. Marianne vows to be better in the future, and to be more like her sister. With regards to Willoughby, she promises that she will do her best to get over him. She only wishes she knew what had gone on with him, as it would make things easier for her. That's Elinor's cue. She reveals everything Willoughby told her, and observes her sister's reaction: Marianne is struck by it, and is clearly incredibly sad. She has a ton of questions, and weeps profusely. However, this behavior is much more measured and under control than the old Marianne. When the sisters get home, Marianne goes to her room to try and make sense of all of this, asking Elinor to tell their mother the whole story.", "analysis": ""}

Marianne's illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long enough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength, and her mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her to remove, within four days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs. Palmer's dressing-room. When there, at her own particular request, for she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching her mother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her. His emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and in receiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was such, as, in Elinor's conjecture, must arise from something more than his affection for Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to others; and she soon discovered in his melancholy eye and varying complexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many past scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance between Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness, and the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation. Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, but with a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to very different effect, saw nothing in the Colonel's behaviour but what arose from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions and words of Marianne she persuaded herself to think that something more than gratitude already dawned. At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger every twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her daughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton. On HER measures depended those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not quit Cleveland during the Dashwoods' stay; and Colonel Brandon was soon brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there as equally determinate, if not equally indispensable. At his and Mrs. Jennings's united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to accept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better accommodation of her sick child; and the Colonel, at the joint invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-nature made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the cottage, in the course of a few weeks. The day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne, after taking so particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so earnestly grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her own heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding Colonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was carefully assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed anxious that she should engross at least half. Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor then followed, and the others were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, and feel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was summoned to her chaise to take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two young companions; and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took his solitary way to Delaford. The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey on both, without essential fatigue. Every thing that the most zealous affection, the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable, was the office of each watchful companion, and each found their reward in her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits. To Elinor, the observation of the latter was particularly grateful. She, who had seen her week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of heart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally share, an apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and cheerfulness. As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection, she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window. But here, Elinor could neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she assisted Marianne from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only an emotion too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In the whole of her subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened to reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common sitting-room, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of resolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the sight of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could be connected.--She said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away without the atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try her piano-forte. She went to it; but the music on which her eye first rested was an opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some of their favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his hand-writing.--That would not do.--She shook her head, put the music aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring however with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practice much. The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On the contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of Margaret's return, and talking of the dear family party which would then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the only happiness worth a wish. "When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength," said she, "we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will walk to Sir John's new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland; and we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as we are told they once reached. I know we shall be happy. I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall divide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond mere amusement. But there are many works well worth reading at the Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours a-day, I shall gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to want." Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this; though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and virtuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when she remembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared she had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of Marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy tranquillity. Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to wait till her sister's health were more secure, before she appointed it. But the resolution was made only to be broken. Marianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. But at last a soft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter's wishes and the mother's confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor's arm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in the lane before the house. The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in an exercise hitherto untried since her illness required;--and they had advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the hill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned towards it, Marianne calmly said, "There, exactly there,"--pointing with one hand, "on that projecting mound,--there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby." Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added, "I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the spot!--shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?"--hesitatingly it was said.--"Or will it be wrong?--I can talk of it now, I hope, as I ought to do."-- Elinor tenderly invited her to be open. "As for regret," said Marianne, "I have done with that, as far as HE is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been for him, but what they are NOW.--At present, if I could be satisfied on one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not ALWAYS acting a part, not ALWAYS deceiving me;--but above all, if I could be assured that he never was so VERY wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl"-- She stopt. Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered, "If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy." "Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it;--for not only is it horrible to suspect a person, who has been what HE has been to ME, of such designs,--but what must it make me appear to myself?--What in a situation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could expose me to"-- "How then," asked her sister, "would you account for his behaviour?" "I would suppose him,--Oh, how gladly would I suppose him, only fickle, very, very fickle." Elinor said no more. She was debating within herself on the eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till Marianne were in stronger health;--and they crept on for a few minutes in silence. "I am not wishing him too much good," said Marianne at last with a sigh, "when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant than my own. He will suffer enough in them." "Do you compare your conduct with his?" "No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with yours." "Our situations have borne little resemblance." "They have borne more than our conduct.--Do not, my dearest Elinor, let your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. My illness has made me think-- It has given me leisure and calmness for serious recollection. Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I was perfectly able to reflect. I considered the past: I saw in my own behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of kindness to others. I saw that my own feelings had prepared my sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me to the grave. My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the time to be wrong. Had I died,--it would have been self-destruction. I did not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such feelings as these reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery,--wonder that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once. Had I died,--in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, my friend, my sister!--You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my latter days; who had known all the murmurings of my heart!--How should I have lived in YOUR remembrance!--My mother too! How could you have consoled her!--I cannot express my own abhorrence of myself. Whenever I looked towards the past, I saw some duty neglected, or some failing indulged. Every body seemed injured by me. The kindness, the unceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I had repaid with ungrateful contempt. To the Middletons, to the Palmers, the Steeles, to every common acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust; with a heart hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very attention.--To John, to Fanny,--yes, even to them, little as they deserve, I had given less than their due. But you,--you above all, above my mother, had been wronged by me. I, and only I, knew your heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?--not to any compassion that could benefit you or myself.--Your example was before me; but to what avail?--Was I more considerate of you and your comfort? Did I imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking any part in those offices of general complaisance or particular gratitude which you had hitherto been left to discharge alone?--No;--not less when I knew you to be unhappy, than when I had believed you at ease, did I turn away from every exertion of duty or friendship; scarcely allowing sorrow to exist but with me, regretting only THAT heart which had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for whom I professed an unbounded affection, to be miserable for my sake." Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor, impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well deserved. Marianne pressed her hand and replied, "You are very good.--The future must be my proof. I have laid down my plan, and if I am capable of adhering to it--my feelings shall be governed and my temper improved. They shall no longer worry others, nor torture myself. I shall now live solely for my family. You, my mother, and Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you will share my affections entirely between you. From you, from my home, I shall never again have the smallest incitement to move; and if I do mix in other society, it will be only to shew that my spirit is humbled, my heart amended, and that I can practise the civilities, the lesser duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance. As for Willoughby--to say that I shall soon or that I shall ever forget him, would be idle. His remembrance can be overcome by no change of circumstances or opinions. But it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion, by reason, by constant employment." She paused--and added in a low voice, "If I could but know HIS heart, everything would become easy." Elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at all nearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as reflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself leading to the fact. She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief points on which Willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard. Marianne said not a word.--She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them. A thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge one. She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand, unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears covered her cheeks. Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiosity must be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing but Willoughby, and their conversation together; and was carefully minute in every particular of speech and look, where minuteness could be safely indulged. As soon as they entered the house, Marianne with a kiss of gratitude and these two words just articulate through her tears, "Tell mama," withdrew from her sister and walked slowly up stairs. Elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable as what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its result, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Marianne fail to do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfill her parting injunction.

Chapter 46

https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-46

Marianne improves rapidly, and soon receives a visit from Colonel Brandon. Her mother anxiously looks on, seeking signs of love. She believes that Marianne's attitude towards the Colonel is starting to change. Mrs. Dashwood begins to make plans to go back to Barton with her daughters. Mrs. Jennings and Colonel Brandon insist that the Dashwoods take his carriage to make their journey easier. He promises to make a visit to the cottage at Barton soon. As they leave for home, Marianne says goodbye fondly to Mrs. Jennings, and quite cordially to Colonel Brandon. After the Dashwoods leave, Mrs. Jennings and Colonel Brandon are left to their own devices; he goes home to Delaford, and she gossips with her maid. The Dashwoods take two days for their trip home, and Marianne seems particularly calm. Elinor is especially grateful for Marianne's seeming mental health. When they get home, Marianne seems sad, but otherwise OK - she appears to have decided to get over Willoughby. Everything reminds her of him, but she tries to get past these memories. The next day, Marianne is optimistic, and she and Elinor make plans to talk long walks and have a good summer. Marianne is determined to be more serious, and devote her time to reading and music. Elinor is pleased that her sister is taking her life seriously, instead of lolling around, indulging in her romantic fantasies. The only thing that mars her happiness is her promise to Willoughby, that she will tell Marianne everything. One day, the two sisters go for a walk. They pass the place where Marianne first met Willoughby, which sets her off on a pensive train of thought. She says that she would simply like to know that he actually felt something for her sometime. Elinor, happy with this statement, wants to know if it would settle Marianne's mind to know this. Marianne says it would, and Elinor wonders if she should tell all to her sister. Marianne goes on - apparently, her illness has made her think over a lot of things. She's realized that her own emotional weakness and imprudence are what led her to her own situation, and that she almost caused her own death by foolishness. She feels bad for everything she's put Elinor and Mrs. Dashwood through. Furthermore, she feels terrible for all the friends she's slighted or been rude to - the Middletons, Mrs. Jennings, the Palmers, the Steeles, and even John and Fanny. Most of all, Marianne feels as though she's wronged the people who mean the most to her - Elinor and their mother. She should have paid more attention to Elinor's behavior, and tried to be more like her. Even when she knew Elinor was unhappy, she wasn't sympathetic enough to her, and was too wrapped up in her own concerns about Willoughby. Elinor tells her sister that she shouldn't worry about it, and praises her for being so honest with herself. Marianne vows to be better in the future, and to be more like her sister. With regards to Willoughby, she promises that she will do her best to get over him. She only wishes she knew what had gone on with him, as it would make things easier for her. That's Elinor's cue. She reveals everything Willoughby told her, and observes her sister's reaction: Marianne is struck by it, and is clearly incredibly sad. She has a ton of questions, and weeps profusely. However, this behavior is much more measured and under control than the old Marianne. When the sisters get home, Marianne goes to her room to try and make sense of all of this, asking Elinor to tell their mother the whole story.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1130-chapters/24.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra/section_23_part_0.txt

The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra.act iii.scene xii

act iii, scene xii

{"name": "Act III, Scene xii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210116191009/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/antony-cleopatra/summary/act-iii-scene-xii", "summary": "Antony's messenger, a schoolmaster arrives at Caesar's camp in Egypt. Antony has sent word with the messenger that he admits Caesar is now his lord. He requests that Caesar let him stay in Egypt, or else let him stay a free and lowly man in Athens. Cleopatra has also admitted to Caesar's greatness, and her request is that her sons be allowed to keep Egypt for their rule. Caesar tells the messenger to refuse Antony's request. He says he'll grant Cleopatra's request, though, if she exiles her lover from Egypt or alternatively has him killed there. The schoolmaster leaves sorrowfully with the news . Caesar calls over Thidias, one of his men. He asks Thidias to try to lure Cleopatra to their side with his eloquence. Cleopatra, like all women, Caesar claims, is strong when she is fortunate. But with her fortunes down, he says, they might be able to get her to betray Antony.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE XII. CAESAR'S camp in Egypt Enter CAESAR, AGRIPPA, DOLABELLA, THYREUS, with others CAESAR. Let him appear that's come from Antony. Know you him? DOLABELLA. Caesar, 'tis his schoolmaster: An argument that he is pluck'd, when hither He sends so poor a pinion of his wing, Which had superfluous kings for messengers Not many moons gone by. Enter EUPHRONIUS, Ambassador from ANTONY CAESAR. Approach, and speak. EUPHRONIUS. Such as I am, I come from Antony. I was of late as petty to his ends As is the morn-dew on the myrtle leaf To his grand sea. CAESAR. Be't so. Declare thine office. EUPHRONIUS. Lord of his fortunes he salutes thee, and Requires to live in Egypt; which not granted, He lessens his requests and to thee sues To let him breathe between the heavens and earth, A private man in Athens. This for him. Next, Cleopatra does confess thy greatness, Submits her to thy might, and of thee craves The circle of the Ptolemies for her heirs, Now hazarded to thy grace. CAESAR. For Antony, I have no ears to his request. The Queen Of audience nor desire shall fail, so she From Egypt drive her all-disgraced friend, Or take his life there. This if she perform, She shall not sue unheard. So to them both. EUPHRONIUS. Fortune pursue thee! CAESAR. Bring him through the bands. Exit EUPHRONIUS [To THYREUS] To try thy eloquence, now 'tis time. Dispatch; From Antony win Cleopatra. Promise, And in our name, what she requires; add more, From thine invention, offers. Women are not In their best fortunes strong; but want will perjure The ne'er-touch'd vestal. Try thy cunning, Thyreus; Make thine own edict for thy pains, which we Will answer as a law. THYREUS. Caesar, I go. CAESAR. Observe how Antony becomes his flaw, And what thou think'st his very action speaks In every power that moves. THYREUS. Caesar, I shall. Exeunt ACT_3|SC_13

Act III, Scene xii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210116191009/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/antony-cleopatra/summary/act-iii-scene-xii

Antony's messenger, a schoolmaster arrives at Caesar's camp in Egypt. Antony has sent word with the messenger that he admits Caesar is now his lord. He requests that Caesar let him stay in Egypt, or else let him stay a free and lowly man in Athens. Cleopatra has also admitted to Caesar's greatness, and her request is that her sons be allowed to keep Egypt for their rule. Caesar tells the messenger to refuse Antony's request. He says he'll grant Cleopatra's request, though, if she exiles her lover from Egypt or alternatively has him killed there. The schoolmaster leaves sorrowfully with the news . Caesar calls over Thidias, one of his men. He asks Thidias to try to lure Cleopatra to their side with his eloquence. Cleopatra, like all women, Caesar claims, is strong when she is fortunate. But with her fortunes down, he says, they might be able to get her to betray Antony.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/22.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Sense and Sensibility/section_2_part_11.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter xxii

chapter xxii

{"name": "Chapter XXII", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter12-22", "summary": "Lucy Steele misses no opportunity to become close to Elinor. Elinor judges Lucy as clever but uneducated. She watches Lucy engaging in calculating and insincere flattery of the Middletons, and does not trust Lucy's proffered friendship. Lucy asks Elinor if she knows Mrs. Ferrars, Edward and Fanny's mother. Elinor answers that she has never met her. Swearing Elinor to secrecy, Lucy reveals that she is secretly engaged to Edward Ferrars, whom she met while he was being tutored by her uncle. Edward has kept the engagement from his sister and mother, as Lucy has no fortune. Lucy shows Elinor a miniature of Edward that she keeps as a token of his attachment. Only Anne knows Lucy's secret, and Lucy fears that she will reveal it through indiscretion. Lucy says that Edward is downcast about his situation, and Elinor realizes the cause of his low spirits. Lucy shows Elinor a letter from Edward and reveals that he wears a ring containing a lock of her hair. Elinor accepts that Lucy is speaking the truth. Though she feels great sorrow, she hides her feelings from Lucy.", "analysis": "One of the major themes of the novel is the problem of knowledge and how it can be gained. This is known in critical literature as the epistemological question. Epistemology is a branch of philosophy that investigates the origin, nature, methods, and limits of human knowledge. In Sense and Sensibility, Austen asks how the truth about people and their true motivations and feelings can be known. This was a particularly pressing question in Austen's time, when the conventions of polite society meant that people, especially women, were less open about their feelings than they are today. In order to compensate for this lack of emotional openness, which was calculated to protect the chaste reputation of women, it was expected that men would be open and honest about their intentions towards the women to whom they paid attention. Thus it would not have been appropriate for Marianne to ask Willoughby directly about his intentions towards her. Instead, Austen, in line with the convention of her time, implies that the onus is on Willoughby either to declare his intention to marry Marianne at an early stage or to leave her alone in order to avoid compromising her reputation. Willoughby keeps silent, and Mrs. Dashwood and Marianne are forced to guess his intentions. Their romantic sensibility leads them to surmise that as Willoughby seems to love Marianne, he must intend to marry her. Mrs Dashwood says to Elinor about Willoughby's supposed engagement to Marianne: \"I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly. Has not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us. declared that he loved and considered her as his future wife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relative. This mistake could have been avoided if Mrs. Dashwood had asked Marianne directly whether Willoughby had made her any promises, but Mrs. Dashwood rejects Elinor's suggestion that she do so, due to her romantic delicacy about distressing Marianne's already over-wrought emotions. Thus excessive \"sensibility,\" in the case of both Mrs. Dashwood and Marianne, is seen by Austen as an impediment to good judgment. Elinor, who is not blinded by excessive sensibility, has a better ability to see the truth: she wants proof of the supposed engagement before she will believe it. But even Elinor's cool judgment is foiled by Willoughby's lack of transparency, and she must simply watch and wait for the truth to become apparent through the progress of time. As it transpires, Elinor's suspicions turn out to be well-founded, showing caution and reserve to be the better approach in a situation in which the truth is obscured. Other characters also pose epistemological questions. Lucy Steele is an example. Lucy is keen to ingratiate herself with the Middletons and with Elinor, but her motives remain mysterious and unknowable for some time. Her revelation of her secret engagement to Edward at the end of Volume I reveals something of her true motives. First, she wishes to appear in the best possible light to the Middletons because they are rich and part of Edward's extended family. Second, she confides in Elinor seemingly because she feels insecure about her engagement to Edward and wants support, and because she knows that Edward views Elinor as a friend and so she seizes upon Elinor as a connection to him. Third, Sir John Middleton has indiscreetly revealed that Edward admires Elinor, and Lucy means to warn Elinor off him by telling her that he is already taken. In spite of these glimpses of Lucy's true nature, her character remains opaque, and only at the end of the novel is her inner nature revealed. Even then, Elinor and Edward are left speculating about exactly what motivated Lucy to behave for so long as she did towards Edward. In Lucy, Austen shows the inherent mystery of other people. Both Edward and Colonel Brandon also have mysterious 'other' lives. Edward at first seems to admire Elinor greatly, but his subsequent coolness towards her makes her doubt his feelings for her. The reasons for his behavior are only revealed at the end of when his engagement to Lucy becomes known. As for Colonel Brandon, early in the novel he seems oppressed by deep griefs and disappointments. Their exact nature, however, remains a mystery, as does the reason for his abrupt departure from the outing with the Middletons and Dashwoods in Chapter XIII. Only later in the novel is his story told and the questions around his life resolved. This section of the novel continues to contrast Elinor's \"sense\" with Marianne's \"sensibility"}

Marianne, who had never much toleration for any thing like impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of taste from herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from the state of her spirits, to be pleased with the Miss Steeles, or to encourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of her behaviour towards them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on their side, Elinor principally attributed that preference of herself which soon became evident in the manners of both, but especially of Lucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of striving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank communication of her sentiments. Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing; and as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her agreeable; but her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant and illiterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of information in the most common particulars, could not be concealed from Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear to advantage. Elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of abilities which education might have rendered so respectable; but she saw, with less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have no lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made every shew of attention and deference towards herself perfectly valueless. "You will think my question an odd one, I dare say," said Lucy to her one day, as they were walking together from the park to the cottage--"but pray, are you personally acquainted with your sister-in-law's mother, Mrs. Ferrars?" Elinor DID think the question a very odd one, and her countenance expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars. "Indeed!" replied Lucy; "I wonder at that, for I thought you must have seen her at Norland sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what sort of a woman she is?" "No," returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward's mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent curiosity-- "I know nothing of her." "I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a way," said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; "but perhaps there may be reasons--I wish I might venture; but however I hope you will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be impertinent." Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying, with some hesitation, "I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure I would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I should not have the smallest fear of trusting YOU; indeed, I should be very glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble YOU. I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars." "I am sorry I do NOT," said Elinor, in great astonishment, "if it could be of any use to YOU to know my opinion of her. But really I never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character." "I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present--but the time MAY come--how soon it will come must depend upon herself--when we may be very intimately connected." She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side glance at her companion to observe its effect on her. "Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "what do you mean? Are you acquainted with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?" And she did not feel much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law. "No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. ROBERT Ferrars--I never saw him in my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother." What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon. "You may well be surprised," continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own sisters."--She paused. Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner, which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude-- "May I ask if your engagement is of long standing?" "We have been engaged these four years." "Four years!" "Yes." Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it. "I did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till the other day." "Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my uncle's care, you know, a considerable while." "Your uncle!" "Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?" "I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which increased with her increase of emotion. "He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of his mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so prudent as I ought to have been.-- Though you do not know him so well as me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him." "Certainly," answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but after a moment's reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward's honour and love, and her companion's falsehood--"Engaged to Mr. Edward Ferrars!--I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me, that really--I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake of person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars." "We can mean no other," cried Lucy, smiling. "Mr. Edward Ferrars, the eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must allow that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who all my happiness depends." "It is strange," replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, "that I should never have heard him even mention your name." "No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has been to keep the matter secret.-- You knew nothing of me, or my family, and, therefore, there could be no OCCASION for ever mentioning my name to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's suspecting any thing, THAT was reason enough for his not mentioning it." She was silent.--Elinor's security sunk; but her self-command did not sink with it. "Four years you have been engaged," said she with a firm voice. "Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor Edward! It puts him quite out of heart." Then taking a small miniature from her pocket, she added, "To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for.--I have had it above these three years." She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its being Edward's face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the likeness. "I have never been able," continued Lucy, "to give him my picture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity." "You are quite in the right," replied Elinor calmly. They then proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first. "I am sure," said she, "I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding proud woman." "I certainly did not seek your confidence," said Elinor; "but you do me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it could not add to its safety." As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part of what she had been saying; but Lucy's countenance suffered no change. "I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you," said she, "in telling you all this. I have not known you long to be sure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by description a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if you was an old acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really thought some explanation was due to you after my making such particular inquiries about Edward's mother; and I am so unfortunate, that I have not a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world t'other day, when Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she should out with it all. You can't think how much I go through in my mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I have suffered for Edward's sake these last four years. Every thing in such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom--we can hardly meet above twice a-year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite broke." Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very compassionate. "Sometimes." continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, "I think whether it would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely." As she said this, she looked directly at her companion. "But then at other times I have not resolution enough for it.-- I cannot bear the thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of such a thing would do. And on my own account too--so dear as he is to me--I don't think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to do in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself?" "Pardon me," replied Elinor, startled by the question; "but I can give you no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct you." "To be sure," continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on both sides, "his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor Edward is so cast down by it! Did you not think him dreadful low-spirited when he was at Barton? He was so miserable when he left us at Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him quite ill." "Did he come from your uncle's, then, when he visited us?" "Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he came directly from town?" "No," replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh circumstance in favour of Lucy's veracity; "I remember he told us, that he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth." She remembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to their names. "Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?" repeated Lucy. "We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived." "I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was the matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected.-- Poor fellow!--I am afraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes in wretched spirits. I heard from him just before I left Exeter;" taking a letter from her pocket and carelessly showing the direction to Elinor. "You know his hand, I dare say, a charming one it is; but that is not written so well as usual.--He was tired, I dare say, for he had just filled the sheet to me as full as possible." Elinor saw that it WAS his hand, and she could doubt no longer. This picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been accidentally obtained; it might not have been Edward's gift; but a correspondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a positive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else; for a few moments, she was almost overcome--her heart sunk within her, and she could hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably necessary; and she struggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feelings, that her success was speedy, and for the time complete. "Writing to each other," said Lucy, returning the letter into her pocket, "is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes, I have one other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even THAT. If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy. I gave him a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last, and that was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture. Perhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him?" "I did," said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was concealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt before. She was mortified, shocked, confounded. Fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the conversation could be continued no farther. After sitting with them a few minutes, the Miss Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was then at liberty to think and be wretched. [At this point in the first and second editions, Volume 1 ends.]

Chapter XXII

https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter12-22

Lucy Steele misses no opportunity to become close to Elinor. Elinor judges Lucy as clever but uneducated. She watches Lucy engaging in calculating and insincere flattery of the Middletons, and does not trust Lucy's proffered friendship. Lucy asks Elinor if she knows Mrs. Ferrars, Edward and Fanny's mother. Elinor answers that she has never met her. Swearing Elinor to secrecy, Lucy reveals that she is secretly engaged to Edward Ferrars, whom she met while he was being tutored by her uncle. Edward has kept the engagement from his sister and mother, as Lucy has no fortune. Lucy shows Elinor a miniature of Edward that she keeps as a token of his attachment. Only Anne knows Lucy's secret, and Lucy fears that she will reveal it through indiscretion. Lucy says that Edward is downcast about his situation, and Elinor realizes the cause of his low spirits. Lucy shows Elinor a letter from Edward and reveals that he wears a ring containing a lock of her hair. Elinor accepts that Lucy is speaking the truth. Though she feels great sorrow, she hides her feelings from Lucy.

One of the major themes of the novel is the problem of knowledge and how it can be gained. This is known in critical literature as the epistemological question. Epistemology is a branch of philosophy that investigates the origin, nature, methods, and limits of human knowledge. In Sense and Sensibility, Austen asks how the truth about people and their true motivations and feelings can be known. This was a particularly pressing question in Austen's time, when the conventions of polite society meant that people, especially women, were less open about their feelings than they are today. In order to compensate for this lack of emotional openness, which was calculated to protect the chaste reputation of women, it was expected that men would be open and honest about their intentions towards the women to whom they paid attention. Thus it would not have been appropriate for Marianne to ask Willoughby directly about his intentions towards her. Instead, Austen, in line with the convention of her time, implies that the onus is on Willoughby either to declare his intention to marry Marianne at an early stage or to leave her alone in order to avoid compromising her reputation. Willoughby keeps silent, and Mrs. Dashwood and Marianne are forced to guess his intentions. Their romantic sensibility leads them to surmise that as Willoughby seems to love Marianne, he must intend to marry her. Mrs Dashwood says to Elinor about Willoughby's supposed engagement to Marianne: "I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly. Has not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us. declared that he loved and considered her as his future wife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relative. This mistake could have been avoided if Mrs. Dashwood had asked Marianne directly whether Willoughby had made her any promises, but Mrs. Dashwood rejects Elinor's suggestion that she do so, due to her romantic delicacy about distressing Marianne's already over-wrought emotions. Thus excessive "sensibility," in the case of both Mrs. Dashwood and Marianne, is seen by Austen as an impediment to good judgment. Elinor, who is not blinded by excessive sensibility, has a better ability to see the truth: she wants proof of the supposed engagement before she will believe it. But even Elinor's cool judgment is foiled by Willoughby's lack of transparency, and she must simply watch and wait for the truth to become apparent through the progress of time. As it transpires, Elinor's suspicions turn out to be well-founded, showing caution and reserve to be the better approach in a situation in which the truth is obscured. Other characters also pose epistemological questions. Lucy Steele is an example. Lucy is keen to ingratiate herself with the Middletons and with Elinor, but her motives remain mysterious and unknowable for some time. Her revelation of her secret engagement to Edward at the end of Volume I reveals something of her true motives. First, she wishes to appear in the best possible light to the Middletons because they are rich and part of Edward's extended family. Second, she confides in Elinor seemingly because she feels insecure about her engagement to Edward and wants support, and because she knows that Edward views Elinor as a friend and so she seizes upon Elinor as a connection to him. Third, Sir John Middleton has indiscreetly revealed that Edward admires Elinor, and Lucy means to warn Elinor off him by telling her that he is already taken. In spite of these glimpses of Lucy's true nature, her character remains opaque, and only at the end of the novel is her inner nature revealed. Even then, Elinor and Edward are left speculating about exactly what motivated Lucy to behave for so long as she did towards Edward. In Lucy, Austen shows the inherent mystery of other people. Both Edward and Colonel Brandon also have mysterious 'other' lives. Edward at first seems to admire Elinor greatly, but his subsequent coolness towards her makes her doubt his feelings for her. The reasons for his behavior are only revealed at the end of when his engagement to Lucy becomes known. As for Colonel Brandon, early in the novel he seems oppressed by deep griefs and disappointments. Their exact nature, however, remains a mystery, as does the reason for his abrupt departure from the outing with the Middletons and Dashwoods in Chapter XIII. Only later in the novel is his story told and the questions around his life resolved. This section of the novel continues to contrast Elinor's "sense" with Marianne's "sensibility

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/174-chapters/20.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_13_part_0.txt

The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapter 20

chapter 20

{"name": "Chapter 20", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421171214/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/study-guide/summary-chapter-20", "summary": "During the walk home from Henry's, Dorian enjoys the warm evening. He is annoyed when several people mutter his name in astonishment as he passes, an occurence that used to please him, but he cheers himself by thinking of the beautiful and innocent Hetty, and his recent \"good action.\" She had been hopelessly naive, but this was her charm, \"she had everything that he had lost.\" He arrives at home and looks at his face in a mirror given to him by Henry long ago, but is so overcome with loathing that he shatters the mirror on the floor. He tries to focus on the future, to block out people like James Vane, now \"hidden in a nameless grave,\" Alan Campbell, who shot himself without betraying Dorian's secret, or Basil Hallward, who Dorian \"murdered in the madness of a moment.\" He attempts to assuage his guilt by blaming all of his troubles on Basil's portrait, and by contemplating the new life he has begun. He thinks of Hetty, the preservation of whose innocence he holds as proof of his newfound goodness, and wonders whether his good deed has caused his portrait to change for the better. He climbs to the attic, locks the door behind him, and throws the curtain from the picture. A horrified gasp escapes his lips when he sees \"no change, save that in the eyes there was a look of cunning, and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite.\" Dorian realizes that his kindness towards Hetty was either an act of vanity, driven by his desire to improve the appearance of his soul, or simply a different sort of selfishness, driven by \"the desire for a new sensation.\" Desperate to escape his past crimes, Dorian sees the painting as the one piece of evidence revealing his guilt: \"It had been like a conscience to him...He would destroy it.\" The knife on the table, he notices, is still stained with Basil's blood. He takes it, cleans it several times, and stabs the picture. Dorian's servants are awoken by a dreadful shriek. It is so loud that two passing gentlemen hear it from the sidewalk and fetch a policeman to the house. The policeman informs them that it is Dorian Gray's residence, and the men walk away, sneering, without reporting the scream. The servants cannot open the locked door of the attic, so they manage to climb in through the roof. They find the body of a \"withered, wrinkled, and loathsome\" man, lying on the floor with a knife in his chest. They only recognize their master from the rings on his fingers.", "analysis": "While thinking of Hetty, Dorian remembers telling her that he was a very wicked man, to which she responded that \"wicked people were always very old and very ugly.\" Like the shallow people of Dorian's class, the \"pure\" Hetty assumes that appearance is everything. While this superficiality is precisely what allows Dorian to win so many hearts, it also prevents anyone from truly knowing who he is. Dorian resolves to undo his past, to block it from his thoughts, and to focus on ensuring a positive future. He crushes the mirror given to him by Lord Henry, a symbolic rejection of his own vanity and the corrupting influence of Henry's friendship. He desperately clings to his treatment of Hetty as an indicator that it is possible to cleanse his soul, but it is too little, too late. Even this seemingly conscientious gesture was committed out of the hedonistic desire to experience an unfamiliar sensation, and the vain wish to improve the appearance of his soul, as depicted in the portrait. Vanity, not morality, drove his action, proving once again that Dorian is a condemned soul. When Dorian kills himself by trying to destroy the painting, the picture and the man once again trade appearances. The man in the portrait becomes young and beautiful, while the real Dorian becomes old and disfigured by guilt. Dorian has unwittingly realized the fear he had upon first seeing the painting: that he would wither and die, while the painting would remain young and beautiful forever. Furthermore, since the painting has been restored to its original appearance, the masterpiece of Basil Hallward is returned to the world. Dorian, seeing the knife, thinks that \"As it had killed the painter, so it would kill the painter's work\" , but the work and the painter are instead granted the immortality of artistic greatness, while Dorian himself is destroyed. The weapon used by Dorian is the same one he had used to kill Basil. Ironically, Basil offered to destroy the painting with a knife as soon as he sensed Dorian's negative reaction to it , but Dorian's newfound vanity and appreciation for artistic beauty prompted him to throw his own body in front of the image. Eighteen years and eighteen chapters later, Dorian decides to do precisely what he had prevented from happening, and once again his body throws itself before the painting, subject to the dangers of its beauty."}

It was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm and did not even put his silk scarf round his throat. As he strolled home, smoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. He heard one of them whisper to the other, "That is Dorian Gray." He remembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or stared at, or talked about. He was tired of hearing his own name now. Half the charm of the little village where he had been so often lately was that no one knew who he was. He had often told the girl whom he had lured to love him that he was poor, and she had believed him. He had told her once that he was wicked, and she had laughed at him and answered that wicked people were always very old and very ugly. What a laugh she had!--just like a thrush singing. And how pretty she had been in her cotton dresses and her large hats! She knew nothing, but she had everything that he had lost. When he reached home, he found his servant waiting up for him. He sent him to bed, and threw himself down on the sofa in the library, and began to think over some of the things that Lord Henry had said to him. Was it really true that one could never change? He felt a wild longing for the unstained purity of his boyhood--his rose-white boyhood, as Lord Henry had once called it. He knew that he had tarnished himself, filled his mind with corruption and given horror to his fancy; that he had been an evil influence to others, and had experienced a terrible joy in being so; and that of the lives that had crossed his own, it had been the fairest and the most full of promise that he had brought to shame. But was it all irretrievable? Was there no hope for him? Ah! in what a monstrous moment of pride and passion he had prayed that the portrait should bear the burden of his days, and he keep the unsullied splendour of eternal youth! All his failure had been due to that. Better for him that each sin of his life had brought its sure swift penalty along with it. There was purification in punishment. Not "Forgive us our sins" but "Smite us for our iniquities" should be the prayer of man to a most just God. The curiously carved mirror that Lord Henry had given to him, so many years ago now, was standing on the table, and the white-limbed Cupids laughed round it as of old. He took it up, as he had done on that night of horror when he had first noted the change in the fatal picture, and with wild, tear-dimmed eyes looked into its polished shield. Once, some one who had terribly loved him had written to him a mad letter, ending with these idolatrous words: "The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history." The phrases came back to his memory, and he repeated them over and over to himself. Then he loathed his own beauty, and flinging the mirror on the floor, crushed it into silver splinters beneath his heel. It was his beauty that had ruined him, his beauty and the youth that he had prayed for. But for those two things, his life might have been free from stain. His beauty had been to him but a mask, his youth but a mockery. What was youth at best? A green, an unripe time, a time of shallow moods, and sickly thoughts. Why had he worn its livery? Youth had spoiled him. It was better not to think of the past. Nothing could alter that. It was of himself, and of his own future, that he had to think. James Vane was hidden in a nameless grave in Selby churchyard. Alan Campbell had shot himself one night in his laboratory, but had not revealed the secret that he had been forced to know. The excitement, such as it was, over Basil Hallward's disappearance would soon pass away. It was already waning. He was perfectly safe there. Nor, indeed, was it the death of Basil Hallward that weighed most upon his mind. It was the living death of his own soul that troubled him. Basil had painted the portrait that had marred his life. He could not forgive him that. It was the portrait that had done everything. Basil had said things to him that were unbearable, and that he had yet borne with patience. The murder had been simply the madness of a moment. As for Alan Campbell, his suicide had been his own act. He had chosen to do it. It was nothing to him. A new life! That was what he wanted. That was what he was waiting for. Surely he had begun it already. He had spared one innocent thing, at any rate. He would never again tempt innocence. He would be good. As he thought of Hetty Merton, he began to wonder if the portrait in the locked room had changed. Surely it was not still so horrible as it had been? Perhaps if his life became pure, he would be able to expel every sign of evil passion from the face. Perhaps the signs of evil had already gone away. He would go and look. He took the lamp from the table and crept upstairs. As he unbarred the door, a smile of joy flitted across his strangely young-looking face and lingered for a moment about his lips. Yes, he would be good, and the hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terror to him. He felt as if the load had been lifted from him already. He went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and dragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain and indignation broke from him. He could see no change, save that in the eyes there was a look of cunning and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite. The thing was still loathsome--more loathsome, if possible, than before--and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed brighter, and more like blood newly spilled. Then he trembled. Had it been merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or the desire for a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking laugh? Or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things finer than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these? And why was the red stain larger than it had been? It seemed to have crept like a horrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. There was blood on the painted feet, as though the thing had dripped--blood even on the hand that had not held the knife. Confess? Did it mean that he was to confess? To give himself up and be put to death? He laughed. He felt that the idea was monstrous. Besides, even if he did confess, who would believe him? There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere. Everything belonging to him had been destroyed. He himself had burned what had been below-stairs. The world would simply say that he was mad. They would shut him up if he persisted in his story.... Yet it was his duty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to make public atonement. There was a God who called upon men to tell their sins to earth as well as to heaven. Nothing that he could do would cleanse him till he had told his own sin. His sin? He shrugged his shoulders. The death of Basil Hallward seemed very little to him. He was thinking of Hetty Merton. For it was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soul that he was looking at. Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy? Had there been nothing more in his renunciation than that? There had been something more. At least he thought so. But who could tell? ... No. There had been nothing more. Through vanity he had spared her. In hypocrisy he had worn the mask of goodness. For curiosity's sake he had tried the denial of self. He recognized that now. But this murder--was it to dog him all his life? Was he always to be burdened by his past? Was he really to confess? Never. There was only one bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself--that was evidence. He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? Once it had given him pleasure to watch it changing and growing old. Of late he had felt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at night. When he had been away, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes should look upon it. It had brought melancholy across his passions. Its mere memory had marred many moments of joy. It had been like conscience to him. Yes, it had been conscience. He would destroy it. He looked round and saw the knife that had stabbed Basil Hallward. He had cleaned it many times, till there was no stain left upon it. It was bright, and glistened. As it had killed the painter, so it would kill the painter's work, and all that that meant. It would kill the past, and when that was dead, he would be free. It would kill this monstrous soul-life, and without its hideous warnings, he would be at peace. He seized the thing, and stabbed the picture with it. There was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in its agony that the frightened servants woke and crept out of their rooms. Two gentlemen, who were passing in the square below, stopped and looked up at the great house. They walked on till they met a policeman and brought him back. The man rang the bell several times, but there was no answer. Except for a light in one of the top windows, the house was all dark. After a time, he went away and stood in an adjoining portico and watched. "Whose house is that, Constable?" asked the elder of the two gentlemen. "Mr. Dorian Gray's, sir," answered the policeman. They looked at each other, as they walked away, and sneered. One of them was Sir Henry Ashton's uncle. Inside, in the servants' part of the house, the half-clad domestics were talking in low whispers to each other. Old Mrs. Leaf was crying and wringing her hands. Francis was as pale as death. After about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the footmen and crept upstairs. They knocked, but there was no reply. They called out. Everything was still. Finally, after vainly trying to force the door, they got on the roof and dropped down on to the balcony. The windows yielded easily--their bolts were old. When they entered, they found hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait of their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his exquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in evening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled, and loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the rings that they recognized who it was.

Chapter 20

https://web.archive.org/web/20210421171214/https://www.gradesaver.com/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/study-guide/summary-chapter-20

During the walk home from Henry's, Dorian enjoys the warm evening. He is annoyed when several people mutter his name in astonishment as he passes, an occurence that used to please him, but he cheers himself by thinking of the beautiful and innocent Hetty, and his recent "good action." She had been hopelessly naive, but this was her charm, "she had everything that he had lost." He arrives at home and looks at his face in a mirror given to him by Henry long ago, but is so overcome with loathing that he shatters the mirror on the floor. He tries to focus on the future, to block out people like James Vane, now "hidden in a nameless grave," Alan Campbell, who shot himself without betraying Dorian's secret, or Basil Hallward, who Dorian "murdered in the madness of a moment." He attempts to assuage his guilt by blaming all of his troubles on Basil's portrait, and by contemplating the new life he has begun. He thinks of Hetty, the preservation of whose innocence he holds as proof of his newfound goodness, and wonders whether his good deed has caused his portrait to change for the better. He climbs to the attic, locks the door behind him, and throws the curtain from the picture. A horrified gasp escapes his lips when he sees "no change, save that in the eyes there was a look of cunning, and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite." Dorian realizes that his kindness towards Hetty was either an act of vanity, driven by his desire to improve the appearance of his soul, or simply a different sort of selfishness, driven by "the desire for a new sensation." Desperate to escape his past crimes, Dorian sees the painting as the one piece of evidence revealing his guilt: "It had been like a conscience to him...He would destroy it." The knife on the table, he notices, is still stained with Basil's blood. He takes it, cleans it several times, and stabs the picture. Dorian's servants are awoken by a dreadful shriek. It is so loud that two passing gentlemen hear it from the sidewalk and fetch a policeman to the house. The policeman informs them that it is Dorian Gray's residence, and the men walk away, sneering, without reporting the scream. The servants cannot open the locked door of the attic, so they manage to climb in through the roof. They find the body of a "withered, wrinkled, and loathsome" man, lying on the floor with a knife in his chest. They only recognize their master from the rings on his fingers.

While thinking of Hetty, Dorian remembers telling her that he was a very wicked man, to which she responded that "wicked people were always very old and very ugly." Like the shallow people of Dorian's class, the "pure" Hetty assumes that appearance is everything. While this superficiality is precisely what allows Dorian to win so many hearts, it also prevents anyone from truly knowing who he is. Dorian resolves to undo his past, to block it from his thoughts, and to focus on ensuring a positive future. He crushes the mirror given to him by Lord Henry, a symbolic rejection of his own vanity and the corrupting influence of Henry's friendship. He desperately clings to his treatment of Hetty as an indicator that it is possible to cleanse his soul, but it is too little, too late. Even this seemingly conscientious gesture was committed out of the hedonistic desire to experience an unfamiliar sensation, and the vain wish to improve the appearance of his soul, as depicted in the portrait. Vanity, not morality, drove his action, proving once again that Dorian is a condemned soul. When Dorian kills himself by trying to destroy the painting, the picture and the man once again trade appearances. The man in the portrait becomes young and beautiful, while the real Dorian becomes old and disfigured by guilt. Dorian has unwittingly realized the fear he had upon first seeing the painting: that he would wither and die, while the painting would remain young and beautiful forever. Furthermore, since the painting has been restored to its original appearance, the masterpiece of Basil Hallward is returned to the world. Dorian, seeing the knife, thinks that "As it had killed the painter, so it would kill the painter's work" , but the work and the painter are instead granted the immortality of artistic greatness, while Dorian himself is destroyed. The weapon used by Dorian is the same one he had used to kill Basil. Ironically, Basil offered to destroy the painting with a knife as soon as he sensed Dorian's negative reaction to it , but Dorian's newfound vanity and appreciation for artistic beauty prompted him to throw his own body in front of the image. Eighteen years and eighteen chapters later, Dorian decides to do precisely what he had prevented from happening, and once again his body throws itself before the painting, subject to the dangers of its beauty.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1130-chapters/38.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra/section_37_part_0.txt

The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra.act iv.scene xiii

act iv, scene xiii

{"name": "Act IV, Scene xiii", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210116191009/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/antony-cleopatra/summary/act-iv-scene-xiii", "summary": "Cleopatra flees to her women, afraid of Antony's rage. Charmian suggests she lock herself up in her monument and send word to Antony that she's dead. Cleopatra thinks this is a good idea, and sends Mardian to tell Antony she's killed herself, and that her last word was \"Antony.\" She instructs Mardian to return to her and tell her how Antony takes the false news.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE XIII. Alexandria. CLEOPATRA's palace Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and MARDIAN CLEOPATRA. Help me, my women. O, he is more mad Than Telamon for his shield; the boar of Thessaly Was never so emboss'd. CHARMIAN. To th'monument! There lock yourself, and send him word you are dead. The soul and body rive not more in parting Than greatness going off. CLEOPATRA. To th' monument! Mardian, go tell him I have slain myself; Say that the last I spoke was 'Antony' And word it, prithee, piteously. Hence, Mardian, And bring me how he takes my death. To th' monument! Exeunt ACT_4|SC_14

Act IV, Scene xiii

https://web.archive.org/web/20210116191009/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/antony-cleopatra/summary/act-iv-scene-xiii

Cleopatra flees to her women, afraid of Antony's rage. Charmian suggests she lock herself up in her monument and send word to Antony that she's dead. Cleopatra thinks this is a good idea, and sends Mardian to tell Antony she's killed herself, and that her last word was "Antony." She instructs Mardian to return to her and tell her how Antony takes the false news.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Prince/section_15_part_0.txt

The Prince.chapter 17

chapter 17

{"name": "Chapter 17", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201108110625/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-prince/summary-and-analysis/chapter-17", "summary": "Every prince will want to be considered merciful, but mercy should not be mismanaged. Cesare Borgia, by being cruel, restored peace and order to the Romagna. No prince should mind being called cruel for keeping his subjects peaceful and loyal. Punishing a few, and thus averting disorder, is better than allowing troubles to develop that will hurt many. New rulers cannot avoid seeming cruel, because their states are insecure. Still, a prince should not be too rash or too fearful. If you cannot be both loved and feared, then it is better to be feared than loved. Men are generally fickle, afraid of danger, and greedy. When a prince benefits them, they will do anything for the prince, but when trouble comes, they will desert the prince. People will break ties of love if it is to their advantage, but fear of punishment they will never transgress. A prince must be careful not to make himself hated, even though he is feared; to do this, he must keep his hands off his subjects' property and their women. People will sooner forget the death of a father than the loss of an inheritance. However, when a prince commands an army, he must be cruel in order to control his troops. In conclusion, people love at their own wish, but fear at the prince's will, so a wise ruler will rely on what he can best control.", "analysis": "Continuing his discussion of virtues that are not virtues, Machiavelli considers mercy and cruelty. As with generosity and miserliness, he comes down on the side of the supposedly bad quality. He bases his judgment on consideration of what benefits the most people. It is no use to be merciful if by doing so, a prince allows disorder in his state to get out of control. A controlled amount of cruelty, which harms a few, can avert widespread violence and lawlessness, which harms many. Mercy that allows the majority to suffer cannot properly be called mercy. This is an extremely old idea in Western jurisprudence, and one can still hear it cited as a justification for the imposition of punishment for crimes: Failing to punish wrongdoers penalizes the innocent people who would be harmed by the criminal's future actions. As an example, Machiavelli praises Cesare Borgia's policy of subduing the lawless Romagna region, described in Chapter 8. He also criticizes the Florentine government for failing to intervene when civil war broke out in Pistoia, a Florentine possession. Though the Florentines sent Machiavelli to investigate the situation, they did nothing, and as a result, many citizens died in the fighting. Machiavelli is careful not to advocate cruelty for cruelty's sake. As in Chapter 8, he warns the prince not to constantly injure his subjects, because this will make him hated. Instead, he must be cruel only when necessary to avoid greater wrongs. Even his assertion that the leaders of armies must be cruel is based on the maintenance of discipline, for undisciplined armies harm innocent citizens--or even the ruler himself. This philosophy leads him to the logical conclusion that if a prince has to choose between being loved and being feared, being feared is at least safer, for both the ruler and his subjects. Machiavelli's typically dark view of human nature is on display in this chapter, as seen in his warning about those who swear they love you in good times, but then desert you in bad times. The most cynical of Machiavelli's statements in this chapter is his assertion that people are quicker to forgive the death of a loved one than the confiscation of their property--there could be no bleaker assessment of raw human selfishness. Surrounded by people like these, a prince is indeed safer if he can control them by fear, because love is so fleeting and unreliable. Glossary Dido founder and queen of Carthage: in the Aeneid she falls in love with Aeneas and kills herself when he leaves her. Hannibal Carthaginian general: crossed the Alps to invade Italy in 218. He was defeated by Scipio Africanus in 202 B.C. Fabius Maximus, more conservative in his tactics than Scipio, also fought against Hannibal. Locri a city captured by Scipio and brutally treated by one of his commanders."}

Coming now to the other qualities mentioned above, I say that every prince ought to desire to be considered clement and not cruel. Nevertheless he ought to take care not to misuse this clemency. Cesare Borgia was considered cruel; notwithstanding, his cruelty reconciled the Romagna, unified it, and restored it to peace and loyalty. And if this be rightly considered, he will be seen to have been much more merciful than the Florentine people, who, to avoid a reputation for cruelty, permitted Pistoia to be destroyed.(*) Therefore a prince, so long as he keeps his subjects united and loyal, ought not to mind the reproach of cruelty; because with a few examples he will be more merciful than those who, through too much mercy, allow disorders to arise, from which follow murders or robberies; for these are wont to injure the whole people, whilst those executions which originate with a prince offend the individual only. (*) During the rioting between the Cancellieri and Panciatichi factions in 1502 and 1503. And of all princes, it is impossible for the new prince to avoid the imputation of cruelty, owing to new states being full of dangers. Hence Virgil, through the mouth of Dido, excuses the inhumanity of her reign owing to its being new, saying: "Res dura, et regni novitas me talia cogunt Moliri, et late fines custode tueri."(*) Nevertheless he ought to be slow to believe and to act, nor should he himself show fear, but proceed in a temperate manner with prudence and humanity, so that too much confidence may not make him incautious and too much distrust render him intolerable. (*) . . . against my will, my fate A throne unsettled, and an infant state, Bid me defend my realms with all my pow'rs, And guard with these severities my shores. Christopher Pitt. Upon this a question arises: whether it be better to be loved than feared or feared than loved? It may be answered that one should wish to be both, but, because it is difficult to unite them in one person, it is much safer to be feared than loved, when, of the two, either must be dispensed with. Because this is to be asserted in general of men, that they are ungrateful, fickle, false, cowardly, covetous, and as long as you succeed they are yours entirely; they will offer you their blood, property, life, and children, as is said above, when the need is far distant; but when it approaches they turn against you. And that prince who, relying entirely on their promises, has neglected other precautions, is ruined; because friendships that are obtained by payments, and not by greatness or nobility of mind, may indeed be earned, but they are not secured, and in time of need cannot be relied upon; and men have less scruple in offending one who is beloved than one who is feared, for love is preserved by the link of obligation which, owing to the baseness of men, is broken at every opportunity for their advantage; but fear preserves you by a dread of punishment which never fails. Nevertheless a prince ought to inspire fear in such a way that, if he does not win love, he avoids hatred; because he can endure very well being feared whilst he is not hated, which will always be as long as he abstains from the property of his citizens and subjects and from their women. But when it is necessary for him to proceed against the life of someone, he must do it on proper justification and for manifest cause, but above all things he must keep his hands off the property of others, because men more quickly forget the death of their father than the loss of their patrimony. Besides, pretexts for taking away the property are never wanting; for he who has once begun to live by robbery will always find pretexts for seizing what belongs to others; but reasons for taking life, on the contrary, are more difficult to find and sooner lapse. But when a prince is with his army, and has under control a multitude of soldiers, then it is quite necessary for him to disregard the reputation of cruelty, for without it he would never hold his army united or disposed to its duties. Among the wonderful deeds of Hannibal this one is enumerated: that having led an enormous army, composed of many various races of men, to fight in foreign lands, no dissensions arose either among them or against the prince, whether in his bad or in his good fortune. This arose from nothing else than his inhuman cruelty, which, with his boundless valour, made him revered and terrible in the sight of his soldiers, but without that cruelty, his other virtues were not sufficient to produce this effect. And short-sighted writers admire his deeds from one point of view and from another condemn the principal cause of them. That it is true his other virtues would not have been sufficient for him may be proved by the case of Scipio, that most excellent man, not only of his own times but within the memory of man, against whom, nevertheless, his army rebelled in Spain; this arose from nothing but his too great forbearance, which gave his soldiers more license than is consistent with military discipline. For this he was upbraided in the Senate by Fabius Maximus, and called the corrupter of the Roman soldiery. The Locrians were laid waste by a legate of Scipio, yet they were not avenged by him, nor was the insolence of the legate punished, owing entirely to his easy nature. Insomuch that someone in the Senate, wishing to excuse him, said there were many men who knew much better how not to err than to correct the errors of others. This disposition, if he had been continued in the command, would have destroyed in time the fame and glory of Scipio; but, he being under the control of the Senate, this injurious characteristic not only concealed itself, but contributed to his glory. Returning to the question of being feared or loved, I come to the conclusion that, men loving according to their own will and fearing according to that of the prince, a wise prince should establish himself on that which is in his own control and not in that of others; he must endeavour only to avoid hatred, as is noted.

Chapter 17

https://web.archive.org/web/20201108110625/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-prince/summary-and-analysis/chapter-17

Every prince will want to be considered merciful, but mercy should not be mismanaged. Cesare Borgia, by being cruel, restored peace and order to the Romagna. No prince should mind being called cruel for keeping his subjects peaceful and loyal. Punishing a few, and thus averting disorder, is better than allowing troubles to develop that will hurt many. New rulers cannot avoid seeming cruel, because their states are insecure. Still, a prince should not be too rash or too fearful. If you cannot be both loved and feared, then it is better to be feared than loved. Men are generally fickle, afraid of danger, and greedy. When a prince benefits them, they will do anything for the prince, but when trouble comes, they will desert the prince. People will break ties of love if it is to their advantage, but fear of punishment they will never transgress. A prince must be careful not to make himself hated, even though he is feared; to do this, he must keep his hands off his subjects' property and their women. People will sooner forget the death of a father than the loss of an inheritance. However, when a prince commands an army, he must be cruel in order to control his troops. In conclusion, people love at their own wish, but fear at the prince's will, so a wise ruler will rely on what he can best control.

Continuing his discussion of virtues that are not virtues, Machiavelli considers mercy and cruelty. As with generosity and miserliness, he comes down on the side of the supposedly bad quality. He bases his judgment on consideration of what benefits the most people. It is no use to be merciful if by doing so, a prince allows disorder in his state to get out of control. A controlled amount of cruelty, which harms a few, can avert widespread violence and lawlessness, which harms many. Mercy that allows the majority to suffer cannot properly be called mercy. This is an extremely old idea in Western jurisprudence, and one can still hear it cited as a justification for the imposition of punishment for crimes: Failing to punish wrongdoers penalizes the innocent people who would be harmed by the criminal's future actions. As an example, Machiavelli praises Cesare Borgia's policy of subduing the lawless Romagna region, described in Chapter 8. He also criticizes the Florentine government for failing to intervene when civil war broke out in Pistoia, a Florentine possession. Though the Florentines sent Machiavelli to investigate the situation, they did nothing, and as a result, many citizens died in the fighting. Machiavelli is careful not to advocate cruelty for cruelty's sake. As in Chapter 8, he warns the prince not to constantly injure his subjects, because this will make him hated. Instead, he must be cruel only when necessary to avoid greater wrongs. Even his assertion that the leaders of armies must be cruel is based on the maintenance of discipline, for undisciplined armies harm innocent citizens--or even the ruler himself. This philosophy leads him to the logical conclusion that if a prince has to choose between being loved and being feared, being feared is at least safer, for both the ruler and his subjects. Machiavelli's typically dark view of human nature is on display in this chapter, as seen in his warning about those who swear they love you in good times, but then desert you in bad times. The most cynical of Machiavelli's statements in this chapter is his assertion that people are quicker to forgive the death of a loved one than the confiscation of their property--there could be no bleaker assessment of raw human selfishness. Surrounded by people like these, a prince is indeed safer if he can control them by fear, because love is so fleeting and unreliable. Glossary Dido founder and queen of Carthage: in the Aeneid she falls in love with Aeneas and kills herself when he leaves her. Hannibal Carthaginian general: crossed the Alps to invade Italy in 218. He was defeated by Scipio Africanus in 202 B.C. Fabius Maximus, more conservative in his tactics than Scipio, also fought against Hannibal. Locri a city captured by Scipio and brutally treated by one of his commanders.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/50.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_48_part_0.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 49

chapter 49

{"name": "Phase VI: \"The Convert,\" Chapter Forty-Nine", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-49", "summary": "Tess's letter is addressed to Angel's parents, since they are the ones who had his current address in Brazil. Mrs. Clare forwards it to Angel immediately, and hopes that it will make him hurry home for the visit he's been planning. Mr. Clare still feels guilty about not allowing Angel to go to the university like his brothers, and blames himself for Angel's unhappy marriage. Angel, meanwhile, has grown up an awful lot since he left for Brazil. The fever he caught soon after arriving almost killed him, and he's still weak. He's re-considering a lot of things he used to take for granted. He's decided that morality has more to do with your intentions than your actions. And Tess never intended to be raped, so was she still pure? At one point, Angel meets another Englishman in Brazil, and they become friends. Angel confides his whole story to the man, and the man tells Angel that deserting Tess was the dumbest move, ever. The man dies shortly afterwards, but his words have a lasting effect on Angel. He realizes how wrong he's been about Tess. Tess, meanwhile, is convinced that Angel will soon come back in response to her letter, and so she starts thinking about what she can do to please him when he gets back. She starts studying up on all the ballads and songs that he liked best, and daydreaming about life with Angel after his return. One day in late March, her sister 'Liza-Lu shows up at her door, telling her that their mother is sick, and their father isn't doing well, either. And their father is refusing to work on account of his noble background. Tess decides she has to go home, even though she's supposed to stick around until Old Lady Day . 'Liza-Lu is too tired to head back that night , so Tess decides to let her sister spend the night in her bed, and follow her in the morning. Tess herself leaves a message with Marian and Izz to try to excuse her to the farmer, and then sets out for home.", "analysis": ""}

The appeal duly found its way to the breakfast-table of the quiet Vicarage to the westward, in that valley where the air is so soft and the soil so rich that the effort of growth requires but superficial aid by comparison with the tillage at Flintcomb-Ash, and where to Tess the human world seemed so different (though it was much the same). It was purely for security that she had been requested by Angel to send her communications through his father, whom he kept pretty well informed of his changing addresses in the country he had gone to exploit for himself with a heavy heart. "Now," said old Mr Clare to his wife, when he had read the envelope, "if Angel proposes leaving Rio for a visit home at the end of next month, as he told us that he hoped to do, I think this may hasten his plans; for I believe it to be from his wife." He breathed deeply at the thought of her; and the letter was redirected to be promptly sent on to Angel. "Dear fellow, I hope he will get home safely," murmured Mrs Clare. "To my dying day I shall feel that he has been ill-used. You should have sent him to Cambridge in spite of his want of faith and given him the same chance as the other boys had. He would have grown out of it under proper influence, and perhaps would have taken Orders after all. Church or no Church, it would have been fairer to him." This was the only wail with which Mrs Clare ever disturbed her husband's peace in respect to their sons. And she did not vent this often; for she was as considerate as she was devout, and knew that his mind too was troubled by doubts as to his justice in this matter. Only too often had she heard him lying awake at night, stifling sighs for Angel with prayers. But the uncompromising Evangelical did not even now hold that he would have been justified in giving his son, an unbeliever, the same academic advantages that he had given to the two others, when it was possible, if not probable, that those very advantages might have been used to decry the doctrines which he had made it his life's mission and desire to propagate, and the mission of his ordained sons likewise. To put with one hand a pedestal under the feet of the two faithful ones, and with the other to exalt the unfaithful by the same artificial means, he deemed to be alike inconsistent with his convictions, his position, and his hopes. Nevertheless, he loved his misnamed Angel, and in secret mourned over this treatment of him as Abraham might have mourned over the doomed Isaac while they went up the hill together. His silent self-generated regrets were far bitterer than the reproaches which his wife rendered audible. They blamed themselves for this unlucky marriage. If Angel had never been destined for a farmer he would never have been thrown with agricultural girls. They did not distinctly know what had separated him and his wife, nor the date on which the separation had taken place. At first they had supposed it must be something of the nature of a serious aversion. But in his later letters he occasionally alluded to the intention of coming home to fetch her; from which expressions they hoped the division might not owe its origin to anything so hopelessly permanent as that. He had told them that she was with her relatives, and in their doubts they had decided not to intrude into a situation which they knew no way of bettering. The eyes for which Tess's letter was intended were gazing at this time on a limitless expanse of country from the back of a mule which was bearing him from the interior of the South-American Continent towards the coast. His experiences of this strange land had been sad. The severe illness from which he had suffered shortly after his arrival had never wholly left him, and he had by degrees almost decided to relinquish his hope of farming here, though, as long as the bare possibility existed of his remaining, he kept this change of view a secret from his parents. The crowds of agricultural labourers who had come out to the country in his wake, dazzled by representations of easy independence, had suffered, died, and wasted away. He would see mothers from English farms trudging along with their infants in their arms, when the child would be stricken with fever and would die; the mother would pause to dig a hole in the loose earth with her bare hands, would bury the babe therein with the same natural grave-tools, shed one tear, and again trudge on. Angel's original intention had not been emigration to Brazil but a northern or eastern farm in his own country. He had come to this place in a fit of desperation, the Brazil movement among the English agriculturists having by chance coincided with his desire to escape from his past existence. During this time of absence he had mentally aged a dozen years. What arrested him now as of value in life was less its beauty than its pathos. Having long discredited the old systems of mysticism, he now began to discredit the old appraisements of morality. He thought they wanted readjusting. Who was the moral man? Still more pertinently, who was the moral woman? The beauty or ugliness of a character lay not only in its achievements, but in its aims and impulses; its true history lay, not among things done, but among things willed. How, then, about Tess? Viewing her in these lights, a regret for his hasty judgement began to oppress him. Did he reject her eternally, or did he not? He could no longer say that he would always reject her, and not to say that was in spirit to accept her now. This growing fondness for her memory coincided in point of time with her residence at Flintcomb-Ash, but it was before she had felt herself at liberty to trouble him with a word about her circumstances or her feelings. He was greatly perplexed; and in his perplexity as to her motives in withholding intelligence, he did not inquire. Thus her silence of docility was misinterpreted. How much it really said if he had understood!--that she adhered with literal exactness to orders which he had given and forgotten; that despite her natural fearlessness she asserted no rights, admitted his judgement to be in every respect the true one, and bent her head dumbly thereto. In the before-mentioned journey by mules through the interior of the country, another man rode beside him. Angel's companion was also an Englishman, bent on the same errand, though he came from another part of the island. They were both in a state of mental depression, and they spoke of home affairs. Confidence begat confidence. With that curious tendency evinced by men, more especially when in distant lands, to entrust to strangers details of their lives which they would on no account mention to friends, Angel admitted to this man as they rode along the sorrowful facts of his marriage. The stranger had sojourned in many more lands and among many more peoples than Angel; to his cosmopolitan mind such deviations from the social norm, so immense to domesticity, were no more than are the irregularities of vale and mountain-chain to the whole terrestrial curve. He viewed the matter in quite a different light from Angel; thought that what Tess had been was of no importance beside what she would be, and plainly told Clare that he was wrong in coming away from her. The next day they were drenched in a thunder-storm. Angel's companion was struck down with fever, and died by the week's end. Clare waited a few hours to bury him, and then went on his way. The cursory remarks of the large-minded stranger, of whom he knew absolutely nothing beyond a commonplace name, were sublimed by his death, and influenced Clare more than all the reasoned ethics of the philosophers. His own parochialism made him ashamed by its contrast. His inconsistencies rushed upon him in a flood. He had persistently elevated Hellenic Paganism at the expense of Christianity; yet in that civilization an illegal surrender was not certain disesteem. Surely then he might have regarded that abhorrence of the un-intact state, which he had inherited with the creed of mysticism, as at least open to correction when the result was due to treachery. A remorse struck into him. The words of Izz Huett, never quite stilled in his memory, came back to him. He had asked Izz if she loved him, and she had replied in the affirmative. Did she love him more than Tess did? No, she had replied; Tess would lay down her life for him, and she herself could do no more. He thought of Tess as she had appeared on the day of the wedding. How her eyes had lingered upon him; how she had hung upon his words as if they were a god's! And during the terrible evening over the hearth, when her simple soul uncovered itself to his, how pitiful her face had looked by the rays of the fire, in her inability to realize that his love and protection could possibly be withdrawn. Thus from being her critic he grew to be her advocate. Cynical things he had uttered to himself about her; but no man can be always a cynic and live; and he withdrew them. The mistake of expressing them had arisen from his allowing himself to be influenced by general principles to the disregard of the particular instance. But the reasoning is somewhat musty; lovers and husbands have gone over the ground before to-day. Clare had been harsh towards her; there is no doubt of it. Men are too often harsh with women they love or have loved; women with men. And yet these harshnesses are tenderness itself when compared with the universal harshness out of which they grow; the harshness of the position towards the temperament, of the means towards the aims, of to-day towards yesterday, of hereafter towards to-day. The historic interest of her family--that masterful line of d'Urbervilles--whom he had despised as a spent force, touched his sentiments now. Why had he not known the difference between the political value and the imaginative value of these things? In the latter aspect her d'Urberville descent was a fact of great dimensions; worthless to economics, it was a most useful ingredient to the dreamer, to the moralizer on declines and falls. It was a fact that would soon be forgotten--that bit of distinction in poor Tess's blood and name, and oblivion would fall upon her hereditary link with the marble monuments and leaded skeletons at Kingsbere. So does Time ruthlessly destroy his own romances. In recalling her face again and again, he thought now that he could see therein a flash of the dignity which must have graced her grand-dames; and the vision sent that _aura_ through his veins which he had formerly felt, and which left behind it a sense of sickness. Despite her not-inviolate past, what still abode in such a woman as Tess outvalued the freshness of her fellows. Was not the gleaning of the grapes of Ephraim better than the vintage of Abiezer? So spoke love renascent, preparing the way for Tess's devoted outpouring, which was then just being forwarded to him by his father; though owing to his distance inland it was to be a long time in reaching him. Meanwhile the writer's expectation that Angel would come in response to the entreaty was alternately great and small. What lessened it was that the facts of her life which had led to the parting had not changed--could never change; and that, if her presence had not attenuated them, her absence could not. Nevertheless she addressed her mind to the tender question of what she could do to please him best if he should arrive. Sighs were expended on the wish that she had taken more notice of the tunes he played on his harp, that she had inquired more curiously of him which were his favourite ballads among those the country-girls sang. She indirectly inquired of Amby Seedling, who had followed Izz from Talbothays, and by chance Amby remembered that, amongst the snatches of melody in which they had indulged at the dairyman's, to induce the cows to let down their milk, Clare had seemed to like "Cupid's Gardens", "I have parks, I have hounds", and "The break o' the day"; and had seemed not to care for "The Tailor's Breeches" and "Such a beauty I did grow", excellent ditties as they were. To perfect the ballads was now her whimsical desire. She practised them privately at odd moments, especially "The break o' the day": Arise, arise, arise! And pick your love a posy, All o' the sweetest flowers That in the garden grow. The turtle doves and sma' birds In every bough a-building, So early in the May-time At the break o' the day! It would have melted the heart of a stone to hear her singing these ditties whenever she worked apart from the rest of the girls in this cold dry time; the tears running down her cheeks all the while at the thought that perhaps he would not, after all, come to hear her, and the simple silly words of the songs resounding in painful mockery of the aching heart of the singer. Tess was so wrapt up in this fanciful dream that she seemed not to know how the season was advancing; that the days had lengthened, that Lady-Day was at hand, and would soon be followed by Old Lady-Day, the end of her term here. But before the quarter-day had quite come, something happened which made Tess think of far different matters. She was at her lodging as usual one evening, sitting in the downstairs room with the rest of the family, when somebody knocked at the door and inquired for Tess. Through the doorway she saw against the declining light a figure with the height of a woman and the breadth of a child, a tall, thin, girlish creature whom she did not recognize in the twilight till the girl said "Tess!" "What--is it 'Liza-Lu?" asked Tess, in startled accents. Her sister, whom a little over a year ago she had left at home as a child, had sprung up by a sudden shoot to a form of this presentation, of which as yet Lu seemed herself scarce able to understand the meaning. Her thin legs, visible below her once-long frock, now short by her growing, and her uncomfortable hands and arms revealed her youth and inexperience. "Yes, I have been traipsing about all day, Tess," said Lu, with unemotional gravity, "a-trying to find 'ee; and I'm very tired." "What is the matter at home?" "Mother is took very bad, and the doctor says she's dying, and as father is not very well neither, and says 'tis wrong for a man of such a high family as his to slave and drave at common labouring work, we don't know what to do." Tess stood in reverie a long time before she thought of asking 'Liza-Lu to come in and sit down. When she had done so, and 'Liza-Lu was having some tea, she came to a decision. It was imperative that she should go home. Her agreement did not end till Old Lady-Day, the sixth of April, but as the interval thereto was not a long one she resolved to run the risk of starting at once. To go that night would be a gain of twelve-hours; but her sister was too tired to undertake such a distance till the morrow. Tess ran down to where Marian and Izz lived, informed them of what had happened, and begged them to make the best of her case to the farmer. Returning, she got Lu a supper, and after that, having tucked the younger into her own bed, packed up as many of her belongings as would go into a withy basket, and started, directing Lu to follow her next morning.

Phase VI: "The Convert," Chapter Forty-Nine

https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-49

Tess's letter is addressed to Angel's parents, since they are the ones who had his current address in Brazil. Mrs. Clare forwards it to Angel immediately, and hopes that it will make him hurry home for the visit he's been planning. Mr. Clare still feels guilty about not allowing Angel to go to the university like his brothers, and blames himself for Angel's unhappy marriage. Angel, meanwhile, has grown up an awful lot since he left for Brazil. The fever he caught soon after arriving almost killed him, and he's still weak. He's re-considering a lot of things he used to take for granted. He's decided that morality has more to do with your intentions than your actions. And Tess never intended to be raped, so was she still pure? At one point, Angel meets another Englishman in Brazil, and they become friends. Angel confides his whole story to the man, and the man tells Angel that deserting Tess was the dumbest move, ever. The man dies shortly afterwards, but his words have a lasting effect on Angel. He realizes how wrong he's been about Tess. Tess, meanwhile, is convinced that Angel will soon come back in response to her letter, and so she starts thinking about what she can do to please him when he gets back. She starts studying up on all the ballads and songs that he liked best, and daydreaming about life with Angel after his return. One day in late March, her sister 'Liza-Lu shows up at her door, telling her that their mother is sick, and their father isn't doing well, either. And their father is refusing to work on account of his noble background. Tess decides she has to go home, even though she's supposed to stick around until Old Lady Day . 'Liza-Lu is too tired to head back that night , so Tess decides to let her sister spend the night in her bed, and follow her in the morning. Tess herself leaves a message with Marian and Izz to try to excuse her to the farmer, and then sets out for home.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/25.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Sense and Sensibility/section_2_part_5.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 25

chapter 25

{"name": "Chapter 25", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-21-30", "summary": "Mrs. Jennings invites Marianne and Elinor to spend the winter with her in London; Elinor isn't excited by the prospect, though Marianne wants to go for the chance of seeing Willoughby. Mrs. Dashwood urges them to go and enjoy themselves; Marianne is determined to go, and Elinor decides she must go too, because Marianne is often uncivil to Mrs. Jennings and needs Elinor's guidance and good judgment. They accept Mrs. Jennings' invitation, and leave in the first week of January.", "analysis": "Marianne's lack of good manners and civility leaves her at a disadvantage; she is lucky that Elinor is always there to guard her and make apologies for her, since Marianne would never do so herself. Marianne's lack of delicacy is childlike, and shows that her character has been indulged a bit too much; however, only experience can teach her, since she is too stubborn to take the good advice of her sister Elinor on matters of society. Self-sacrifice becomes a theme in this chapter, as Elinor decides to go to London against her wishes because it will make her sister happy. Marianne's determination to go looks a little selfish in comparison, considering that she has no thought of repaying the hospitality of Mrs. Jennings with any good company at all"}

Though Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without a settled habitation of her own. Since the death of her husband, who had traded with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had resided every winter in a house in one of the streets near Portman Square. Towards this home, she began on the approach of January to turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and very unexpectedly by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to accompany her. Elinor, without observing the varying complexion of her sister, and the animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself to be speaking their united inclinations. The reason alleged was their determined resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the year. Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some surprise, and repeated her invitation immediately. "Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I DO beg you will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart upon it. Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I shan't put myself at all out of my way for you. It will only be sending Betty by the coach, and I hope I can afford THAT. We three shall be able to go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town, if you do not like to go wherever I do, well and good, you may always go with one of my daughters. I am sure your mother will not object to it; for I have had such good luck in getting my own children off my hands that she will think me a very fit person to have the charge of you; and if I don't get one of you at least well married before I have done with you, it shall not be my fault. I shall speak a good word for you to all the young men, you may depend upon it." "I have a notion," said Sir John, "that Miss Marianne would not object to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it. It is very hard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss Dashwood does not wish it. So I would advise you two, to set off for town, when you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss Dashwood about it." "Nay," cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of Miss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only the more the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable for them to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might talk to one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back. But one or the other, if not both of them, I must have. Lord bless me! how do you think I can live poking by myself, I who have been always used till this winter to have Charlotte with me. Come, Miss Marianne, let us strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her mind by and bye, why so much the better." "I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you," said Marianne, with warmth: "your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would give me such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of, to be able to accept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother,--I feel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made less happy, less comfortable by our absence--Oh! no, nothing should tempt me to leave her. It should not, must not be a struggle." Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare them perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister, and saw to what indifference to almost every thing else she was carried by her eagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no farther direct opposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's decision, from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any support in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not approve of for Marianne, and which on her own account she had particular reasons to avoid. Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her mother would be eager to promote--she could not expect to influence the latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which she had never been able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared not explain the motive of her own disinclination for going to London. That Marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs. Jennings' manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be most wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object, was such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object to her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to witness. On being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that such an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her daughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to herself, how much the heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of their declining the offer upon HER account; insisted on their both accepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her usual cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all, from this separation. "I am delighted with the plan," she cried, "it is exactly what I could wish. Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves. When you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and happily together with our books and our music! You will find Margaret so improved when you come back again! I have a little plan of alteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without any inconvenience to any one. It is very right that you SHOULD go to town; I would have every young woman of your condition in life acquainted with the manners and amusements of London. You will be under the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to you I can have no doubt. And in all probability you will see your brother, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife, when I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly estranged from each other." "Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness," said Elinor, "you have been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which occurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion, cannot be so easily removed." Marianne's countenance sunk. "And what," said Mrs. Dashwood, "is my dear prudent Elinor going to suggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? Do let me hear a word about the expense of it." "My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings's heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or whose protection will give us consequence." "That is very true," replied her mother, "but of her society, separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing at all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady Middleton." "If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings," said Marianne, "at least it need not prevent MY accepting her invitation. I have no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every unpleasantness of that kind with very little effort." Elinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards the manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in persuading Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved within herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go likewise, as she did not think it proper that Marianne should be left to the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should be abandoned to the mercy of Marianne for all the comfort of her domestic hours. To this determination she was the more easily reconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy's account, was not to be in town before February; and that their visit, without any unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished. "I will have you BOTH go," said Mrs. Dashwood; "these objections are nonsensical. You will have much pleasure in being in London, and especially in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to anticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of sources; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving her acquaintance with her sister-in-law's family." Elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her mother's dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that the shock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on this attack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to begin her design by saying, as calmly as she could, "I like Edward Ferrars very much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the rest of the family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, whether I am ever known to them or not." Mrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing. Marianne lifted up her eyes in astonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have held her tongue. After very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the invitation should be fully accepted. Mrs. Jennings received the information with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness and care; nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her. Sir John was delighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of being alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in London, was something. Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of being delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as for the Miss Steeles, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in their lives as this intelligence made them. Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with less reluctance than she had expected to feel. With regard to herself, it was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and when she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her sister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all her usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow herself to distrust the consequence. Marianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the perturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone. Her unwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness; and at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive. Her mother's affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one of the three, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing short of eternal. Their departure took place in the first week in January. The Middletons were to follow in about a week. The Miss Steeles kept their station at the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the family.

Chapter 25

https://web.archive.org/web/20210419170735/https://www.gradesaver.com/sense-and-sensibility/study-guide/summary-chapters-21-30

Mrs. Jennings invites Marianne and Elinor to spend the winter with her in London; Elinor isn't excited by the prospect, though Marianne wants to go for the chance of seeing Willoughby. Mrs. Dashwood urges them to go and enjoy themselves; Marianne is determined to go, and Elinor decides she must go too, because Marianne is often uncivil to Mrs. Jennings and needs Elinor's guidance and good judgment. They accept Mrs. Jennings' invitation, and leave in the first week of January.

Marianne's lack of good manners and civility leaves her at a disadvantage; she is lucky that Elinor is always there to guard her and make apologies for her, since Marianne would never do so herself. Marianne's lack of delicacy is childlike, and shows that her character has been indulged a bit too much; however, only experience can teach her, since she is too stubborn to take the good advice of her sister Elinor on matters of society. Self-sacrifice becomes a theme in this chapter, as Elinor decides to go to London against her wishes because it will make her sister happy. Marianne's determination to go looks a little selfish in comparison, considering that she has no thought of repaying the hospitality of Mrs. Jennings with any good company at all

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1130-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra/section_9_part_0.txt

The Tragedy of Antony and Cleopatra.act ii.scene v

act ii, scene v

{"name": "Act II, Scene v", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210116191009/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/antony-cleopatra/summary/act-ii-scene-v", "summary": "Cleopatra misses Antony, and jokes with her servants about the times they had. She likens Antony to a fish she caught in the river, and notes that last time she caught him she kept him for quite some time, \"Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed,\" . Interestingly, Cleopatra dressed him up in her headdresses and clothes, and she wore the sword he used in the battle against Brutus and Cassius at Philippi. This moment of sharing is interrupted by a messenger who brings news from Rome. Cleopatra can tell by his face that it's not great news. She worries that Antony is dead, or that he's Caesar's captive or something terrible. She keeps interrupting the messenger, threatening him if he brings bad news and promising gold if he brings good. Finally, the messenger points out Antony is alive and well, but bound to Octavia \"for a turn i' th' bed.\" Cleopatra, Antony's former partner for such bed turns, flies into a rage, beats the messenger herself, and eventually draws a knife. He runs away, thinking his job was to tell the truth, not to bear its consequences. She eventually calms out of crazed mood, and calls the messenger back, admitting she has acted like she's on Jerry Springer. She says it's not the poor messenger's fault that Antony sleeps around. She has the messenger repeat that Antony's married a few more times, adding to the drama. As she dismisses the servant, she's still in a sad rage, and points out that praising Antony has made her dispraise Julius Caesar . She's sure this is punishment for her short memory. Cleopatra sends her servant, Alexas, to follow the messenger and ask that he bring back word of what Octavia is like--her age, manner, height, hair color. She'd like to size up the competition.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE V. Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and ALEXAS CLEOPATRA. Give me some music- music, moody food Of us that trade in love. ALL. The music, ho! Enter MARDIAN the eunuch CLEOPATRA. Let it alone! Let's to billiards. Come, Charmian. CHARMIAN. My arm is sore; best play with Mardian. CLEOPATRA. As well a woman with an eunuch play'd As with a woman. Come, you'll play with me, sir? MARDIAN. As well as I can, madam. CLEOPATRA. And when good will is show'd, though't come too short, The actor may plead pardon. I'll none now. Give me mine angle- we'll to th' river. There, My music playing far off, I will betray Tawny-finn'd fishes; my bended hook shall pierce Their slimy jaws; and as I draw them up I'll think them every one an Antony, And say 'Ah ha! Y'are caught.' CHARMIAN. 'Twas merry when You wager'd on your angling; when your diver Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he With fervency drew up. CLEOPATRA. That time? O times I laughed him out of patience; and that night I laugh'd him into patience; and next morn, Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed, Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst I wore his sword Philippan. Enter a MESSENGER O! from Italy? Ram thou thy fruitful tidings in mine ears, That long time have been barren. MESSENGER. Madam, madam- CLEOPATRA. Antony's dead! If thou say so, villain, Thou kill'st thy mistress; but well and free, If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here My bluest veins to kiss- a hand that kings Have lipp'd, and trembled kissing. MESSENGER. First, madam, he is well. CLEOPATRA. Why, there's more gold. But, sirrah, mark, we use To say the dead are well. Bring it to that, The gold I give thee will I melt and pour Down thy ill-uttering throat. MESSENGER. Good madam, hear me. CLEOPATRA. Well, go to, I will. But there's no goodness in thy face. If Antony Be free and healthful- why so tart a favour To trumpet such good tidings? If not well, Thou shouldst come like a Fury crown'd with snakes, Not like a formal man. MESSENGER. Will't please you hear me? CLEOPATRA. I have a mind to strike thee ere thou speak'st. Yet, if thou say Antony lives, is well, Or friends with Caesar, or not captive to him, I'll set thee in a shower of gold, and hail Rich pearls upon thee. MESSENGER. Madam, he's well. CLEOPATRA. Well said. MESSENGER. And friends with Caesar. CLEOPATRA. Th'art an honest man. MESSENGER. Caesar and he are greater friends than ever. CLEOPATRA. Make thee a fortune from me. MESSENGER. But yet, madam- CLEOPATRA. I do not like 'but yet.' It does allay The good precedence; fie upon 'but yet'! 'But yet' is as a gaoler to bring forth Some monstrous malefactor. Prithee, friend, Pour out the pack of matter to mine ear, The good and bad together. He's friends with Caesar; In state of health, thou say'st; and, thou say'st, free. MESSENGER. Free, madam! No; I made no such report. He's bound unto Octavia. CLEOPATRA. For what good turn? MESSENGER. For the best turn i' th' bed. CLEOPATRA. I am pale, Charmian. MESSENGER. Madam, he's married to Octavia. CLEOPATRA. The most infectious pestilence upon thee! [Strikes him down] MESSENGER. Good madam, patience. CLEOPATRA. What say you? Hence, [Strikes him] Horrible villain! or I'll spurn thine eyes Like balls before me; I'll unhair thy head; [She hales him up and down] Thou shalt be whipp'd with wire and stew'd in brine, Smarting in ling'ring pickle. MESSENGER. Gracious madam, I that do bring the news made not the match. CLEOPATRA. Say 'tis not so, a province I will give thee, And make thy fortunes proud. The blow thou hadst Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage; And I will boot thee with what gift beside Thy modesty can beg. MESSENGER. He's married, madam. CLEOPATRA. Rogue, thou hast liv'd too long. [Draws a knife] MESSENGER. Nay, then I'll run. What mean you, madam? I have made no fault. Exit CHARMIAN. Good madam, keep yourself within yourself: The man is innocent. CLEOPATRA. Some innocents scape not the thunderbolt. Melt Egypt into Nile! and kindly creatures Turn all to serpents! Call the slave again. Though I am mad, I will not bite him. Call! CHARMIAN. He is afear'd to come. CLEOPATRA. I will not hurt him. These hands do lack nobility, that they strike A meaner than myself; since I myself Have given myself the cause. Enter the MESSENGER again Come hither, sir. Though it be honest, it is never good To bring bad news. Give to a gracious message An host of tongues; but let ill tidings tell Themselves when they be felt. MESSENGER. I have done my duty. CLEOPATRA. Is he married? I cannot hate thee worser than I do If thou again say 'Yes.' MESSENGER. He's married, madam. CLEOPATRA. The gods confound thee! Dost thou hold there still? MESSENGER. Should I lie, madam? CLEOPATRA. O, I would thou didst, So half my Egypt were submerg'd and made A cistern for scal'd snakes! Go, get thee hence. Hadst thou Narcissus in thy face, to me Thou wouldst appear most ugly. He is married? MESSENGER. I crave your Highness' pardon. CLEOPATRA. He is married? MESSENGER. Take no offence that I would not offend you; To punish me for what you make me do Seems much unequal. He's married to Octavia. CLEOPATRA. O, that his fault should make a knave of thee That art not what th'art sure of! Get thee hence. The merchandise which thou hast brought from Rome Are all too dear for me. Lie they upon thy hand, And be undone by 'em! Exit MESSENGER CHARMIAN. Good your Highness, patience. CLEOPATRA. In praising Antony I have disprais'd Caesar. CHARMIAN. Many times, madam. CLEOPATRA. I am paid for't now. Lead me from hence, I faint. O Iras, Charmian! 'Tis no matter. Go to the fellow, good Alexas; bid him Report the feature of Octavia, her years, Her inclination; let him not leave out The colour of her hair. Bring me word quickly. Exit ALEXAS Let him for ever go- let him not, Charmian- Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon, The other way's a Mars. [To MARDIAN] Bid you Alexas Bring me word how tall she is.- Pity me, Charmian, But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber. Exeunt

Act II, Scene v

https://web.archive.org/web/20210116191009/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/antony-cleopatra/summary/act-ii-scene-v

Cleopatra misses Antony, and jokes with her servants about the times they had. She likens Antony to a fish she caught in the river, and notes that last time she caught him she kept him for quite some time, "Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed," . Interestingly, Cleopatra dressed him up in her headdresses and clothes, and she wore the sword he used in the battle against Brutus and Cassius at Philippi. This moment of sharing is interrupted by a messenger who brings news from Rome. Cleopatra can tell by his face that it's not great news. She worries that Antony is dead, or that he's Caesar's captive or something terrible. She keeps interrupting the messenger, threatening him if he brings bad news and promising gold if he brings good. Finally, the messenger points out Antony is alive and well, but bound to Octavia "for a turn i' th' bed." Cleopatra, Antony's former partner for such bed turns, flies into a rage, beats the messenger herself, and eventually draws a knife. He runs away, thinking his job was to tell the truth, not to bear its consequences. She eventually calms out of crazed mood, and calls the messenger back, admitting she has acted like she's on Jerry Springer. She says it's not the poor messenger's fault that Antony sleeps around. She has the messenger repeat that Antony's married a few more times, adding to the drama. As she dismisses the servant, she's still in a sad rage, and points out that praising Antony has made her dispraise Julius Caesar . She's sure this is punishment for her short memory. Cleopatra sends her servant, Alexas, to follow the messenger and ask that he bring back word of what Octavia is like--her age, manner, height, hair color. She'd like to size up the competition.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/chapters_44_to_45.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Lord Jim/section_17_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapters 44-45

chapters 44-45

{"name": "Chapters 44-45", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210215030710/https://www.novelguide.com/lord-jim/summaries/chapter44-45", "summary": "Four and Forty-Five . Chapter Forty Four describes how, after passing Jim at the mouth of the creek, Brown, Cornelius and the rest of the party travel down a by-channel as directed by Cornelius. They are able to do this unnoticed as it is still misty. Brown orders his men to load their guns and says he will give them a chance to get even with 'them'. . . Meanwhile, Tamb' Itam has reached Dain Waris and has given him Jim's message . Whilst Dain Waris's men make a watch on the mainstream, Brown takes his revenge 'on the world' 'with an act of cold-blooded ferocity'. He lands on the other side of the island opposite the Bugis camp and leads his men across. Cornelius tries to slink away, but after a scuffle with Brown he resigns himself to leading them to Dain Waris. Brown's men shoot at this camp three times and Dain Waris is shot in the forehead on the second discharge. . . After this, 'the white men' retire and Brown feels that his account has been settled: 'It was not a vulgar and treacherous massacre; it was a lesson, a retribution ...' When Brown's party leave, they take Cornelius's boat with them. A month later, a story is told that Brown and two of his men survive the schooner springing a leak and are rescued. The two men die on board the steamer that rescues them, but Brown lives long enough to be seen by Marlow months later. . . Tamb' Itam strikes Cornelius twice after the shooting and killed him. Tamb' Itam then leaves for Jim's fort to let him know what has happened. There are many survivors of Dain Waris's party, but they do not know who struck the blow or if they have been victims of a betrayal. . . In Chapter Forty Five, Tamb' Itam tells Jewel and then Jim about the events surrounding the murder of Dain Waris. Jim wants him to send messages to assemble a fleet of boats to capture Brown. However, Tamb' Itam tells him it is not safe for him to go out amongst the people. Later, towards the evening, Tamb' Itam says there is a lot of anger and they will have to fight for their lives; Jim replies that he has no life. . . The narrative then shifts to Doramin. His son's body is brought to him and one of the bystanders removes the ring from Dain Waris's finger and holds it up before Doramin: 'A murmur of dismay and horror ran through the crowd at the sight of that familiar token.' Doramin lets out a roar of pain and fury and sounds 'like a wounded bull'. . . The narrative switches to Jim as he tells Jewel and Tamb' Itam that it is time to finish this. As he walks out, Jewel cries, 'will you fight?' and Jim replies that there is nothing to fight for. She asks if he will run away and he says, 'there is no escape'. She asks Jim for the last time if he will defend himself and he replies , 'nothing can touch me'. She holds on to him and Tamb' Itam has to help ease her off. Jim looks earnestly at her face and then runs to the landing stage. Tamb' Itam asks Tuan Jim to look back, but he is already in a canoe. Tamb' Itam has just enough time to scramble in with him. Jewel shouts to Jim and says he is 'false'; Jim cries, 'forgive me', but she replies, 'never, never'. . . Jim and Tamb' Itam arrive at Doramin's and the courtyard is full of armed Bugis men and Patusan people. Jim says he has taken it upon his head and tells Doramin he has come in sorrow. He is 'ready and unarmed'. Doramin is sitting down and is clutching pistols. He tries to rise and the silver ring falls from his lap. This is described as the talisman that opened the door of 'fame, love and success' for Jim. Doramin struggles to his feet with the help of two men, and shoots Jim in the chest. The crowd see Jim look to the right and to the left with a 'proud and unflinching glance'. He then falls forward, dead: ' And that's the end. He passes away under a cloud, inscrutable at heart, forgotten, unforgiven, and excessively romantic.' . . The novel ends with a reference to Jewel, the 'poor girl', who now leads, 'a sort of soundless, inert life in Stein's house'. Stein is described as having aged greatly and is preparing to 'leave' . .", "analysis": "Four and Forty Five . These final two chapters describe Jim's demise and his final decision to stay rather than run away. The decision to jump from the Patna has clearly influenced his decision to face Doramin unarmed and to martyr himself before the anger of this father. . . Jim finally achieves his sought for heroic status as he refuses to fight or run. This is the version of the hero that Jim has tormented himself with, as he believes he failed to reach this standard when he thought the ship was sinking. This time he stays and effectively commits suicide. His own particular code of honor, which he failed to live up to before, brings about his death. He is given the fitting epitaph of being 'excessively romantic' and this interpretation of him acts as a warning against believing in the romantic ideals that he first discovered as a young reader."}

'I don't think they spoke together again. The boat entered a narrow by-channel, where it was pushed by the oar-blades set into crumbling banks, and there was a gloom as if enormous black wings had been outspread above the mist that filled its depth to the summits of the trees. The branches overhead showered big drops through the gloomy fog. At a mutter from Cornelius, Brown ordered his men to load. "I'll give you a chance to get even with them before we're done, you dismal cripples, you," he said to his gang. "Mind you don't throw it away--you hounds." Low growls answered that speech. Cornelius showed much fussy concern for the safety of his canoe. 'Meantime Tamb' Itam had reached the end of his journey. The fog had delayed him a little, but he had paddled steadily, keeping in touch with the south bank. By-and-by daylight came like a glow in a ground glass globe. The shores made on each side of the river a dark smudge, in which one could detect hints of columnar forms and shadows of twisted branches high up. The mist was still thick on the water, but a good watch was being kept, for as Iamb' Itam approached the camp the figures of two men emerged out of the white vapour, and voices spoke to him boisterously. He answered, and presently a canoe lay alongside, and he exchanged news with the paddlers. All was well. The trouble was over. Then the men in the canoe let go their grip on the side of his dug-out and incontinently fell out of sight. He pursued his way till he heard voices coming to him quietly over the water, and saw, under the now lifting, swirling mist, the glow of many little fires burning on a sandy stretch, backed by lofty thin timber and bushes. There again a look-out was kept, for he was challenged. He shouted his name as the two last sweeps of his paddle ran his canoe up on the strand. It was a big camp. Men crouched in many little knots under a subdued murmur of early morning talk. Many thin threads of smoke curled slowly on the white mist. Little shelters, elevated above the ground, had been built for the chiefs. Muskets were stacked in small pyramids, and long spears were stuck singly into the sand near the fires. 'Tamb' Itam, assuming an air of importance, demanded to be led to Dain Waris. He found the friend of his white lord lying on a raised couch made of bamboo, and sheltered by a sort of shed of sticks covered with mats. Dain Waris was awake, and a bright fire was burning before his sleeping-place, which resembled a rude shrine. The only son of nakhoda Doramin answered his greeting kindly. Tamb' Itam began by handing him the ring which vouched for the truth of the messenger's words. Dain Waris, reclining on his elbow, bade him speak and tell all the news. Beginning with the consecrated formula, "The news is good," Tamb' Itam delivered Jim's own words. The white men, deputing with the consent of all the chiefs, were to be allowed to pass down the river. In answer to a question or two Tamb' Itam then reported the proceedings of the last council. Dain Waris listened attentively to the end, toying with the ring which ultimately he slipped on the forefinger of his right hand. After hearing all he had to say he dismissed Tamb' Itam to have food and rest. Orders for the return in the afternoon were given immediately. Afterwards Dain Waris lay down again, open-eyed, while his personal attendants were preparing his food at the fire, by which Tamb' Itam also sat talking to the men who lounged up to hear the latest intelligence from the town. The sun was eating up the mist. A good watch was kept upon the reach of the main stream where the boat of the whites was expected to appear every moment. 'It was then that Brown took his revenge upon the world which, after twenty years of contemptuous and reckless bullying, refused him the tribute of a common robber's success. It was an act of cold-blooded ferocity, and it consoled him on his deathbed like a memory of an indomitable defiance. Stealthily he landed his men on the other side of the island opposite to the Bugis camp, and led them across. After a short but quite silent scuffle, Cornelius, who had tried to slink away at the moment of landing, resigned himself to show the way where the undergrowth was most sparse. Brown held both his skinny hands together behind his back in the grip of one vast fist, and now and then impelled him forward with a fierce push. Cornelius remained as mute as a fish, abject but faithful to his purpose, whose accomplishment loomed before him dimly. At the edge of the patch of forest Brown's men spread themselves out in cover and waited. The camp was plain from end to end before their eyes, and no one looked their way. Nobody even dreamed that the white men could have any knowledge of the narrow channel at the back of the island. When he judged the moment come, Brown yelled, "Let them have it," and fourteen shots rang out like one. 'Tamb' Itam told me the surprise was so great that, except for those who fell dead or wounded, not a soul of them moved for quite an appreciable time after the first discharge. Then a man screamed, and after that scream a great yell of amazement and fear went up from all the throats. A blind panic drove these men in a surging swaying mob to and fro along the shore like a herd of cattle afraid of the water. Some few jumped into the river then, but most of them did so only after the last discharge. Three times Brown's men fired into the ruck, Brown, the only one in view, cursing and yelling, "Aim low! aim low!" 'Tamb' Itam says that, as for him, he understood at the first volley what had happened. Though untouched he fell down and lay as if dead, but with his eyes open. At the sound of the first shots Dain Waris, reclining on the couch, jumped up and ran out upon the open shore, just in time to receive a bullet in his forehead at the second discharge. Tamb' Itam saw him fling his arms wide open before he fell. Then, he says, a great fear came upon him--not before. The white men retired as they had come--unseen. 'Thus Brown balanced his account with the evil fortune. Notice that even in this awful outbreak there is a superiority as of a man who carries right--the abstract thing--within the envelope of his common desires. It was not a vulgar and treacherous massacre; it was a lesson, a retribution--a demonstration of some obscure and awful attribute of our nature which, I am afraid, is not so very far under the surface as we like to think. 'Afterwards the whites depart unseen by Tamb' Itam, and seem to vanish from before men's eyes altogether; and the schooner, too, vanishes after the manner of stolen goods. But a story is told of a white long-boat picked up a month later in the Indian Ocean by a cargo steamer. Two parched, yellow, glassy-eyed, whispering skeletons in her recognised the authority of a third, who declared that his name was Brown. His schooner, he reported, bound south with a cargo of Java sugar, had sprung a bad leak and sank under his feet. He and his companions were the survivors of a crew of six. The two died on board the steamer which rescued them. Brown lived to be seen by me, and I can testify that he had played his part to the last. 'It seems, however, that in going away they had neglected to cast off Cornelius's canoe. Cornelius himself Brown had let go at the beginning of the shooting, with a kick for a parting benediction. Tamb' Itam, after arising from amongst the dead, saw the Nazarene running up and down the shore amongst the corpses and the expiring fires. He uttered little cries. Suddenly he rushed to the water, and made frantic efforts to get one of the Bugis boats into the water. "Afterwards, till he had seen me," related Tamb' Itam, "he stood looking at the heavy canoe and scratching his head." "What became of him?" I asked. Tamb' Itam, staring hard at me, made an expressive gesture with his right arm. "Twice I struck, Tuan," he said. "When he beheld me approaching he cast himself violently on the ground and made a great outcry, kicking. He screeched like a frightened hen till he felt the point; then he was still, and lay staring at me while his life went out of his eyes." 'This done, Tamb' Itam did not tarry. He understood the importance of being the first with the awful news at the fort. There were, of course, many survivors of Dain Waris's party; but in the extremity of panic some had swum across the river, others had bolted into the bush. The fact is that they did not know really who struck that blow--whether more white robbers were not coming, whether they had not already got hold of the whole land. They imagined themselves to be the victims of a vast treachery, and utterly doomed to destruction. It is said that some small parties did not come in till three days afterwards. However, a few tried to make their way back to Patusan at once, and one of the canoes that were patrolling the river that morning was in sight of the camp at the very moment of the attack. It is true that at first the men in her leaped overboard and swam to the opposite bank, but afterwards they returned to their boat and started fearfully up-stream. Of these Tamb' Itam had an hour's advance.''When Tamb' Itam, paddling madly, came into the town-reach, the women, thronging the platforms before the houses, were looking out for the return of Dain Waris's little fleet of boats. The town had a festive air; here and there men, still with spears or guns in their hands, could be seen moving or standing on the shore in groups. Chinamen's shops had been opened early; but the market-place was empty, and a sentry, still posted at the corner of the fort, made out Tamb' Itam, and shouted to those within. The gate was wide open. Tamb' Itam jumped ashore and ran in headlong. The first person he met was the girl coming down from the house. 'Tamb' Itam, disordered, panting, with trembling lips and wild eyes, stood for a time before her as if a sudden spell had been laid on him. Then he broke out very quickly: "They have killed Dain Waris and many more." She clapped her hands, and her first words were, "Shut the gates." Most of the fortmen had gone back to their houses, but Tamb' Itam hurried on the few who remained for their turn of duty within. The girl stood in the middle of the courtyard while the others ran about. "Doramin," she cried despairingly, as Tamb' Itam passed her. Next time he went by he answered her thought rapidly, "Yes. But we have all the powder in Patusan." She caught him by the arm, and, pointing at the house, "Call him out," she whispered, trembling. 'Tamb' Itam ran up the steps. His master was sleeping. "It is I, Tamb' Itam," he cried at the door, "with tidings that cannot wait." He saw Jim turn over on the pillow and open his eyes, and he burst out at once. "This, Tuan, is a day of evil, an accursed day." His master raised himself on his elbow to listen--just as Dain Waris had done. And then Tamb' Itam began his tale, trying to relate the story in order, calling Dain Waris Panglima, and saying: "The Panglima then called out to the chief of his own boatmen, 'Give Tamb' Itam something to eat'"--when his master put his feet to the ground and looked at him with such a discomposed face that the words remained in his throat. '"Speak out," said Jim. "Is he dead?" "May you live long," cried Tamb' Itam. "It was a most cruel treachery. He ran out at the first shots and fell." . . . His master walked to the window and with his fist struck at the shutter. The room was made light; and then in a steady voice, but speaking fast, he began to give him orders to assemble a fleet of boats for immediate pursuit, go to this man, to the other--send messengers; and as he talked he sat down on the bed, stooping to lace his boots hurriedly, and suddenly looked up. "Why do you stand here?" he asked very red-faced. "Waste no time." Tamb' Itam did not move. "Forgive me, Tuan, but . . . but," he began to stammer. "What?" cried his master aloud, looking terrible, leaning forward with his hands gripping the edge of the bed. "It is not safe for thy servant to go out amongst the people," said Tamb' Itam, after hesitating a moment. 'Then Jim understood. He had retreated from one world, for a small matter of an impulsive jump, and now the other, the work of his own hands, had fallen in ruins upon his head. It was not safe for his servant to go out amongst his own people! I believe that in that very moment he had decided to defy the disaster in the only way it occurred to him such a disaster could be defied; but all I know is that, without a word, he came out of his room and sat before the long table, at the head of which he was accustomed to regulate the affairs of his world, proclaiming daily the truth that surely lived in his heart. The dark powers should not rob him twice of his peace. He sat like a stone figure. Tamb' Itam, deferential, hinted at preparations for defence. The girl he loved came in and spoke to him, but he made a sign with his hand, and she was awed by the dumb appeal for silence in it. She went out on the verandah and sat on the threshold, as if to guard him with her body from dangers outside. 'What thoughts passed through his head--what memories? Who can tell? Everything was gone, and he who had been once unfaithful to his trust had lost again all men's confidence. It was then, I believe, he tried to write--to somebody--and gave it up. Loneliness was closing on him. People had trusted him with their lives--only for that; and yet they could never, as he had said, never be made to understand him. Those without did not hear him make a sound. Later, towards the evening, he came to the door and called for Tamb' Itam. "Well?" he asked. "There is much weeping. Much anger too," said Tamb' Itam. Jim looked up at him. "You know," he murmured. "Yes, Tuan," said Tamb' Itam. "Thy servant does know, and the gates are closed. We shall have to fight." "Fight! What for?" he asked. "For our lives." "I have no life," he said. Tamb' Itam heard a cry from the girl at the door. "Who knows?" said Tamb' Itam. "By audacity and cunning we may even escape. There is much fear in men's hearts too." He went out, thinking vaguely of boats and of open sea, leaving Jim and the girl together. 'I haven't the heart to set down here such glimpses as she had given me of the hour or more she passed in there wrestling with him for the possession of her happiness. Whether he had any hope--what he expected, what he imagined--it is impossible to say. He was inflexible, and with the growing loneliness of his obstinacy his spirit seemed to rise above the ruins of his existence. She cried "Fight!" into his ear. She could not understand. There was nothing to fight for. He was going to prove his power in another way and conquer the fatal destiny itself. He came out into the courtyard, and behind him, with streaming hair, wild of face, breathless, she staggered out and leaned on the side of the doorway. "Open the gates," he ordered. Afterwards, turning to those of his men who were inside, he gave them leave to depart to their homes. "For how long, Tuan?" asked one of them timidly. "For all life," he said, in a sombre tone. 'A hush had fallen upon the town after the outburst of wailing and lamentation that had swept over the river, like a gust of wind from the opened abode of sorrow. But rumours flew in whispers, filling the hearts with consternation and horrible doubts. The robbers were coming back, bringing many others with them, in a great ship, and there would be no refuge in the land for any one. A sense of utter insecurity as during an earthquake pervaded the minds of men, who whispered their suspicions, looking at each other as if in the presence of some awful portent. 'The sun was sinking towards the forests when Dain Waris's body was brought into Doramin's campong. Four men carried it in, covered decently with a white sheet which the old mother had sent out down to the gate to meet her son on his return. They laid him at Doramin's feet, and the old man sat still for a long time, one hand on each knee, looking down. The fronds of palms swayed gently, and the foliage of fruit trees stirred above his head. Every single man of his people was there, fully armed, when the old nakhoda at last raised his eyes. He moved them slowly over the crowd, as if seeking for a missing face. Again his chin sank on his breast. The whispers of many men mingled with the slight rustling of the leaves. 'The Malay who had brought Tamb' Itam and the girl to Samarang was there too. "Not so angry as many," he said to me, but struck with a great awe and wonder at the "suddenness of men's fate, which hangs over their heads like a cloud charged with thunder." He told me that when Dain Waris's body was uncovered at a sign of Doramin's, he whom they often called the white lord's friend was disclosed lying unchanged with his eyelids a little open as if about to wake. Doramin leaned forward a little more, like one looking for something fallen on the ground. His eyes searched the body from its feet to its head, for the wound maybe. It was in the forehead and small; and there was no word spoken while one of the by-standers, stooping, took off the silver ring from the cold stiff hand. In silence he held it up before Doramin. A murmur of dismay and horror ran through the crowd at the sight of that familiar token. The old nakhoda stared at it, and suddenly let out one great fierce cry, deep from the chest, a roar of pain and fury, as mighty as the bellow of a wounded bull, bringing great fear into men's hearts, by the magnitude of his anger and his sorrow that could be plainly discerned without words. There was a great stillness afterwards for a space, while the body was being borne aside by four men. They laid it down under a tree, and on the instant, with one long shriek, all the women of the household began to wail together; they mourned with shrill cries; the sun was setting, and in the intervals of screamed lamentations the high sing-song voices of two old men intoning the Koran chanted alone. 'About this time Jim, leaning on a gun-carriage, looked at the river, and turned his back on the house; and the girl, in the doorway, panting as if she had run herself to a standstill, was looking at him across the yard. Tamb' Itam stood not far from his master, waiting patiently for what might happen. All at once Jim, who seemed to be lost in quiet thought, turned to him and said, "Time to finish this." '"Tuan?" said Tamb' Itam, advancing with alacrity. He did not know what his master meant, but as soon as Jim made a movement the girl started too and walked down into the open space. It seems that no one else of the people of the house was in sight. She tottered slightly, and about half-way down called out to Jim, who had apparently resumed his peaceful contemplation of the river. He turned round, setting his back against the gun. "Will you fight?" she cried. "There is nothing to fight for," he said; "nothing is lost." Saying this he made a step towards her. "Will you fly?" she cried again. "There is no escape," he said, stopping short, and she stood still also, silent, devouring him with her eyes. "And you shall go?" she said slowly. He bent his head. "Ah!" she exclaimed, peering at him as it were, "you are mad or false. Do you remember the night I prayed you to leave me, and you said that you could not? That it was impossible! Impossible! Do you remember you said you would never leave me? Why? I asked you for no promise. You promised unasked--remember." "Enough, poor girl," he said. "I should not be worth having." 'Tamb' Itam said that while they were talking she would laugh loud and senselessly like one under the visitation of God. His master put his hands to his head. He was fully dressed as for every day, but without a hat. She stopped laughing suddenly. "For the last time," she cried menacingly, "will you defend yourself?" "Nothing can touch me," he said in a last flicker of superb egoism. Tamb' Itam saw her lean forward where she stood, open her arms, and run at him swiftly. She flung herself upon his breast and clasped him round the neck. '"Ah! but I shall hold thee thus," she cried. . . . "Thou art mine!" 'She sobbed on his shoulder. The sky over Patusan was blood-red, immense, streaming like an open vein. An enormous sun nestled crimson amongst the tree-tops, and the forest below had a black and forbidding face. 'Tamb' Itam tells me that on that evening the aspect of the heavens was angry and frightful. I may well believe it, for I know that on that very day a cyclone passed within sixty miles of the coast, though there was hardly more than a languid stir of air in the place. 'Suddenly Tamb' Itam saw Jim catch her arms, trying to unclasp her hands. She hung on them with her head fallen back; her hair touched the ground. "Come here!" his master called, and Tamb' Itam helped to ease her down. It was difficult to separate her fingers. Jim, bending over her, looked earnestly upon her face, and all at once ran to the landing-stage. Tamb' Itam followed him, but turning his head, he saw that she had struggled up to her feet. She ran after them a few steps, then fell down heavily on her knees. "Tuan! Tuan!" called Tamb' Itam, "look back;" but Jim was already in a canoe, standing up paddle in hand. He did not look back. Tamb' Itam had just time to scramble in after him when the canoe floated clear. The girl was then on her knees, with clasped hands, at the water-gate. She remained thus for a time in a supplicating attitude before she sprang up. "You are false!" she screamed out after Jim. "Forgive me," he cried. "Never! Never!" she called back. 'Tamb' Itam took the paddle from Jim's hands, it being unseemly that he should sit while his lord paddled. When they reached the other shore his master forbade him to come any farther; but Tamb' Itam did follow him at a distance, walking up the slope to Doramin's campong. 'It was beginning to grow dark. Torches twinkled here and there. Those they met seemed awestruck, and stood aside hastily to let Jim pass. The wailing of women came from above. The courtyard was full of armed Bugis with their followers, and of Patusan people. 'I do not know what this gathering really meant. Were these preparations for war, or for vengeance, or to repulse a threatened invasion? Many days elapsed before the people had ceased to look out, quaking, for the return of the white men with long beards and in rags, whose exact relation to their own white man they could never understand. Even for those simple minds poor Jim remains under a cloud. 'Doramin, alone! immense and desolate, sat in his arm-chair with the pair of flintlock pistols on his knees, faced by a armed throng. When Jim appeared, at somebody's exclamation, all the heads turned round together, and then the mass opened right and left, and he walked up a lane of averted glances. Whispers followed him; murmurs: "He has worked all the evil." "He hath a charm." . . . He heard them--perhaps! 'When he came up into the light of torches the wailing of the women ceased suddenly. Doramin did not lift his head, and Jim stood silent before him for a time. Then he looked to the left, and moved in that direction with measured steps. Dain Waris's mother crouched at the head of the body, and the grey dishevelled hair concealed her face. Jim came up slowly, looked at his dead friend, lifting the sheet, than dropped it without a word. Slowly he walked back. '"He came! He came!" was running from lip to lip, making a murmur to which he moved. "He hath taken it upon his own head," a voice said aloud. He heard this and turned to the crowd. "Yes. Upon my head." A few people recoiled. Jim waited awhile before Doramin, and then said gently, "I am come in sorrow." He waited again. "I am come ready and unarmed," he repeated. 'The unwieldy old man, lowering his big forehead like an ox under a yoke, made an effort to rise, clutching at the flintlock pistols on his knees. From his throat came gurgling, choking, inhuman sounds, and his two attendants helped him from behind. People remarked that the ring which he had dropped on his lap fell and rolled against the foot of the white man, and that poor Jim glanced down at the talisman that had opened for him the door of fame, love, and success within the wall of forests fringed with white foam, within the coast that under the western sun looks like the very stronghold of the night. Doramin, struggling to keep his feet, made with his two supporters a swaying, tottering group; his little eyes stared with an expression of mad pain, of rage, with a ferocious glitter, which the bystanders noticed; and then, while Jim stood stiffened and with bared head in the light of torches, looking him straight in the face, he clung heavily with his left arm round the neck of a bowed youth, and lifting deliberately his right, shot his son's friend through the chest. 'The crowd, which had fallen apart behind Jim as soon as Doramin had raised his hand, rushed tumultuously forward after the shot. They say that the white man sent right and left at all those faces a proud and unflinching glance. Then with his hand over his lips he fell forward, dead. 'And that's the end. He passes away under a cloud, inscrutable at heart, forgotten, unforgiven, and excessively romantic. Not in the wildest days of his boyish visions could he have seen the alluring shape of such an extraordinary success! For it may very well be that in the short moment of his last proud and unflinching glance, he had beheld the face of that opportunity which, like an Eastern bride, had come veiled to his side. 'But we can see him, an obscure conqueror of fame, tearing himself out of the arms of a jealous love at the sign, at the call of his exalted egoism. He goes away from a living woman to celebrate his pitiless wedding with a shadowy ideal of conduct. Is he satisfied--quite, now, I wonder? We ought to know. He is one of us--and have I not stood up once, like an evoked ghost, to answer for his eternal constancy? Was I so very wrong after all? Now he is no more, there are days when the reality of his existence comes to me with an immense, with an overwhelming force; and yet upon my honour there are moments, too when he passes from my eyes like a disembodied spirit astray amongst the passions of this earth, ready to surrender himself faithfully to the claim of his own world of shades. 'Who knows? He is gone, inscrutable at heart, and the poor girl is leading a sort of soundless, inert life in Stein's house. Stein has aged greatly of late. He feels it himself, and says often that he is "preparing to leave all this; preparing to leave . . ." while he waves his hand sadly at his butterflies.'

Chapters 44-45

https://web.archive.org/web/20210215030710/https://www.novelguide.com/lord-jim/summaries/chapter44-45

Four and Forty-Five . Chapter Forty Four describes how, after passing Jim at the mouth of the creek, Brown, Cornelius and the rest of the party travel down a by-channel as directed by Cornelius. They are able to do this unnoticed as it is still misty. Brown orders his men to load their guns and says he will give them a chance to get even with 'them'. . . Meanwhile, Tamb' Itam has reached Dain Waris and has given him Jim's message . Whilst Dain Waris's men make a watch on the mainstream, Brown takes his revenge 'on the world' 'with an act of cold-blooded ferocity'. He lands on the other side of the island opposite the Bugis camp and leads his men across. Cornelius tries to slink away, but after a scuffle with Brown he resigns himself to leading them to Dain Waris. Brown's men shoot at this camp three times and Dain Waris is shot in the forehead on the second discharge. . . After this, 'the white men' retire and Brown feels that his account has been settled: 'It was not a vulgar and treacherous massacre; it was a lesson, a retribution ...' When Brown's party leave, they take Cornelius's boat with them. A month later, a story is told that Brown and two of his men survive the schooner springing a leak and are rescued. The two men die on board the steamer that rescues them, but Brown lives long enough to be seen by Marlow months later. . . Tamb' Itam strikes Cornelius twice after the shooting and killed him. Tamb' Itam then leaves for Jim's fort to let him know what has happened. There are many survivors of Dain Waris's party, but they do not know who struck the blow or if they have been victims of a betrayal. . . In Chapter Forty Five, Tamb' Itam tells Jewel and then Jim about the events surrounding the murder of Dain Waris. Jim wants him to send messages to assemble a fleet of boats to capture Brown. However, Tamb' Itam tells him it is not safe for him to go out amongst the people. Later, towards the evening, Tamb' Itam says there is a lot of anger and they will have to fight for their lives; Jim replies that he has no life. . . The narrative then shifts to Doramin. His son's body is brought to him and one of the bystanders removes the ring from Dain Waris's finger and holds it up before Doramin: 'A murmur of dismay and horror ran through the crowd at the sight of that familiar token.' Doramin lets out a roar of pain and fury and sounds 'like a wounded bull'. . . The narrative switches to Jim as he tells Jewel and Tamb' Itam that it is time to finish this. As he walks out, Jewel cries, 'will you fight?' and Jim replies that there is nothing to fight for. She asks if he will run away and he says, 'there is no escape'. She asks Jim for the last time if he will defend himself and he replies , 'nothing can touch me'. She holds on to him and Tamb' Itam has to help ease her off. Jim looks earnestly at her face and then runs to the landing stage. Tamb' Itam asks Tuan Jim to look back, but he is already in a canoe. Tamb' Itam has just enough time to scramble in with him. Jewel shouts to Jim and says he is 'false'; Jim cries, 'forgive me', but she replies, 'never, never'. . . Jim and Tamb' Itam arrive at Doramin's and the courtyard is full of armed Bugis men and Patusan people. Jim says he has taken it upon his head and tells Doramin he has come in sorrow. He is 'ready and unarmed'. Doramin is sitting down and is clutching pistols. He tries to rise and the silver ring falls from his lap. This is described as the talisman that opened the door of 'fame, love and success' for Jim. Doramin struggles to his feet with the help of two men, and shoots Jim in the chest. The crowd see Jim look to the right and to the left with a 'proud and unflinching glance'. He then falls forward, dead: ' And that's the end. He passes away under a cloud, inscrutable at heart, forgotten, unforgiven, and excessively romantic.' . . The novel ends with a reference to Jewel, the 'poor girl', who now leads, 'a sort of soundless, inert life in Stein's house'. Stein is described as having aged greatly and is preparing to 'leave' . .

Four and Forty Five . These final two chapters describe Jim's demise and his final decision to stay rather than run away. The decision to jump from the Patna has clearly influenced his decision to face Doramin unarmed and to martyr himself before the anger of this father. . . Jim finally achieves his sought for heroic status as he refuses to fight or run. This is the version of the hero that Jim has tormented himself with, as he believes he failed to reach this standard when he thought the ship was sinking. This time he stays and effectively commits suicide. His own particular code of honor, which he failed to live up to before, brings about his death. He is given the fitting epitaph of being 'excessively romantic' and this interpretation of him acts as a warning against believing in the romantic ideals that he first discovered as a young reader.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/42.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_4_part_7.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 41

chapter 41

{"name": "Chapter 41", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-5-chapters-35-44", "summary": "Eight months after Angel and Tess part, Tess is a lonely woman who found irregular service at dairy-work near Port Bredy to the west of Blackmoor Valley. She had concealed her circumstances from her mother, but Joan wrote to Tess that the family was in dreadful difficulty, and Tess sent money to her. Tess is now reluctant to ask Reverend Clare for money, as Angel suggested that she could, for she fears that the Clares despise her already. At this point Angel lies ill from fever in Brazil, having been drenched with thunderstorms and persecuted by other hardships. Tess now journeys to an upland farm to which she had been recommended by Marian, who learned of her separation through Izz Huett. On her journey, she meets the man whom Angel confronted for addressing Tess coarsely. He tells Tess that she should apologize for allowing Angel to inappropriately defend her honor, but Tess cannot answer him. Tess instead runs away, where she hides in the forested area. She remains in hiding until morning, where she finds dying birds around her, the remains of a shooting party from the night before. She puts the birds out of their misery.", "analysis": "A combination of shame and honor render Tess unable to ask for assistance from the Clares, not knowing that they have no knowledge of the details of her separation from Angel, who himself suffers in Brazil. This chapter serves largely to illustrate the dire situation that Tess faces. She has essentially no support, despite the advice of Angel which she refuses to heed, and remains perpetually at the mercy of her past. This second encounter with the man who recognizes her as Alec d'Urberville's mistress serves to reinforce the idea that Tess is perpetually at the mercy of her past, which recurs no matter her wish to escape it. This character also symbolizes Tess's guilt concerning her treatment of Angel; she placed Angel in danger when he defended her honor, despite the truth of the accusations against her. When Tess kills the dying birds that were shot by the hunting party, she demonstrates her compassion and sympathy with the afflicted. She demonstrates mercy by sparing the animals' pain; although a direct analogy between Tess and the wounded birds is a drastic oversimplification, this event nevertheless introduces the idea of death as a compassionate end to suffering and thus appropriately frames and foreshadows the inevitable end to Tess Durbeyfield"}

From the foregoing events of the winter-time let us press on to an October day, more than eight months subsequent to the parting of Clare and Tess. We discover the latter in changed conditions; instead of a bride with boxes and trunks which others bore, we see her a lonely woman with a basket and a bundle in her own porterage, as at an earlier time when she was no bride; instead of the ample means that were projected by her husband for her comfort through this probationary period, she can produce only a flattened purse. After again leaving Marlott, her home, she had got through the spring and summer without any great stress upon her physical powers, the time being mainly spent in rendering light irregular service at dairy-work near Port-Bredy to the west of the Blackmoor Valley, equally remote from her native place and from Talbothays. She preferred this to living on his allowance. Mentally she remained in utter stagnation, a condition which the mechanical occupation rather fostered than checked. Her consciousness was at that other dairy, at that other season, in the presence of the tender lover who had confronted her there--he who, the moment she had grasped him to keep for her own, had disappeared like a shape in a vision. The dairy-work lasted only till the milk began to lessen, for she had not met with a second regular engagement as at Talbothays, but had done duty as a supernumerary only. However, as harvest was now beginning, she had simply to remove from the pasture to the stubble to find plenty of further occupation, and this continued till harvest was done. Of the five-and-twenty pounds which had remained to her of Clare's allowance, after deducting the other half of the fifty as a contribution to her parents for the trouble and expense to which she had put them, she had as yet spent but little. But there now followed an unfortunate interval of wet weather, during which she was obliged to fall back upon her sovereigns. She could not bear to let them go. Angel had put them into her hand, had obtained them bright and new from his bank for her; his touch had consecrated them to souvenirs of himself--they appeared to have had as yet no other history than such as was created by his and her own experiences--and to disperse them was like giving away relics. But she had to do it, and one by one they left her hands. She had been compelled to send her mother her address from time to time, but she concealed her circumstances. When her money had almost gone a letter from her mother reached her. Joan stated that they were in dreadful difficulty; the autumn rains had gone through the thatch of the house, which required entire renewal; but this could not be done because the previous thatching had never been paid for. New rafters and a new ceiling upstairs also were required, which, with the previous bill, would amount to a sum of twenty pounds. As her husband was a man of means, and had doubtless returned by this time, could she not send them the money? Tess had thirty pounds coming to her almost immediately from Angel's bankers, and, the case being so deplorable, as soon as the sum was received she sent the twenty as requested. Part of the remainder she was obliged to expend in winter clothing, leaving only a nominal sum for the whole inclement season at hand. When the last pound had gone, a remark of Angel's that whenever she required further resources she was to apply to his father, remained to be considered. But the more Tess thought of the step, the more reluctant was she to take it. The same delicacy, pride, false shame, whatever it may be called, on Clare's account, which had led her to hide from her own parents the prolongation of the estrangement, hindered her owning to his that she was in want after the fair allowance he had left her. They probably despised her already; how much more they would despise her in the character of a mendicant! The consequence was that by no effort could the parson's daughter-in-law bring herself to let him know her state. Her reluctance to communicate with her husband's parents might, she thought, lessen with the lapse of time; but with her own the reverse obtained. On her leaving their house after the short visit subsequent to her marriage they were under the impression that she was ultimately going to join her husband; and from that time to the present she had done nothing to disturb their belief that she was awaiting his return in comfort, hoping against hope that his journey to Brazil would result in a short stay only, after which he would come to fetch her, or that he would write for her to join him; in any case that they would soon present a united front to their families and the world. This hope she still fostered. To let her parents know that she was a deserted wife, dependent, now that she had relieved their necessities, on her own hands for a living, after the _eclat_ of a marriage which was to nullify the collapse of the first attempt, would be too much indeed. The set of brilliants returned to her mind. Where Clare had deposited them she did not know, and it mattered little, if it were true that she could only use and not sell them. Even were they absolutely hers it would be passing mean to enrich herself by a legal title to them which was not essentially hers at all. Meanwhile her husband's days had been by no means free from trial. At this moment he was lying ill of fever in the clay lands near Curitiba in Brazil, having been drenched with thunder-storms and persecuted by other hardships, in common with all the English farmers and farm-labourers who, just at this time, were deluded into going thither by the promises of the Brazilian Government, and by the baseless assumption that those frames which, ploughing and sowing on English uplands, had resisted all the weathers to whose moods they had been born, could resist equally well all the weathers by which they were surprised on Brazilian plains. To return. Thus it happened that when the last of Tess's sovereigns had been spent she was unprovided with others to take their place, while on account of the season she found it increasingly difficult to get employment. Not being aware of the rarity of intelligence, energy, health, and willingness in any sphere of life, she refrained from seeking an indoor occupation; fearing towns, large houses, people of means and social sophistication, and of manners other than rural. From that direction of gentility Black Care had come. Society might be better than she supposed from her slight experience of it. But she had no proof of this, and her instinct in the circumstances was to avoid its purlieus. The small dairies to the west, beyond Port-Bredy, in which she had served as supernumerary milkmaid during the spring and summer required no further aid. Room would probably have been made for her at Talbothays, if only out of sheer compassion; but comfortable as her life had been there, she could not go back. The anti-climax would be too intolerable; and her return might bring reproach upon her idolized husband. She could not have borne their pity, and their whispered remarks to one another upon her strange situation; though she would almost have faced a knowledge of her circumstances by every individual there, so long as her story had remained isolated in the mind of each. It was the interchange of ideas about her that made her sensitiveness wince. Tess could not account for this distinction; she simply knew that she felt it. She was now on her way to an upland farm in the centre of the county, to which she had been recommended by a wandering letter which had reached her from Marian. Marian had somehow heard that Tess was separated from her husband--probably through Izz Huett--and the good-natured and now tippling girl, deeming Tess in trouble, had hastened to notify to her former friend that she herself had gone to this upland spot after leaving the dairy, and would like to see her there, where there was room for other hands, if it was really true that she worked again as of old. With the shortening of the days all hope of obtaining her husband's forgiveness began to leave her; and there was something of the habitude of the wild animal in the unreflecting instinct with which she rambled on--disconnecting herself by littles from her eventful past at every step, obliterating her identity, giving no thought to accidents or contingencies which might make a quick discovery of her whereabouts by others of importance to her own happiness, if not to theirs. Among the difficulties of her lonely position not the least was the attention she excited by her appearance, a certain bearing of distinction, which she had caught from Clare, being superadded to her natural attractiveness. Whilst the clothes lasted which had been prepared for her marriage, these casual glances of interest caused her no inconvenience, but as soon as she was compelled to don the wrapper of a fieldwoman, rude words were addressed to her more than once; but nothing occurred to cause her bodily fear till a particular November afternoon. She had preferred the country west of the River Brit to the upland farm for which she was now bound, because, for one thing, it was nearer to the home of her husband's father; and to hover about that region unrecognized, with the notion that she might decide to call at the Vicarage some day, gave her pleasure. But having once decided to try the higher and drier levels, she pressed back eastward, marching afoot towards the village of Chalk-Newton, where she meant to pass the night. The lane was long and unvaried, and, owing to the rapid shortening of the days, dusk came upon her before she was aware. She had reached the top of a hill down which the lane stretched its serpentine length in glimpses, when she heard footsteps behind her back, and in a few moments she was overtaken by a man. He stepped up alongside Tess and said-- "Good night, my pretty maid": to which she civilly replied. The light still remaining in the sky lit up her face, though the landscape was nearly dark. The man turned and stared hard at her. "Why, surely, it is the young wench who was at Trantridge awhile-- young Squire d'Urberville's friend? I was there at that time, though I don't live there now." She recognized in him the well-to-do boor whom Angel had knocked down at the inn for addressing her coarsely. A spasm of anguish shot through her, and she returned him no answer. "Be honest enough to own it, and that what I said in the town was true, though your fancy-man was so up about it--hey, my sly one? You ought to beg my pardon for that blow of his, considering." Still no answer came from Tess. There seemed only one escape for her hunted soul. She suddenly took to her heels with the speed of the wind, and, without looking behind her, ran along the road till she came to a gate which opened directly into a plantation. Into this she plunged, and did not pause till she was deep enough in its shade to be safe against any possibility of discovery. Under foot the leaves were dry, and the foliage of some holly bushes which grew among the deciduous trees was dense enough to keep off draughts. She scraped together the dead leaves till she had formed them into a large heap, making a sort of nest in the middle. Into this Tess crept. Such sleep as she got was naturally fitful; she fancied she heard strange noises, but persuaded herself that they were caused by the breeze. She thought of her husband in some vague warm clime on the other side of the globe, while she was here in the cold. Was there another such a wretched being as she in the world? Tess asked herself; and, thinking of her wasted life, said, "All is vanity." She repeated the words mechanically, till she reflected that this was a most inadequate thought for modern days. Solomon had thought as far as that more than two thousand years ago; she herself, though not in the van of thinkers, had got much further. If all were only vanity, who would mind it? All was, alas, worse than vanity--injustice, punishment, exaction, death. The wife of Angel Clare put her hand to her brow, and felt its curve, and the edges of her eye-sockets perceptible under the soft skin, and thought as she did so that a time would come when that bone would be bare. "I wish it were now," she said. In the midst of these whimsical fancies she heard a new strange sound among the leaves. It might be the wind; yet there was scarcely any wind. Sometimes it was a palpitation, sometimes a flutter; sometimes it was a sort of gasp or gurgle. Soon she was certain that the noises came from wild creatures of some kind, the more so when, originating in the boughs overhead, they were followed by the fall of a heavy body upon the ground. Had she been ensconced here under other and more pleasant conditions she would have become alarmed; but, outside humanity, she had at present no fear. Day at length broke in the sky. When it had been day aloft for some little while it became day in the wood. Directly the assuring and prosaic light of the world's active hours had grown strong, she crept from under her hillock of leaves, and looked around boldly. Then she perceived what had been going on to disturb her. The plantation wherein she had taken shelter ran down at this spot into a peak, which ended it hitherward, outside the hedge being arable ground. Under the trees several pheasants lay about, their rich plumage dabbled with blood; some were dead, some feebly twitching a wing, some staring up at the sky, some pulsating quickly, some contorted, some stretched out--all of them writhing in agony, except the fortunate ones whose tortures had ended during the night by the inability of nature to bear more. Tess guessed at once the meaning of this. The birds had been driven down into this corner the day before by some shooting-party; and while those that had dropped dead under the shot, or had died before nightfall, had been searched for and carried off, many badly wounded birds had escaped and hidden themselves away, or risen among the thick boughs, where they had maintained their position till they grew weaker with loss of blood in the night-time, when they had fallen one by one as she had heard them. She had occasionally caught glimpses of these men in girlhood, looking over hedges, or peeping through bushes, and pointing their guns, strangely accoutred, a bloodthirsty light in their eyes. She had been told that, rough and brutal as they seemed just then, they were not like this all the year round, but were, in fact, quite civil persons save during certain weeks of autumn and winter, when, like the inhabitants of the Malay Peninsula, they ran amuck, and made it their purpose to destroy life--in this case harmless feathered creatures, brought into being by artificial means solely to gratify these propensities--at once so unmannerly and so unchivalrous towards their weaker fellows in Nature's teeming family. With the impulse of a soul who could feel for kindred sufferers as much as for herself, Tess's first thought was to put the still living birds out of their torture, and to this end with her own hands she broke the necks of as many as she could find, leaving them to lie where she had found them till the game-keepers should come--as they probably would come--to look for them a second time. "Poor darlings--to suppose myself the most miserable being on earth in the sight o' such misery as yours!" she exclaimed, her tears running down as she killed the birds tenderly. "And not a twinge of bodily pain about me! I be not mangled, and I be not bleeding, and I have two hands to feed and clothe me." She was ashamed of herself for her gloom of the night, based on nothing more tangible than a sense of condemnation under an arbitrary law of society which had no foundation in Nature.

Chapter 41

https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-5-chapters-35-44

Eight months after Angel and Tess part, Tess is a lonely woman who found irregular service at dairy-work near Port Bredy to the west of Blackmoor Valley. She had concealed her circumstances from her mother, but Joan wrote to Tess that the family was in dreadful difficulty, and Tess sent money to her. Tess is now reluctant to ask Reverend Clare for money, as Angel suggested that she could, for she fears that the Clares despise her already. At this point Angel lies ill from fever in Brazil, having been drenched with thunderstorms and persecuted by other hardships. Tess now journeys to an upland farm to which she had been recommended by Marian, who learned of her separation through Izz Huett. On her journey, she meets the man whom Angel confronted for addressing Tess coarsely. He tells Tess that she should apologize for allowing Angel to inappropriately defend her honor, but Tess cannot answer him. Tess instead runs away, where she hides in the forested area. She remains in hiding until morning, where she finds dying birds around her, the remains of a shooting party from the night before. She puts the birds out of their misery.

A combination of shame and honor render Tess unable to ask for assistance from the Clares, not knowing that they have no knowledge of the details of her separation from Angel, who himself suffers in Brazil. This chapter serves largely to illustrate the dire situation that Tess faces. She has essentially no support, despite the advice of Angel which she refuses to heed, and remains perpetually at the mercy of her past. This second encounter with the man who recognizes her as Alec d'Urberville's mistress serves to reinforce the idea that Tess is perpetually at the mercy of her past, which recurs no matter her wish to escape it. This character also symbolizes Tess's guilt concerning her treatment of Angel; she placed Angel in danger when he defended her honor, despite the truth of the accusations against her. When Tess kills the dying birds that were shot by the hunting party, she demonstrates her compassion and sympathy with the afflicted. She demonstrates mercy by sparing the animals' pain; although a direct analogy between Tess and the wounded birds is a drastic oversimplification, this event nevertheless introduces the idea of death as a compassionate end to suffering and thus appropriately frames and foreshadows the inevitable end to Tess Durbeyfield

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/12.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_11_part_0.txt

Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 12

chapter 12

{"name": "Chapter 12", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-12", "summary": "Bathsheba followed up her decision to be a good farmer by attending the corn market at Casterbridge the next day. She saw how the men bargained, using facial contortions and gesticulations, manipulating their sticks as props or as prods for livestock as if they were extensions of their hands. She stood out, completely feminine, moving between them \"as a chaise among carts.\" She first approached farmers whom she knew and, as her confidence grew, gathered courage to address others. She had brought her sample bags of corn and was soon pouring grains into her hand with professional skill. The impression was conveyed that she was learning her business rapidly, despite her femininity. \"Strange to say of a woman in full bloom and vigour, she always allowed her interlocutors to finish their statements before rejoining with hers.\" But she stood firm on her pricings. The men were interested because of her pluck and admired her as much for that as for her appearance. Only one man seemed aloof -- a dignified, striking man of about forty. Because he ignored her, Bathsheba was convinced that he was unmarried. She was intrigued, and on the way home with Liddy she commented on him. Liddy did not know whom she meant. Just then a low carriage passed by with the mystery man in it, and Liddy identified him as Farmer Boldwood, whom Bathsheba had earlier refused to see. He didn't turn in greeting but rode indifferently by. The rest of the girls' trip was spent in conjecture as to the reason for his standoffishness. Had he been jilted? Was it merely that his nature was reserved? For each possibility Bathsheba offered, Liddy parroted agreement.", "analysis": "Obviously Hardy attended many country markets, appreciatively noting the mannerisms of the participants. Here he has preserved a bit of Wessexiana just on the verge of change. Bathsheba's character is developing. Shy in her appearance among so many unknown men, she nonetheless stands her ground for the furtherance of her farm and makes progress in achieving the respect of her competitors. Though it has been suggested that Hardy is somewhat antifeminist, the paragraph he devotes to Bathsheba's managerial techniques does not seem grudging. She lets the men talk, but \"in arguing on prices she held to her own firmly, as was natural in a dealer, and reduced theirs persistently, as was inevitable in a woman. But there was an elasticity in her firmness which removed it from obstinacy, as there was a naivete in her cheapening which saved it from meanness.\""}

FARMERS--A RULE--AN EXCEPTION The first public evidence of Bathsheba's decision to be a farmer in her own person and by proxy no more was her appearance the following market-day in the cornmarket at Casterbridge. The low though extensive hall, supported by beams and pillars, and latterly dignified by the name of Corn Exchange, was thronged with hot men who talked among each other in twos and threes, the speaker of the minute looking sideways into his auditor's face and concentrating his argument by a contraction of one eyelid during delivery. The greater number carried in their hands ground-ash saplings, using them partly as walking-sticks and partly for poking up pigs, sheep, neighbours with their backs turned, and restful things in general, which seemed to require such treatment in the course of their peregrinations. During conversations each subjected his sapling to great varieties of usage--bending it round his back, forming an arch of it between his two hands, overweighting it on the ground till it reached nearly a semicircle; or perhaps it was hastily tucked under the arm whilst the sample-bag was pulled forth and a handful of corn poured into the palm, which, after criticism, was flung upon the floor, an issue of events perfectly well known to half-a-dozen acute town-bred fowls which had as usual crept into the building unobserved, and waited the fulfilment of their anticipations with a high-stretched neck and oblique eye. Among these heavy yeomen a feminine figure glided, the single one of her sex that the room contained. She was prettily and even daintily dressed. She moved between them as a chaise between carts, was heard after them as a romance after sermons, was felt among them like a breeze among furnaces. It had required a little determination--far more than she had at first imagined--to take up a position here, for at her first entry the lumbering dialogues had ceased, nearly every face had been turned towards her, and those that were already turned rigidly fixed there. Two or three only of the farmers were personally known to Bathsheba, and to these she had made her way. But if she was to be the practical woman she had intended to show herself, business must be carried on, introductions or none, and she ultimately acquired confidence enough to speak and reply boldly to men merely known to her by hearsay. Bathsheba too had her sample-bags, and by degrees adopted the professional pour into the hand--holding up the grains in her narrow palm for inspection, in perfect Casterbridge manner. Something in the exact arch of her upper unbroken row of teeth, and in the keenly pointed corners of her red mouth when, with parted lips, she somewhat defiantly turned up her face to argue a point with a tall man, suggested that there was potentiality enough in that lithe slip of humanity for alarming exploits of sex, and daring enough to carry them out. But her eyes had a softness--invariably a softness--which, had they not been dark, would have seemed mistiness; as they were, it lowered an expression that might have been piercing to simple clearness. Strange to say of a woman in full bloom and vigor, she always allowed her interlocutors to finish their statements before rejoining with hers. In arguing on prices, she held to her own firmly, as was natural in a dealer, and reduced theirs persistently, as was inevitable in a woman. But there was an elasticity in her firmness which removed it from obstinacy, as there was a _naivete_ in her cheapening which saved it from meanness. Those of the farmers with whom she had no dealings (by far the greater part) were continually asking each other, "Who is she?" The reply would be-- "Farmer Everdene's niece; took on Weatherbury Upper Farm; turned away the baily, and swears she'll do everything herself." The other man would then shake his head. "Yes, 'tis a pity she's so headstrong," the first would say. "But we ought to be proud of her here--she lightens up the old place. 'Tis such a shapely maid, however, that she'll soon get picked up." It would be ungallant to suggest that the novelty of her engagement in such an occupation had almost as much to do with the magnetism as had the beauty of her face and movements. However, the interest was general, and this Saturday's _debut_ in the forum, whatever it may have been to Bathsheba as the buying and selling farmer, was unquestionably a triumph to her as the maiden. Indeed, the sensation was so pronounced that her instinct on two or three occasions was merely to walk as a queen among these gods of the fallow, like a little sister of a little Jove, and to neglect closing prices altogether. The numerous evidences of her power to attract were only thrown into greater relief by a marked exception. Women seem to have eyes in their ribbons for such matters as these. Bathsheba, without looking within a right angle of him, was conscious of a black sheep among the flock. It perplexed her first. If there had been a respectable minority on either side, the case would have been most natural. If nobody had regarded her, she would have taken the matter indifferently--such cases had occurred. If everybody, this man included, she would have taken it as a matter of course--people had done so before. But the smallness of the exception made the mystery. She soon knew thus much of the recusant's appearance. He was a gentlemanly man, with full and distinctly outlined Roman features, the prominences of which glowed in the sun with a bronze-like richness of tone. He was erect in attitude, and quiet in demeanour. One characteristic pre-eminently marked him--dignity. Apparently he had some time ago reached that entrance to middle age at which a man's aspect naturally ceases to alter for the term of a dozen years or so; and, artificially, a woman's does likewise. Thirty-five and fifty were his limits of variation--he might have been either, or anywhere between the two. It may be said that married men of forty are usually ready and generous enough to fling passing glances at any specimen of moderate beauty they may discern by the way. Probably, as with persons playing whist for love, the consciousness of a certain immunity under any circumstances from that worst possible ultimate, the having to pay, makes them unduly speculative. Bathsheba was convinced that this unmoved person was not a married man. When marketing was over, she rushed off to Liddy, who was waiting for her beside the yellow gig in which they had driven to town. The horse was put in, and on they trotted--Bathsheba's sugar, tea, and drapery parcels being packed behind, and expressing in some indescribable manner, by their colour, shape, and general lineaments, that they were that young lady-farmer's property, and the grocer's and draper's no more. "I've been through it, Liddy, and it is over. I shan't mind it again, for they will all have grown accustomed to seeing me there; but this morning it was as bad as being married--eyes everywhere!" "I knowed it would be," Liddy said. "Men be such a terrible class of society to look at a body." "But there was one man who had more sense than to waste his time upon me." The information was put in this form that Liddy might not for a moment suppose her mistress was at all piqued. "A very good-looking man," she continued, "upright; about forty, I should think. Do you know at all who he could be?" Liddy couldn't think. "Can't you guess at all?" said Bathsheba with some disappointment. "I haven't a notion; besides, 'tis no difference, since he took less notice of you than any of the rest. Now, if he'd taken more, it would have mattered a great deal." Bathsheba was suffering from the reverse feeling just then, and they bowled along in silence. A low carriage, bowling along still more rapidly behind a horse of unimpeachable breed, overtook and passed them. "Why, there he is!" she said. Liddy looked. "That! That's Farmer Boldwood--of course 'tis--the man you couldn't see the other day when he called." "Oh, Farmer Boldwood," murmured Bathsheba, and looked at him as he outstripped them. The farmer had never turned his head once, but with eyes fixed on the most advanced point along the road, passed as unconsciously and abstractedly as if Bathsheba and her charms were thin air. "He's an interesting man--don't you think so?" she remarked. "O yes, very. Everybody owns it," replied Liddy. "I wonder why he is so wrapt up and indifferent, and seemingly so far away from all he sees around him." "It is said--but not known for certain--that he met with some bitter disappointment when he was a young man and merry. A woman jilted him, they say." "People always say that--and we know very well women scarcely ever jilt men; 'tis the men who jilt us. I expect it is simply his nature to be so reserved." "Simply his nature--I expect so, miss--nothing else in the world." "Still, 'tis more romantic to think he has been served cruelly, poor thing'! Perhaps, after all, he has!" "Depend upon it he has. Oh yes, miss, he has! I feel he must have." "However, we are very apt to think extremes of people. I shouldn't wonder after all if it wasn't a little of both--just between the two--rather cruelly used and rather reserved." "Oh dear no, miss--I can't think it between the two!" "That's most likely." "Well, yes, so it is. I am convinced it is most likely. You may take my word, miss, that that's what's the matter with him."

Chapter 12

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-12

Bathsheba followed up her decision to be a good farmer by attending the corn market at Casterbridge the next day. She saw how the men bargained, using facial contortions and gesticulations, manipulating their sticks as props or as prods for livestock as if they were extensions of their hands. She stood out, completely feminine, moving between them "as a chaise among carts." She first approached farmers whom she knew and, as her confidence grew, gathered courage to address others. She had brought her sample bags of corn and was soon pouring grains into her hand with professional skill. The impression was conveyed that she was learning her business rapidly, despite her femininity. "Strange to say of a woman in full bloom and vigour, she always allowed her interlocutors to finish their statements before rejoining with hers." But she stood firm on her pricings. The men were interested because of her pluck and admired her as much for that as for her appearance. Only one man seemed aloof -- a dignified, striking man of about forty. Because he ignored her, Bathsheba was convinced that he was unmarried. She was intrigued, and on the way home with Liddy she commented on him. Liddy did not know whom she meant. Just then a low carriage passed by with the mystery man in it, and Liddy identified him as Farmer Boldwood, whom Bathsheba had earlier refused to see. He didn't turn in greeting but rode indifferently by. The rest of the girls' trip was spent in conjecture as to the reason for his standoffishness. Had he been jilted? Was it merely that his nature was reserved? For each possibility Bathsheba offered, Liddy parroted agreement.

Obviously Hardy attended many country markets, appreciatively noting the mannerisms of the participants. Here he has preserved a bit of Wessexiana just on the verge of change. Bathsheba's character is developing. Shy in her appearance among so many unknown men, she nonetheless stands her ground for the furtherance of her farm and makes progress in achieving the respect of her competitors. Though it has been suggested that Hardy is somewhat antifeminist, the paragraph he devotes to Bathsheba's managerial techniques does not seem grudging. She lets the men talk, but "in arguing on prices she held to her own firmly, as was natural in a dealer, and reduced theirs persistently, as was inevitable in a woman. But there was an elasticity in her firmness which removed it from obstinacy, as there was a naivete in her cheapening which saved it from meanness."

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/08.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Prince/section_8_part_0.txt

The Prince.chapter 8

chapter 8

{"name": "Chapter 8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210420060055/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/prince-machiavelli/summary/chapter-8", "summary": "Now let's talk about the two other ways for regular old Joes to become rulers: through crime and by being made king by everyone else. Machiavelli gives us two examples of the first kinds. Here's the ancient example: Agathocles was a bad man. Like, really bad. He somehow became the head of the army even though he was just the son of a potter. Then he decided that he was going to be king. Can you guess what comes next? Yep, more killing. Agathocles invited the senators and richest guys around to a huge bash at his place and, before they knew it, they were dead, Agathocles was king, and everyone was too scared of this crazy guy to even try messing with him. This guy didn't leave much up to luck, and it's easy to see that he worked hard at his kingdom. But no one remembers him as an awesome leader. Why? Because he was insanely horrible and violent, that's why. He might have ruled securely, but you don't get written into the history books as a great ruler by massacring people left and right. Okay, let's move into modern times with Oliverotto. He was raised by his uncle and went into the army, where he rose to the top of the pack. Once he got there, he wanted to be his own boss, which meant ruling Fermo. So the plan was to go back to Fermo and tell his uncle to throw a big shindig for him. Fancy food, fancy clothes, all the highest-ranking people in town, the works. Guess what happened when he got to the party? That's right, it wasn't a party after allit was a massacre. Oliverotto killed all of the people there, including his uncle and scared everyone else so much that they set him up as the new ruler of Fermo. Does this technique sound familiar? So after this bloody coup, Oliverotto did all the good things a new ruler should do, like make a new army and government. He was doing all right for himself. At least until he went to a party thrown by none other than Cesare Borgia. Man, if we were those guys, we would never go to a party again. It seems to be code word for \"kill everyone en masse.\" Okay, but how does a crazy guy like Agathocles keep ruling even though he's horribly violent? Elementary, dear Shmoopton. He used cruelty well. You can use cruelty badly, getting crueler and crueler over time, or you can use it well, getting less cruel pretty quickly. If you use cruelty badly, everyone will hate you. It's better to get that part over with and give people favors over time instead.", "analysis": ""}

Although a prince may rise from a private station in two ways, neither of which can be entirely attributed to fortune or genius, yet it is manifest to me that I must not be silent on them, although one could be more copiously treated when I discuss republics. These methods are when, either by some wicked or nefarious ways, one ascends to the principality, or when by the favour of his fellow-citizens a private person becomes the prince of his country. And speaking of the first method, it will be illustrated by two examples--one ancient, the other modern--and without entering further into the subject, I consider these two examples will suffice those who may be compelled to follow them. Agathocles, the Sicilian,(*) became King of Syracuse not only from a private but from a low and abject position. This man, the son of a potter, through all the changes in his fortunes always led an infamous life. Nevertheless, he accompanied his infamies with so much ability of mind and body that, having devoted himself to the military profession, he rose through its ranks to be Praetor of Syracuse. Being established in that position, and having deliberately resolved to make himself prince and to seize by violence, without obligation to others, that which had been conceded to him by assent, he came to an understanding for this purpose with Amilcar, the Carthaginian, who, with his army, was fighting in Sicily. One morning he assembled the people and the senate of Syracuse, as if he had to discuss with them things relating to the Republic, and at a given signal the soldiers killed all the senators and the richest of the people; these dead, he seized and held the princedom of that city without any civil commotion. And although he was twice routed by the Carthaginians, and ultimately besieged, yet not only was he able to defend his city, but leaving part of his men for its defence, with the others he attacked Africa, and in a short time raised the siege of Syracuse. The Carthaginians, reduced to extreme necessity, were compelled to come to terms with Agathocles, and, leaving Sicily to him, had to be content with the possession of Africa. (*) Agathocles the Sicilian, born 361 B.C., died 289 B.C. Therefore, he who considers the actions and the genius of this man will see nothing, or little, which can be attributed to fortune, inasmuch as he attained pre-eminence, as is shown above, not by the favour of any one, but step by step in the military profession, which steps were gained with a thousand troubles and perils, and were afterwards boldly held by him with many hazardous dangers. Yet it cannot be called talent to slay fellow-citizens, to deceive friends, to be without faith, without mercy, without religion; such methods may gain empire, but not glory. Still, if the courage of Agathocles in entering into and extricating himself from dangers be considered, together with his greatness of mind in enduring and overcoming hardships, it cannot be seen why he should be esteemed less than the most notable captain. Nevertheless, his barbarous cruelty and inhumanity with infinite wickedness do not permit him to be celebrated among the most excellent men. What he achieved cannot be attributed either to fortune or genius. In our times, during the rule of Alexander the Sixth, Oliverotto da Fermo, having been left an orphan many years before, was brought up by his maternal uncle, Giovanni Fogliani, and in the early days of his youth sent to fight under Pagolo Vitelli, that, being trained under his discipline, he might attain some high position in the military profession. After Pagolo died, he fought under his brother Vitellozzo, and in a very short time, being endowed with wit and a vigorous body and mind, he became the first man in his profession. But it appearing a paltry thing to serve under others, he resolved, with the aid of some citizens of Fermo, to whom the slavery of their country was dearer than its liberty, and with the help of the Vitelleschi, to seize Fermo. So he wrote to Giovanni Fogliani that, having been away from home for many years, he wished to visit him and his city, and in some measure to look upon his patrimony; and although he had not laboured to acquire anything except honour, yet, in order that the citizens should see he had not spent his time in vain, he desired to come honourably, so would be accompanied by one hundred horsemen, his friends and retainers; and he entreated Giovanni to arrange that he should be received honourably by the Fermians, all of which would be not only to his honour, but also to that of Giovanni himself, who had brought him up. Giovanni, therefore, did not fail in any attentions due to his nephew, and he caused him to be honourably received by the Fermians, and he lodged him in his own house, where, having passed some days, and having arranged what was necessary for his wicked designs, Oliverotto gave a solemn banquet to which he invited Giovanni Fogliani and the chiefs of Fermo. When the viands and all the other entertainments that are usual in such banquets were finished, Oliverotto artfully began certain grave discourses, speaking of the greatness of Pope Alexander and his son Cesare, and of their enterprises, to which discourse Giovanni and others answered; but he rose at once, saying that such matters ought to be discussed in a more private place, and he betook himself to a chamber, whither Giovanni and the rest of the citizens went in after him. No sooner were they seated than soldiers issued from secret places and slaughtered Giovanni and the rest. After these murders Oliverotto, mounted on horseback, rode up and down the town and besieged the chief magistrate in the palace, so that in fear the people were forced to obey him, and to form a government, of which he made himself the prince. He killed all the malcontents who were able to injure him, and strengthened himself with new civil and military ordinances, in such a way that, in the year during which he held the principality, not only was he secure in the city of Fermo, but he had become formidable to all his neighbours. And his destruction would have been as difficult as that of Agathocles if he had not allowed himself to be overreached by Cesare Borgia, who took him with the Orsini and Vitelli at Sinigalia, as was stated above. Thus one year after he had committed this parricide, he was strangled, together with Vitellozzo, whom he had made his leader in valour and wickedness. Some may wonder how it can happen that Agathocles, and his like, after infinite treacheries and cruelties, should live for long secure in his country, and defend himself from external enemies, and never be conspired against by his own citizens; seeing that many others, by means of cruelty, have never been able even in peaceful times to hold the state, still less in the doubtful times of war. I believe that this follows from severities(*) being badly or properly used. Those may be called properly used, if of evil it is possible to speak well, that are applied at one blow and are necessary to one's security, and that are not persisted in afterwards unless they can be turned to the advantage of the subjects. The badly employed are those which, notwithstanding they may be few in the commencement, multiply with time rather than decrease. Those who practise the first system are able, by aid of God or man, to mitigate in some degree their rule, as Agathocles did. It is impossible for those who follow the other to maintain themselves. (*) Mr Burd suggests that this word probably comes near the modern equivalent of Machiavelli's thought when he speaks of "crudelta" than the more obvious "cruelties." Hence it is to be remarked that, in seizing a state, the usurper ought to examine closely into all those injuries which it is necessary for him to inflict, and to do them all at one stroke so as not to have to repeat them daily; and thus by not unsettling men he will be able to reassure them, and win them to himself by benefits. He who does otherwise, either from timidity or evil advice, is always compelled to keep the knife in his hand; neither can he rely on his subjects, nor can they attach themselves to him, owing to their continued and repeated wrongs. For injuries ought to be done all at one time, so that, being tasted less, they offend less; benefits ought to be given little by little, so that the flavour of them may last longer. And above all things, a prince ought to live amongst his people in such a way that no unexpected circumstances, whether of good or evil, shall make him change; because if the necessity for this comes in troubled times, you are too late for harsh measures; and mild ones will not help you, for they will be considered as forced from you, and no one will be under any obligation to you for them.

Chapter 8

https://web.archive.org/web/20210420060055/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/prince-machiavelli/summary/chapter-8

Now let's talk about the two other ways for regular old Joes to become rulers: through crime and by being made king by everyone else. Machiavelli gives us two examples of the first kinds. Here's the ancient example: Agathocles was a bad man. Like, really bad. He somehow became the head of the army even though he was just the son of a potter. Then he decided that he was going to be king. Can you guess what comes next? Yep, more killing. Agathocles invited the senators and richest guys around to a huge bash at his place and, before they knew it, they were dead, Agathocles was king, and everyone was too scared of this crazy guy to even try messing with him. This guy didn't leave much up to luck, and it's easy to see that he worked hard at his kingdom. But no one remembers him as an awesome leader. Why? Because he was insanely horrible and violent, that's why. He might have ruled securely, but you don't get written into the history books as a great ruler by massacring people left and right. Okay, let's move into modern times with Oliverotto. He was raised by his uncle and went into the army, where he rose to the top of the pack. Once he got there, he wanted to be his own boss, which meant ruling Fermo. So the plan was to go back to Fermo and tell his uncle to throw a big shindig for him. Fancy food, fancy clothes, all the highest-ranking people in town, the works. Guess what happened when he got to the party? That's right, it wasn't a party after allit was a massacre. Oliverotto killed all of the people there, including his uncle and scared everyone else so much that they set him up as the new ruler of Fermo. Does this technique sound familiar? So after this bloody coup, Oliverotto did all the good things a new ruler should do, like make a new army and government. He was doing all right for himself. At least until he went to a party thrown by none other than Cesare Borgia. Man, if we were those guys, we would never go to a party again. It seems to be code word for "kill everyone en masse." Okay, but how does a crazy guy like Agathocles keep ruling even though he's horribly violent? Elementary, dear Shmoopton. He used cruelty well. You can use cruelty badly, getting crueler and crueler over time, or you can use it well, getting less cruel pretty quickly. If you use cruelty badly, everyone will hate you. It's better to get that part over with and give people favors over time instead.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/12915-chapters/6.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The White Devil/section_5_part_0.txt

The White Devil.act 3.scene 2

act 3, scene 2

{"name": "Act 3, Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210510044810/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-white-devil/summary/act-3-scene-2", "summary": "This scene takes place at Vittoria's arraignment. Francisco, Monticelso, six Ambassadors, Brachiano, Vittoria, Zanche, Flamineo, Marcello, a lawyer, and a guard all enter. Monticelso bids Brachiano take a seat--but Brachiano, being an unwelcome guest, says he brought his own seat. The lawyer starts to plead against Vittoria in Latin--but Vittoria insists on his using a language the people in the courtroom audience can understand . Then, the lawyer launches into a plea in incomprehensible English laden with joke-legal jargon. Francisco thanks him for his time and dismisses him. Monticelso says he'll argue against Vittoria in plainer language. They trade barbs and Vittoria says it's inappropriate for a cardinal to act like a lawyer. Monticelso compares her to the \"Apples of Sodom\"--which look nice but turn to ashes when you try to eat them. He claims Vittoria held riotous feasts and parties, calling her a \"whore.\" Monticelso then launches into a tirade about \"whores,\" claiming, basically, that they're evil, fake, counterfeit people who destroy everything. The French Ambassador comments to the English that Vittoria has \"liv'd ill.\" The English Ambassador agrees but says the cardinal's too bitter. Francisco, sensing the need for a reasonable voice, points out how implausible Camillo's vaulting accident was--foul play needs to be involved. Monticelso says Vittoria doesn't seem to feel too bad about it, causing her to object. Vittoria's bold defense impresses the English Ambassador. She tells them that all their slanders can't damage her actual goodness--they're making her into a boogeyman, more or less. Monticelso points out that Brachiano was staying in her house the night Camillo was murdered, but Brachiano says he was there out of charity, not lust. He was just looking out for Vittoria, since Monticelso was holding her and Camillo in his debt . Brachiano angrily denounces Monticelso while defending himself--and then leaves. Francisco, trying to be more reasonable, says he doesn't think Vittoria is guilty of murder--but she does seem guilty of adultery. Vittoria is suspicious of his intentions. Monticelso produces a letter showing that the Duke tried to seduce Vittoria--but she says she resisted his temptations. He also shows that the Duke gave her money, but Vittoria says it was just to keep Camillo free from prison . Monticelso complains that she was a drain on Camillo's finances and brought no money in dowry. He also dismisses any charges against Flamineo and Marcello--they don't have enough evidence to convict them. Acting as judge as well, Monticelso sentences Vittoria to life in a house of convertites--or \"a house of penitent whores.\" Vittoria claims that they've perverted justice and that she'll make her place of imprisonment seem more honest than the Pope's palace. She exits. Court dismissed, bring in the dancing lobsters. Brachiano enters, and in a veiled way, tells Francisco that Isabella is dead, offering his condolences. Francisco doesn't know what Brachiano's saying, and Brachiano leaves. Flamineo says, in an aside, that he'll pretend to be mad in order to avoid any unwelcome questions. Giovanni and Lodovico enter. Giovanni is dressed in black, and Lodovico asks him why. Giovanni reveals that Isabella has died. They mourn and discuss death. Francisco tells Giovanni that the dead sleep until God wakes them. Giovanni wishes his mother could sleep forever to escape her grief, and says that she must have loved him since she personally nursed him . He exits. Francisco is grief stricken too. All exit.", "analysis": ""}

SCENE II The Arraignment of Vittoria Enter Francisco, Monticelso, the six Lieger Ambassadors, Brachiano, Vittoria, Zanche, Flamineo, Marcello, Lawyer, and a Guard. Mont. Forbear, my lord, here is no place assign'd you. This business, by his Holiness, is left To our examination. Brach. May it thrive with you. [Lays a rich gown under him. Fran. A chair there for his Lordship. Brach. Forbear your kindness: an unbidden guest Should travel as Dutch women go to church, Bear their stools with them. Mont. At your pleasure, sir. Stand to the table, gentlewoman. Now, signior, Fall to your plea. Lawyer. Domine judex, converte oculos in hanc pestem, mulierum corruptissiman. Vit. What 's he? Fran. A lawyer that pleads against you. Vit. Pray, my lord, let him speak his usual tongue, I 'll make no answer else. Fran. Why, you understand Latin. Vit. I do, sir, but amongst this auditory Which come to hear my cause, the half or more May be ignorant in 't. Mont. Go on, sir. Vit. By your favour, I will not have my accusation clouded In a strange tongue: all this assembly Shall hear what you can charge me with. Fran. Signior, You need not stand on 't much; pray, change your language. Mont. Oh, for God's sake--Gentlewoman, your credit Shall be more famous by it. Lawyer. Well then, have at you. Vit. I am at the mark, sir; I 'll give aim to you, And tell you how near you shoot. Lawyer. Most literated judges, please your lordships So to connive your judgments to the view Of this debauch'd and diversivolent woman; Who such a black concatenation Of mischief hath effected, that to extirp The memory of 't, must be the consummation Of her, and her projections---- Vit. What 's all this? Lawyer. Hold your peace! Exorbitant sins must have exulceration. Vit. Surely, my lords, this lawyer here hath swallow'd Some 'pothecaries' bills, or proclamations; And now the hard and undigestible words Come up, like stones we use give hawks for physic. Why, this is Welsh to Latin. Lawyer. My lords, the woman Knows not her tropes, nor figures, nor is perfect In the academic derivation Of grammatical elocution. Fran. Sir, your pains Shall be well spar'd, and your deep eloquence Be worthily applauded amongst thouse Which understand you. Lawyer. My good lord. Fran. Sir, Put up your papers in your fustian bag-- [Francisco speaks this as in scorn. Cry mercy, sir, 'tis buckram and accept My notion of your learn'd verbosity. Lawyer. I most graduatically thank your lordship: I shall have use for them elsewhere. Mont. I shall be plainer with you, and paint out Your follies in more natural red and white Than that upon your cheek. Vit. Oh, you mistake! You raise a blood as noble in this cheek As ever was your mother's. Mont. I must spare you, till proof cry whore to that. Observe this creature here, my honour'd lords, A woman of must prodigious spirit, In her effected. Vit. My honourable lord, It doth not suit a reverend cardinal To play the lawyer thus. Mont. Oh, your trade instructs your language! You see, my lords, what goodly fruit she seems; Yet like those apples travellers report To grow where Sodom and Gomorrah stood, I will but touch her, and you straight shall see She 'll fall to soot and ashes. Vit. Your envenom'd 'pothecary should do 't. Mont. I am resolv'd, Were there a second paradise to lose, This devil would betray it. Vit. O poor Charity! Thou art seldom found in scarlet. Mont. Who knows not how, when several night by night Her gates were chok'd with coaches, and her rooms Outbrav'd the stars with several kind of lights; When she did counterfeit a prince's court In music, banquets, and most riotous surfeits; This whore forsooth was holy. Vit. Ha! whore! what 's that? Mont. Shall I expound whore to you? sure I shall; I 'll give their perfect character. They are first, Sweetmeats which rot the eater; in man's nostrils Poison'd perfumes. They are cozening alchemy; Shipwrecks in calmest weather. What are whores! Cold Russian winters, that appear so barren, As if that nature had forgot the spring. They are the true material fire of hell: Worse than those tributes i' th' Low Countries paid, Exactions upon meat, drink, garments, sleep, Ay, even on man's perdition, his sin. They are those brittle evidences of law, Which forfeit all a wretched man's estate For leaving out one syllable. What are whores! They are those flattering bells have all one tune, At weddings, and at funerals. Your rich whores Are only treasures by extortion fill'd, And emptied by curs'd riot. They are worse, Worse than dead bodies which are begg'd at gallows, And wrought upon by surgeons, to teach man Wherein he is imperfect. What's a whore! She 's like the guilty counterfeited coin, Which, whosoe'er first stamps it, brings in trouble All that receive it. Vit. This character 'scapes me. Mont. You, gentlewoman! Take from all beasts and from all minerals Their deadly poison---- Vit. Well, what then? Mont. I 'll tell thee; I 'll find in thee a 'pothecary's shop, To sample them all. Fr. Ambass. She hath liv'd ill. Eng. Ambass. True, but the cardinal 's too bitter. Mont. You know what whore is. Next the devil adultery, Enters the devil murder. Fran. Your unhappy husband Is dead. Vit. Oh, he 's a happy husband! Now he owes nature nothing. Fran. And by a vaulting engine. Mont. An active plot; he jump'd into his grave. Fran. What a prodigy was 't, That from some two yards' height, a slender man Should break his neck! Mont. I' th' rushes! Fran. And what's more, Upon the instant lose all use of speech, All vital motion, like a man had lain Wound up three days. Now mark each circumstance. Mont. And look upon this creature was his wife! She comes not like a widow; she comes arm'd With scorn and impudence: is this a mourning-habit? Vit. Had I foreknown his death, as you suggest, I would have bespoke my mourning. Mont. Oh, you are cunning! Vit. You shame your wit and judgment, To call it so. What! is my just defence By him that is my judge call'd impudence? Let me appeal then from this Christian court, To the uncivil Tartar. Mont. See, my lords, She scandals our proceedings. Vit. Humbly thus, Thus low to the most worthy and respected Lieger ambassadors, my modesty And womanhood I tender; but withal, So entangled in a curs'd accusation, That my defence, of force, like Perseus, Must personate masculine virtue. To the point. Find me but guilty, sever head from body, We 'll part good friends: I scorn to hold my life At yours, or any man's entreaty, sir. Eng. Ambass. She hath a brave spirit. Mont. Well, well, such counterfeit jewels Make true ones oft suspected. Vit. You are deceiv'd: For know, that all your strict-combined heads, Which strike against this mine of diamonds, Shall prove but glassen hammers: they shall break. These are but feigned shadows of my evils. Terrify babes, my lord, with painted devils, I am past such needless palsy. For your names Of 'whore' and 'murderess', they proceed from you, As if a man should spit against the wind, The filth returns in 's face. Mont. Pray you, mistress, satisfy me one question: Who lodg'd beneath your roof that fatal night Your husband broke his neck? Brach. That question Enforceth me break silence: I was there. Mont. Your business? Brach. Why, I came to comfort he, And take some course for settling her estate, Because I heard her husband was in debt To you, my lord. Mont. He was. Brach. And 'twas strangely fear'd, That you would cozen her. Mont. Who made you overseer? Brach. Why, my charity, my charity, which should flow From every generous and noble spirit, To orphans and to widows. Mont. Your lust! Brach. Cowardly dogs bark loudest: sirrah priest, I 'll talk with you hereafter. Do you hear? The sword you frame of such an excellent temper, I 'll sheath in your own bowels. There are a number of thy coat resemble Your common post-boys. Mont. Ha! Brach. Your mercenary post-boys; Your letters carry truth, but 'tis your guise To fill your mouths with gross and impudent lies. Servant. My lord, your gown. Brach. Thou liest, 'twas my stool: Bestow 't upon thy master, that will challenge The rest o' th' household-stuff; for Brachiano Was ne'er so beggarly to take a stool Out of another's lodging: let him make Vallance for his bed on 't, or a demy foot-cloth For his most reverend moil. Monticelso, Nemo me impune lacessit. [Exit. Mont. Your champion's gone. Vit. The wolf may prey the better. Fran. My lord, there 's great suspicion of the murder, But no sound proof who did it. For my part, I do not think she hath a soul so black To act a deed so bloody; if she have, As in cold countries husbandmen plant vines, And with warm blood manure them; even so One summer she will bear unsavoury fruit, And ere next spring wither both branch and root. The act of blood let pass; only descend To matters of incontinence. Vit. I discern poison Under your gilded pills. Mont. Now the duke's gone, I will produce a letter Wherein 'twas plotted, he and you should meet At an apothecary's summer-house, Down by the River Tiber,--view 't, my lords, Where after wanton bathing and the heat Of a lascivious banquet--I pray read it, I shame to speak the rest. Vit. Grant I was tempted; Temptation to lust proves not the act: Casta est quam nemo rogavit. You read his hot love to me, but you want My frosty answer. Mont. Frost i' th' dog-days! strange! Vit. Condemn you me for that the duke did love me? So may you blame some fair and crystal river, For that some melancholic distracted man Hath drown'd himself in 't. Mont. Truly drown'd, indeed. Vit. Sum up my faults, I pray, and you shall find, That beauty and gay clothes, a merry heart, And a good stomach to feast, are all, All the poor crimes that you can charge me with. In faith, my lord, you might go pistol flies, The sport would be more noble. Mont. Very good. Vit. But take your course: it seems you 've beggar'd me first, And now would fain undo me. I have houses, Jewels, and a poor remnant of crusadoes; Would those would make you charitable! Mont. If the devil Did ever take good shape, behold his picture. Vit. You have one virtue left, You will not flatter me. Fran. Who brought this letter? Vit. I am not compell'd to tell you. Mont. My lord duke sent to you a thousand ducats The twelfth of August. Vit. 'Twas to keep your cousin From prison; I paid use for 't. Mont. I rather think, 'Twas interest for his lust. Vit. Who says so but yourself? If you be my accuser, Pray cease to be my judge: come from the bench; Give in your evidence 'gainst me, and let these Be moderators. My lord cardinal, Were your intelligencing ears as loving As to my thoughts, had you an honest tongue, I would not care though you proclaim'd them all. Mont. Go to, go to. After your goodly and vainglorious banquet, I 'll give you a choke-pear. Vit. O' your own grafting? Mont. You were born in Venice, honourably descended From the Vittelli: 'twas my cousin's fate, Ill may I name the hour, to marry you; He bought you of your father. Vit. Ha! Mont. He spent there in six months Twelve thousand ducats, and (to my acquaintance) Receiv'd in dowry with you not one Julio: 'Twas a hard pennyworth, the ware being so light. I yet but draw the curtain; now to your picture: You came from thence a most notorious strumpet, And so you have continued. Vit. My lord! Mont. Nay, hear me, You shall have time to prate. My Lord Brachiano-- Alas! I make but repetition Of what is ordinary and Rialto talk, And ballated, and would be play'd a' th' stage, But that vice many times finds such loud friends, That preachers are charm'd silent. You, gentlemen, Flamineo and Marcello, The Court hath nothing now to charge you with, Only you must remain upon your sureties For your appearance. Fran. I stand for Marcello. Flam. And my lord duke for me. Mont. For you, Vittoria, your public fault, Join'd to th' condition of the present time, Takes from you all the fruits of noble pity, Such a corrupted trial have you made Both of your life and beauty, and been styl'd No less an ominous fate than blazing stars To princes. Hear your sentence: you are confin'd Unto a house of convertites, and your bawd---- Flam. [Aside.] Who, I? Mont. The Moor. Flam. [Aside.] Oh, I am a sound man again. Vit. A house of convertites! what 's that? Mont. A house of penitent whores. Vit. Do the noblemen in Rome Erect it for their wives, that I am sent To lodge there? Fran. You must have patience. Vit. I must first have vengeance! I fain would know if you have your salvation By patent, that you proceed thus. Mont. Away with her, Take her hence. Vit. A rape! a rape! Mont. How? Vit. Yes, you have ravish'd justice; Forc'd her to do your pleasure. Mont. Fie, she 's mad---- Vit. Die with those pills in your most cursed maw, Should bring you health! or while you sit o' th' bench, Let your own spittle choke you! Mont. She 's turned fury. Vit. That the last day of judgment may so find you, And leave you the same devil you were before! Instruct me, some good horse-leech, to speak treason; For since you cannot take my life for deeds, Take it for words. O woman's poor revenge, Which dwells but in the tongue! I will not weep; No, I do scorn to call up one poor tear To fawn on your injustice: bear me hence Unto this house of--what's your mitigating title? Mont. Of convertites. Vit. It shall not be a house of convertites; My mind shall make it honester to me Than the Pope's palace, and more peaceable Than thy soul, though thou art a cardinal. Know this, and let it somewhat raise your spite, Through darkness diamonds spread their richest light. [Exit. Enter Brachiano Brach. Now you and I are friends, sir, we'll shake hands In a friend's grave together; a fit place, Being th' emblem of soft peace, t' atone our hatred. Fran. Sir, what 's the matter? Brach. I will not chase more blood from that lov'd cheek; You have lost too much already; fare you well. [Exit. Fran. How strange these words sound! what 's the interpretation? Flam. [Aside.] Good; this is a preface to the discovery of the duchess' death: he carries it well. Because now I cannot counterfeit a whining passion for the death of my lady, I will feign a mad humour for the disgrace of my sister; and that will keep off idle questions. Treason's tongue hath a villainous palsy in 't; I will talk to any man, hear no man, and for a time appear a politic madman. Enter Giovanni, and Count Lodovico Fran. How now, my noble cousin? what, in black! Giov. Yes, uncle, I was taught to imitate you In virtue, and you must imitate me In colours of your garments. My sweet mother Is---- Fran. How? where? Giov. Is there; no, yonder: indeed, sir, I 'll not tell you, For I shall make you weep. Fran. Is dead? Giov. Do not blame me now, I did not tell you so. Lodo. She 's dead, my lord. Fran. Dead! Mont. Bless'd lady, thou art now above thy woes! Will 't please your lordships to withdraw a little? Giov. What do the dead do, uncle? do they eat, Hear music, go a-hunting, and be merry, As we that live? Fran. No, coz; they sleep. Giov. Lord, Lord, that I were dead! I have not slept these six nights. When do they wake? Fran. When God shall please. Giov. Good God, let her sleep ever! For I have known her wake an hundred nights, When all the pillow where she laid her head Was brine-wet with her tears. I am to complain to you, sir; I 'll tell you how they have us'd her now she 's dead: They wrapp'd her in a cruel fold of lead, And would not let me kiss her. Fran. Thou didst love her? Giov. I have often heard her say she gave me suck, And it should seem by that she dearly lov'd me, Since princes seldom do it. Fran. Oh, all of my poor sister that remains! Take him away for God's sake! [Exit Giovanni. Mont. How now, my lord? Fran. Believe me, I am nothing but her grave; And I shall keep her blessed memory Longer than thousand epitaphs.

Act 3, Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20210510044810/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-white-devil/summary/act-3-scene-2

This scene takes place at Vittoria's arraignment. Francisco, Monticelso, six Ambassadors, Brachiano, Vittoria, Zanche, Flamineo, Marcello, a lawyer, and a guard all enter. Monticelso bids Brachiano take a seat--but Brachiano, being an unwelcome guest, says he brought his own seat. The lawyer starts to plead against Vittoria in Latin--but Vittoria insists on his using a language the people in the courtroom audience can understand . Then, the lawyer launches into a plea in incomprehensible English laden with joke-legal jargon. Francisco thanks him for his time and dismisses him. Monticelso says he'll argue against Vittoria in plainer language. They trade barbs and Vittoria says it's inappropriate for a cardinal to act like a lawyer. Monticelso compares her to the "Apples of Sodom"--which look nice but turn to ashes when you try to eat them. He claims Vittoria held riotous feasts and parties, calling her a "whore." Monticelso then launches into a tirade about "whores," claiming, basically, that they're evil, fake, counterfeit people who destroy everything. The French Ambassador comments to the English that Vittoria has "liv'd ill." The English Ambassador agrees but says the cardinal's too bitter. Francisco, sensing the need for a reasonable voice, points out how implausible Camillo's vaulting accident was--foul play needs to be involved. Monticelso says Vittoria doesn't seem to feel too bad about it, causing her to object. Vittoria's bold defense impresses the English Ambassador. She tells them that all their slanders can't damage her actual goodness--they're making her into a boogeyman, more or less. Monticelso points out that Brachiano was staying in her house the night Camillo was murdered, but Brachiano says he was there out of charity, not lust. He was just looking out for Vittoria, since Monticelso was holding her and Camillo in his debt . Brachiano angrily denounces Monticelso while defending himself--and then leaves. Francisco, trying to be more reasonable, says he doesn't think Vittoria is guilty of murder--but she does seem guilty of adultery. Vittoria is suspicious of his intentions. Monticelso produces a letter showing that the Duke tried to seduce Vittoria--but she says she resisted his temptations. He also shows that the Duke gave her money, but Vittoria says it was just to keep Camillo free from prison . Monticelso complains that she was a drain on Camillo's finances and brought no money in dowry. He also dismisses any charges against Flamineo and Marcello--they don't have enough evidence to convict them. Acting as judge as well, Monticelso sentences Vittoria to life in a house of convertites--or "a house of penitent whores." Vittoria claims that they've perverted justice and that she'll make her place of imprisonment seem more honest than the Pope's palace. She exits. Court dismissed, bring in the dancing lobsters. Brachiano enters, and in a veiled way, tells Francisco that Isabella is dead, offering his condolences. Francisco doesn't know what Brachiano's saying, and Brachiano leaves. Flamineo says, in an aside, that he'll pretend to be mad in order to avoid any unwelcome questions. Giovanni and Lodovico enter. Giovanni is dressed in black, and Lodovico asks him why. Giovanni reveals that Isabella has died. They mourn and discuss death. Francisco tells Giovanni that the dead sleep until God wakes them. Giovanni wishes his mother could sleep forever to escape her grief, and says that she must have loved him since she personally nursed him . He exits. Francisco is grief stricken too. All exit.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/43.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Brothers Karamazov/section_42_part_0.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 7.chapter 2

book 7, chapter 2

{"name": "Book 7, Chapter 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-7-chapter-2", "summary": "The narrator explains that Alyosha is feeling all kinds of conflicted emotions about his elder's death. Rakitin comes across Alyosha in a pine grove between the hermitage and the monastery. He is lying face down on the ground. Rakitin goads Alyosha about his feelings about Zosima's death . Alyosha dimly feels that he needs to remember something really important about Dmitri, but he can't remember what. Finally Rakitin convinces Alyosha to peel himself off the ground and join him for a visit to Grushenka's.", "analysis": ""}

Chapter II. A Critical Moment Father Paissy, of course, was not wrong when he decided that his "dear boy" would come back again. Perhaps indeed, to some extent, he penetrated with insight into the true meaning of Alyosha's spiritual condition. Yet I must frankly own that it would be very difficult for me to give a clear account of that strange, vague moment in the life of the young hero I love so much. To Father Paissy's sorrowful question, "Are you too with those of little faith?" I could of course confidently answer for Alyosha, "No, he is not with those of little faith. Quite the contrary." Indeed, all his trouble came from the fact that he was of great faith. But still the trouble was there and was so agonizing that even long afterwards Alyosha thought of that sorrowful day as one of the bitterest and most fatal days of his life. If the question is asked: "Could all his grief and disturbance have been only due to the fact that his elder's body had shown signs of premature decomposition instead of at once performing miracles?" I must answer without beating about the bush, "Yes, it certainly was." I would only beg the reader not to be in too great a hurry to laugh at my young hero's pure heart. I am far from intending to apologize for him or to justify his innocent faith on the ground of his youth, or the little progress he had made in his studies, or any such reason. I must declare, on the contrary, that I have genuine respect for the qualities of his heart. No doubt a youth who received impressions cautiously, whose love was lukewarm, and whose mind was too prudent for his age and so of little value, such a young man might, I admit, have avoided what happened to my hero. But in some cases it is really more creditable to be carried away by an emotion, however unreasonable, which springs from a great love, than to be unmoved. And this is even truer in youth, for a young man who is always sensible is to be suspected and is of little worth--that's my opinion! "But," reasonable people will exclaim perhaps, "every young man cannot believe in such a superstition and your hero is no model for others." To this I reply again, "Yes! my hero had faith, a faith holy and steadfast, but still I am not going to apologize for him." Though I declared above, and perhaps too hastily, that I should not explain or justify my hero, I see that some explanation is necessary for the understanding of the rest of my story. Let me say then, it was not a question of miracles. There was no frivolous and impatient expectation of miracles in his mind. And Alyosha needed no miracles at the time, for the triumph of some preconceived idea--oh, no, not at all--what he saw before all was one figure--the figure of his beloved elder, the figure of that holy man whom he revered with such adoration. The fact is that all the love that lay concealed in his pure young heart for every one and everything had, for the past year, been concentrated--and perhaps wrongly so--on one being, his beloved elder. It is true that being had for so long been accepted by him as his ideal, that all his young strength and energy could not but turn towards that ideal, even to the forgetting at the moment "of every one and everything." He remembered afterwards how, on that terrible day, he had entirely forgotten his brother Dmitri, about whom he had been so anxious and troubled the day before; he had forgotten, too, to take the two hundred roubles to Ilusha's father, though he had so warmly intended to do so the preceding evening. But again it was not miracles he needed but only "the higher justice" which had been in his belief outraged by the blow that had so suddenly and cruelly wounded his heart. And what does it signify that this "justice" looked for by Alyosha inevitably took the shape of miracles to be wrought immediately by the ashes of his adored teacher? Why, every one in the monastery cherished the same thought and the same hope, even those whose intellects Alyosha revered, Father Paissy himself, for instance. And so Alyosha, untroubled by doubts, clothed his dreams too in the same form as all the rest. And a whole year of life in the monastery had formed the habit of this expectation in his heart. But it was justice, justice, he thirsted for, not simply miracles. And now the man who should, he believed, have been exalted above every one in the whole world, that man, instead of receiving the glory that was his due, was suddenly degraded and dishonored! What for? Who had judged him? Who could have decreed this? Those were the questions that wrung his inexperienced and virginal heart. He could not endure without mortification, without resentment even, that the holiest of holy men should have been exposed to the jeering and spiteful mockery of the frivolous crowd so inferior to him. Even had there been no miracles, had there been nothing marvelous to justify his hopes, why this indignity, why this humiliation, why this premature decay, "in excess of nature," as the spiteful monks said? Why this "sign from heaven," which they so triumphantly acclaimed in company with Father Ferapont, and why did they believe they had gained the right to acclaim it? Where is the finger of Providence? Why did Providence hide its face "at the most critical moment" (so Alyosha thought it), as though voluntarily submitting to the blind, dumb, pitiless laws of nature? That was why Alyosha's heart was bleeding, and, of course, as I have said already, the sting of it all was that the man he loved above everything on earth should be put to shame and humiliated! This murmuring may have been shallow and unreasonable in my hero, but I repeat again for the third time--and am prepared to admit that it might be difficult to defend my feeling--I am glad that my hero showed himself not too reasonable at that moment, for any man of sense will always come back to reason in time, but, if love does not gain the upper hand in a boy's heart at such an exceptional moment, when will it? I will not, however, omit to mention something strange, which came for a time to the surface of Alyosha's mind at this fatal and obscure moment. This new something was the harassing impression left by the conversation with Ivan, which now persistently haunted Alyosha's mind. At this moment it haunted him. Oh, it was not that something of the fundamental, elemental, so to speak, faith of his soul had been shaken. He loved his God and believed in Him steadfastly, though he was suddenly murmuring against Him. Yet a vague but tormenting and evil impression left by his conversation with Ivan the day before, suddenly revived again now in his soul and seemed forcing its way to the surface of his consciousness. It had begun to get dusk when Rakitin, crossing the pine copse from the hermitage to the monastery, suddenly noticed Alyosha, lying face downwards on the ground under a tree, not moving and apparently asleep. He went up and called him by his name. "You here, Alexey? Can you have--" he began wondering but broke off. He had meant to say, "Can you have come to this?" Alyosha did not look at him, but from a slight movement Rakitin at once saw that he heard and understood him. "What's the matter?" he went on; but the surprise in his face gradually passed into a smile that became more and more ironical. "I say, I've been looking for you for the last two hours. You suddenly disappeared. What are you about? What foolery is this? You might just look at me..." Alyosha raised his head, sat up and leaned his back against the tree. He was not crying, but there was a look of suffering and irritability in his face. He did not look at Rakitin, however, but looked away to one side of him. "Do you know your face is quite changed? There's none of your famous mildness to be seen in it. Are you angry with some one? Have they been ill-treating you?" "Let me alone," said Alyosha suddenly, with a weary gesture of his hand, still looking away from him. "Oho! So that's how we are feeling! So you can shout at people like other mortals. That is a come-down from the angels. I say, Alyosha, you have surprised me, do you hear? I mean it. It's long since I've been surprised at anything here. I always took you for an educated man...." Alyosha at last looked at him, but vaguely, as though scarcely understanding what he said. "Can you really be so upset simply because your old man has begun to stink? You don't mean to say you seriously believed that he was going to work miracles?" exclaimed Rakitin, genuinely surprised again. "I believed, I believe, I want to believe, and I will believe, what more do you want?" cried Alyosha irritably. "Nothing at all, my boy. Damn it all! why, no schoolboy of thirteen believes in that now. But there.... So now you are in a temper with your God, you are rebelling against Him; He hasn't given promotion, He hasn't bestowed the order of merit! Eh, you are a set!" Alyosha gazed a long while with his eyes half closed at Rakitin, and there was a sudden gleam in his eyes ... but not of anger with Rakitin. "I am not rebelling against my God; I simply 'don't accept His world.' " Alyosha suddenly smiled a forced smile. "How do you mean, you don't accept the world?" Rakitin thought a moment over his answer. "What idiocy is this?" Alyosha did not answer. "Come, enough nonsense, now to business. Have you had anything to eat to- day?" "I don't remember.... I think I have." "You need keeping up, to judge by your face. It makes one sorry to look at you. You didn't sleep all night either, I hear, you had a meeting in there. And then all this bobbery afterwards. Most likely you've had nothing to eat but a mouthful of holy bread. I've got some sausage in my pocket; I've brought it from the town in case of need, only you won't eat sausage...." "Give me some." "I say! You are going it! Why, it's a regular mutiny, with barricades! Well, my boy, we must make the most of it. Come to my place.... I shouldn't mind a drop of vodka myself, I am tired to death. Vodka is going too far for you, I suppose ... or would you like some?" "Give me some vodka too." "Hullo! You surprise me, brother!" Rakitin looked at him in amazement. "Well, one way or another, vodka or sausage, this is a jolly fine chance and mustn't be missed. Come along." Alyosha got up in silence and followed Rakitin. "If your little brother Ivan could see this--wouldn't he be surprised! By the way, your brother Ivan set off to Moscow this morning, did you know?" "Yes," answered Alyosha listlessly, and suddenly the image of his brother Dmitri rose before his mind. But only for a minute, and though it reminded him of something that must not be put off for a moment, some duty, some terrible obligation, even that reminder made no impression on him, did not reach his heart and instantly faded out of his mind and was forgotten. But, a long while afterwards, Alyosha remembered this. "Your brother Ivan declared once that I was a 'liberal booby with no talents whatsoever.' Once you, too, could not resist letting me know I was 'dishonorable.' Well! I should like to see what your talents and sense of honor will do for you now." This phrase Rakitin finished to himself in a whisper. "Listen!" he said aloud, "let's go by the path beyond the monastery straight to the town. Hm! I ought to go to Madame Hohlakov's by the way. Only fancy, I've written to tell her everything that happened, and would you believe it, she answered me instantly in pencil (the lady has a passion for writing notes) that 'she would never have expected _such conduct_ from a man of such a reverend character as Father Zossima.' That was her very word: 'conduct.' She is angry too. Eh, you are a set! Stay!" he cried suddenly again. He suddenly stopped and taking Alyosha by the shoulder made him stop too. "Do you know, Alyosha," he peeped inquisitively into his eyes, absorbed in a sudden new thought which had dawned on him, and though he was laughing outwardly he was evidently afraid to utter that new idea aloud, so difficult he still found it to believe in the strange and unexpected mood in which he now saw Alyosha. "Alyosha, do you know where we had better go?" he brought out at last timidly, and insinuatingly. "I don't care ... where you like." "Let's go to Grushenka, eh? Will you come?" pronounced Rakitin at last, trembling with timid suspense. "Let's go to Grushenka," Alyosha answered calmly, at once, and this prompt and calm agreement was such a surprise to Rakitin that he almost started back. "Well! I say!" he cried in amazement, but seizing Alyosha firmly by the arm he led him along the path, still dreading that he would change his mind. They walked along in silence, Rakitin was positively afraid to talk. "And how glad she will be, how delighted!" he muttered, but lapsed into silence again. And indeed it was not to please Grushenka he was taking Alyosha to her. He was a practical person and never undertook anything without a prospect of gain for himself. His object in this case was twofold, first a revengeful desire to see "the downfall of the righteous," and Alyosha's fall "from the saints to the sinners," over which he was already gloating in his imagination, and in the second place he had in view a certain material gain for himself, of which more will be said later. "So the critical moment has come," he thought to himself with spiteful glee, "and we shall catch it on the hop, for it's just what we want."

Book 7, Chapter 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-7-chapter-2

The narrator explains that Alyosha is feeling all kinds of conflicted emotions about his elder's death. Rakitin comes across Alyosha in a pine grove between the hermitage and the monastery. He is lying face down on the ground. Rakitin goads Alyosha about his feelings about Zosima's death . Alyosha dimly feels that he needs to remember something really important about Dmitri, but he can't remember what. Finally Rakitin convinces Alyosha to peel himself off the ground and join him for a visit to Grushenka's.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/23.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_22_part_0.txt

Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 23

chapter 23

{"name": "Chapter 23", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-23", "summary": "\"For the shearing-supper a long table was placed on the grass-plot beside the house, the end of the table being thrust over the sill of the wide parlour window and a foot or two into the room. Miss Everdene sat inside the window, facing down the table. She was thus at the head without mingling with the men. Bathsheba was sparkling. She invited Gabriel to occupy the vacant seat at the opposite end of the table, only to ask him to move again when Boldwood appeared, apologizing for his lateness. After supper, Coggan began singing folksongs. When it was Poorgrass's turn, he was a bit in his cups and stalled at first. Then he rendered a composition of his own. Young Coggan became convulsed with laughter, and his father had to send him off. Tranquility restored, others sang, and \"the sun went down in an ochreous mist: but they sat and talked on, and grew as merry as the gods in Homer's heaven.\" Suddenly Gabriel noticed that Boldwood was missing from the place of honor. As Liddy brought candles, he saw him within the parlor, sitting close to Bathsheba. The guests asked Bathsheba to sing \"The Banks of Allan Water.\" After a moment's consideration, Bathsheba assented, beckoning to Gabriel \"to accompany her on his flute.\" Boldwood sang the bass \"in his customary profound voice.\" Bathsheba then wished everyone good night. Boldwood closed the sash and the shutters but remained inside to propose once again. After some hesitation, Bathsheba said, \"I have every reason to hope that at the end of the five or six weeks . . . that you say that you are going to be away from home, I shall be able to promise to be your wife.\" Boldwood withdrew with a serene smile. Bathsheba still had qualms: \"To have brought all this about her ears was terrible; but after a while the situation was not without a fearful joy. The facility with which even the most timid women sometimes acquire a relish for the dreadful when that is amalgamated with a little triumph, is marvellous.\"", "analysis": "Hardy offers still another lovely old country custom in his depiction of the farm supper: the crosscurrents of feeling; the power of song, effecting a momentary calm over ruffled spirits; the maintenance of individuality within the group -- these are things that Hardy expresses very well. A verse of the song Bathsheba sings foreshadows future developments in the plot: For his bride a soldier sought her,And a winning tongue had heOn the banks of Allan WaterNone was gay as she! At present, though, it appears that Bathsheba will ultimately accept Boldwood."}

EVENTIDE--A SECOND DECLARATION For the shearing-supper a long table was placed on the grass-plot beside the house, the end of the table being thrust over the sill of the wide parlour window and a foot or two into the room. Miss Everdene sat inside the window, facing down the table. She was thus at the head without mingling with the men. This evening Bathsheba was unusually excited, her red cheeks and lips contrasting lustrously with the mazy skeins of her shadowy hair. She seemed to expect assistance, and the seat at the bottom of the table was at her request left vacant until after they had begun the meal. She then asked Gabriel to take the place and the duties appertaining to that end, which he did with great readiness. At this moment Mr. Boldwood came in at the gate, and crossed the green to Bathsheba at the window. He apologized for his lateness: his arrival was evidently by arrangement. "Gabriel," said she, "will you move again, please, and let Mr. Boldwood come there?" Oak moved in silence back to his original seat. The gentleman-farmer was dressed in cheerful style, in a new coat and white waistcoat, quite contrasting with his usual sober suits of grey. Inwardy, too, he was blithe, and consequently chatty to an exceptional degree. So also was Bathsheba now that he had come, though the uninvited presence of Pennyways, the bailiff who had been dismissed for theft, disturbed her equanimity for a while. Supper being ended, Coggan began on his own private account, without reference to listeners:-- I've lost my love, and I care not, I've lost my love, and I care not; I shall soon have another That's better than t'other; I've lost my love, and I care not. This lyric, when concluded, was received with a silently appreciative gaze at the table, implying that the performance, like a work by those established authors who are independent of notices in the papers, was a well-known delight which required no applause. "Now, Master Poorgrass, your song!" said Coggan. "I be all but in liquor, and the gift is wanting in me," said Joseph, diminishing himself. "Nonsense; wou'st never be so ungrateful, Joseph--never!" said Coggan, expressing hurt feelings by an inflection of voice. "And mistress is looking hard at ye, as much as to say, 'Sing at once, Joseph Poorgrass.'" "Faith, so she is; well, I must suffer it! ... Just eye my features, and see if the tell-tale blood overheats me much, neighbours?" "No, yer blushes be quite reasonable," said Coggan. "I always tries to keep my colours from rising when a beauty's eyes get fixed on me," said Joseph, differently; "but if so be 'tis willed they do, they must." "Now, Joseph, your song, please," said Bathsheba, from the window. "Well, really, ma'am," he replied, in a yielding tone, "I don't know what to say. It would be a poor plain ballet of my own composure." "Hear, hear!" said the supper-party. Poorgrass, thus assured, trilled forth a flickering yet commendable piece of sentiment, the tune of which consisted of the key-note and another, the latter being the sound chiefly dwelt upon. This was so successful that he rashly plunged into a second in the same breath, after a few false starts:-- I sow'-ed th'-e ..... I sow'-ed ..... I sow'-ed th'-e seeds' of' love', I-it was' all' i'-in the'-e spring', I-in A'-pril', Ma'-ay, a'-nd sun'-ny' June', When sma'-all bi'-irds they' do' sing. "Well put out of hand," said Coggan, at the end of the verse. "'They do sing' was a very taking paragraph." "Ay; and there was a pretty place at 'seeds of love.' and 'twas well heaved out. Though 'love' is a nasty high corner when a man's voice is getting crazed. Next verse, Master Poorgrass." But during this rendering young Bob Coggan exhibited one of those anomalies which will afflict little people when other persons are particularly serious: in trying to check his laughter, he pushed down his throat as much of the tablecloth as he could get hold of, when, after continuing hermetically sealed for a short time, his mirth burst out through his nose. Joseph perceived it, and with hectic cheeks of indignation instantly ceased singing. Coggan boxed Bob's ears immediately. "Go on, Joseph--go on, and never mind the young scamp," said Coggan. "'Tis a very catching ballet. Now then again--the next bar; I'll help ye to flourish up the shrill notes where yer wind is rather wheezy:-- "Oh the wi'-il-lo'-ow tree' will' twist', And the wil'-low' tre'-ee wi'-ill twine'." But the singer could not be set going again. Bob Coggan was sent home for his ill manners, and tranquility was restored by Jacob Smallbury, who volunteered a ballad as inclusive and interminable as that with which the worthy toper old Silenus amused on a similar occasion the swains Chromis and Mnasylus, and other jolly dogs of his day. It was still the beaming time of evening, though night was stealthily making itself visible low down upon the ground, the western lines of light raking the earth without alighting upon it to any extent, or illuminating the dead levels at all. The sun had crept round the tree as a last effort before death, and then began to sink, the shearers' lower parts becoming steeped in embrowning twilight, whilst their heads and shoulders were still enjoying day, touched with a yellow of self-sustained brilliancy that seemed inherent rather than acquired. The sun went down in an ochreous mist; but they sat, and talked on, and grew as merry as the gods in Homer's heaven. Bathsheba still remained enthroned inside the window, and occupied herself in knitting, from which she sometimes looked up to view the fading scene outside. The slow twilight expanded and enveloped them completely before the signs of moving were shown. Gabriel suddenly missed Farmer Boldwood from his place at the bottom of the table. How long he had been gone Oak did not know; but he had apparently withdrawn into the encircling dusk. Whilst he was thinking of this, Liddy brought candles into the back part of the room overlooking the shearers, and their lively new flames shone down the table and over the men, and dispersed among the green shadows behind. Bathsheba's form, still in its original position, was now again distinct between their eyes and the light, which revealed that Boldwood had gone inside the room, and was sitting near her. Next came the question of the evening. Would Miss Everdene sing to them the song she always sang so charmingly--"The Banks of Allan Water"--before they went home? After a moment's consideration Bathsheba assented, beckoning to Gabriel, who hastened up into the coveted atmosphere. "Have you brought your flute?" she whispered. "Yes, miss." "Play to my singing, then." She stood up in the window-opening, facing the men, the candles behind her, Gabriel on her right hand, immediately outside the sash-frame. Boldwood had drawn up on her left, within the room. Her singing was soft and rather tremulous at first, but it soon swelled to a steady clearness. Subsequent events caused one of the verses to be remembered for many months, and even years, by more than one of those who were gathered there:-- For his bride a soldier sought her, And a winning tongue had he: On the banks of Allan Water None was gay as she! In addition to the dulcet piping of Gabriel's flute, Boldwood supplied a bass in his customary profound voice, uttering his notes so softly, however, as to abstain entirely from making anything like an ordinary duet of the song; they rather formed a rich unexplored shadow, which threw her tones into relief. The shearers reclined against each other as at suppers in the early ages of the world, and so silent and absorbed were they that her breathing could almost be heard between the bars; and at the end of the ballad, when the last tone loitered on to an inexpressible close, there arose that buzz of pleasure which is the attar of applause. It is scarcely necessary to state that Gabriel could not avoid noting the farmer's bearing to-night towards their entertainer. Yet there was nothing exceptional in his actions beyond what appertained to his time of performing them. It was when the rest were all looking away that Boldwood observed her; when they regarded her he turned aside; when they thanked or praised he was silent; when they were inattentive he murmured his thanks. The meaning lay in the difference between actions, none of which had any meaning of itself; and the necessity of being jealous, which lovers are troubled with, did not lead Oak to underestimate these signs. Bathsheba then wished them good-night, withdrew from the window, and retired to the back part of the room, Boldwood thereupon closing the sash and the shutters, and remaining inside with her. Oak wandered away under the quiet and scented trees. Recovering from the softer impressions produced by Bathsheba's voice, the shearers rose to leave, Coggan turning to Pennyways as he pushed back the bench to pass out:-- "I like to give praise where praise is due, and the man deserves it--that 'a do so," he remarked, looking at the worthy thief, as if he were the masterpiece of some world-renowned artist. "I'm sure I should never have believed it if we hadn't proved it, so to allude," hiccupped Joseph Poorgrass, "that every cup, every one of the best knives and forks, and every empty bottle be in their place as perfect now as at the beginning, and not one stole at all." "I'm sure I don't deserve half the praise you give me," said the virtuous thief, grimly. "Well, I'll say this for Pennyways," added Coggan, "that whenever he do really make up his mind to do a noble thing in the shape of a good action, as I could see by his face he did to-night afore sitting down, he's generally able to carry it out. Yes, I'm proud to say, neighbours, that he's stole nothing at all." "Well, 'tis an honest deed, and we thank ye for it, Pennyways," said Joseph; to which opinion the remainder of the company subscribed unanimously. At this time of departure, when nothing more was visible of the inside of the parlour than a thin and still chink of light between the shutters, a passionate scene was in course of enactment there. Miss Everdene and Boldwood were alone. Her cheeks had lost a great deal of their healthful fire from the very seriousness of her position; but her eye was bright with the excitement of a triumph--though it was a triumph which had rather been contemplated than desired. She was standing behind a low arm-chair, from which she had just risen, and he was kneeling in it--inclining himself over its back towards her, and holding her hand in both his own. His body moved restlessly, and it was with what Keats daintily calls a too happy happiness. This unwonted abstraction by love of all dignity from a man of whom it had ever seemed the chief component, was, in its distressing incongruity, a pain to her which quenched much of the pleasure she derived from the proof that she was idolized. "I will try to love you," she was saying, in a trembling voice quite unlike her usual self-confidence. "And if I can believe in any way that I shall make you a good wife I shall indeed be willing to marry you. But, Mr. Boldwood, hesitation on so high a matter is honourable in any woman, and I don't want to give a solemn promise to-night. I would rather ask you to wait a few weeks till I can see my situation better. "But you have every reason to believe that THEN--" "I have every reason to hope that at the end of the five or six weeks, between this time and harvest, that you say you are going to be away from home, I shall be able to promise to be your wife," she said, firmly. "But remember this distinctly, I don't promise yet." "It is enough; I don't ask more. I can wait on those dear words. And now, Miss Everdene, good-night!" "Good-night," she said, graciously--almost tenderly; and Boldwood withdrew with a serene smile. Bathsheba knew more of him now; he had entirely bared his heart before her, even until he had almost worn in her eyes the sorry look of a grand bird without the feathers that make it grand. She had been awe-struck at her past temerity, and was struggling to make amends without thinking whether the sin quite deserved the penalty she was schooling herself to pay. To have brought all this about her ears was terrible; but after a while the situation was not without a fearful joy. The facility with which even the most timid women sometimes acquire a relish for the dreadful when that is amalgamated with a little triumph, is marvellous.

Chapter 23

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-23

"For the shearing-supper a long table was placed on the grass-plot beside the house, the end of the table being thrust over the sill of the wide parlour window and a foot or two into the room. Miss Everdene sat inside the window, facing down the table. She was thus at the head without mingling with the men. Bathsheba was sparkling. She invited Gabriel to occupy the vacant seat at the opposite end of the table, only to ask him to move again when Boldwood appeared, apologizing for his lateness. After supper, Coggan began singing folksongs. When it was Poorgrass's turn, he was a bit in his cups and stalled at first. Then he rendered a composition of his own. Young Coggan became convulsed with laughter, and his father had to send him off. Tranquility restored, others sang, and "the sun went down in an ochreous mist: but they sat and talked on, and grew as merry as the gods in Homer's heaven." Suddenly Gabriel noticed that Boldwood was missing from the place of honor. As Liddy brought candles, he saw him within the parlor, sitting close to Bathsheba. The guests asked Bathsheba to sing "The Banks of Allan Water." After a moment's consideration, Bathsheba assented, beckoning to Gabriel "to accompany her on his flute." Boldwood sang the bass "in his customary profound voice." Bathsheba then wished everyone good night. Boldwood closed the sash and the shutters but remained inside to propose once again. After some hesitation, Bathsheba said, "I have every reason to hope that at the end of the five or six weeks . . . that you say that you are going to be away from home, I shall be able to promise to be your wife." Boldwood withdrew with a serene smile. Bathsheba still had qualms: "To have brought all this about her ears was terrible; but after a while the situation was not without a fearful joy. The facility with which even the most timid women sometimes acquire a relish for the dreadful when that is amalgamated with a little triumph, is marvellous."

Hardy offers still another lovely old country custom in his depiction of the farm supper: the crosscurrents of feeling; the power of song, effecting a momentary calm over ruffled spirits; the maintenance of individuality within the group -- these are things that Hardy expresses very well. A verse of the song Bathsheba sings foreshadows future developments in the plot: For his bride a soldier sought her,And a winning tongue had heOn the banks of Allan WaterNone was gay as she! At present, though, it appears that Bathsheba will ultimately accept Boldwood.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/1929-chapters/9.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The School for Scandal/section_2_part_3.txt

The School for Scandal.act iii.scene iii

act iii, scene iii

{"name": "act iii, Scene III", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180409073536/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-school-for-scandal/study-guide/summary-act-iii", "summary": "Scene III shows Charles and his friends drinking and talking about some gentlemen's unwillingness to drink alcohol recently. They also talk about love, and Charles brings up Maria. They sing a song about loving all kinds of women. Trip enters and tells Charles about his guests' arrival. Trip goes off and then re-enters with Sir Oliver and Mr. Moses. Charles's friends soon leave out of boredom, going into the next room to play dice. Sir Oliver tells Charles his rehearsed story, and Charles even tells Sir Oliver about his rich uncle who plans to leave him everything. They discuss putting \"a post-obit\" on Sir Oliver's life, but Sir Oliver advises against this. Sir Oliver asks about various other ways Charles might make money by selling things from the house, but finds that Charles has already sold them. Charles offers to sell the collection of paintings of his family members. Sir Oliver is shocked by this proposal, but he pursues it, asking to see the portraits. Charles's friend Careless is swept up in the scene to play auctioneer in the room where the portraits are kept. They all leave the stage to go look at the portraits, with Sir Oliver vowing to himself that he'll never forgive Charles for this", "analysis": "Sheridan makes many allusions in the play during characters' dialogues with one another. This both shows Sheridan's own learnedness and underscores the education and high social status of the characters that make these references. One allusion of note comes early in Act III, made by Rowley. In conversation with Sir Oliver and Sir Peter about the young Surface boys, Joseph and Charles, he says, \"as our immortal bard expresses it, -- 'a heart to pity, and a hand open as day for melting charity'\" . This quote comes from Shakespeare's Henry VI. Rowley says this to the men to support Charles's remaining moral character. However, Sir Peter quips back, both as a response to Rowley and perhaps to Shakespeare himself, that having an open hand means nothing when one has spent all he had. It is important to read this section with historical context in mind, specifically as applies to anti-Semitism and the role of Jews and Judaism in society. In Sheridan's time and before, many Jews were involved in money-lending, the Jewish faith, unlike Christianity, did not forbid this job. Nevertheless, the play presents a stereotyped character, a Jewish money-lender who is willing to be involved in deceit, and who likely was dressed and made up to comply with a stereotypical Jewish appearance. Productions since Sheridan's time, especially contemporary productions, have had to decide whether to edit out these references to Judaism entirely or perform the play as it was written but provide relevant historical context to the audience. Sheridan uses a humorous scene to show Sir Oliver's transformation into the money-lender Mr. Premium. This humor is mostly created through repetition. For example, part of the interaction with Mr. Moses as he teaches the man how to play the role of Mr. Premium is as follows: \"MOSESThen, you know, you haven't the moneys yourself, but are forcedto borrow them for him of a friend. SIR OLIVEROh! I borrow it of a friend, do I? MOSESAnd your friend is an unconscionable dog: but you can't helpthat. SIR OLIVERMy friend an unconscionable dog, is he?\" The fact that Sir Oliver is not particularly good at acting his role, along with the fact that while acting his role he gives many asides to himself or the audience, increases the humor and dramatic irony in those scenes. Of the motivations to convince Maria to marry Joseph, Sir Peter's seem the most conscionable. While Lady Sneerwell wants to see Maria with Joseph because she loves Charles, Sir Peter seems to simply want what he sees as best for the ward for whom he has recently assumed responsibility. Sir Peter and Maria discuss the role of a father, with her saying that she has respected his wishes in not corresponding with Charles, but that she cannot regard him as a father if he forces her to marry Joseph, \"compel to be miserable\" . Though Lady Teazle told Sir Peter earlier in the play that he should have adopted her, not married her, if he wanted to control her, Maria shows still another example of a strong female character who will protest the dynamics of gender and power within families."}

SCENE III. --CHARLES, CARELESS, etc., etc. At Table with Wine CHARLES. 'Fore Heaven, 'tis true!--there is the great Degeneracy of the age--many of our acquaintance have Taste--Spirit, and Politeness--but plague on't they won't drink---- CARELESS. It is so indeed--Charles--they give into all the substantial Luxuries of the Table--and abstain from nothing but wine and wit--Oh, certainly society suffers by it intolerably--for now instead of the social spirit of Raillery that used to mantle over a glass of bright Burgundy their conversation is become just like the Spa water they drink which has all the Pertness and flatulence of champaine without its spirit or Flavour. FIRST GENTLEMAN. But what are they to do who love Play better than wine---- CARELESS. True--there's Harry diets himself--for gaming and is now under a hazard Regimen. CHARLES. Then He'll have the worst of it--what you wouldn't train a horse for the course by keeping him from corn--For my Part egad I am never so successful as when I'm a little--merry--let me throw on a Bottle of Champaine and I never lose--at least I never feel my losses which is exactly the same thing. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Aye that may be--but it is as impossible to follow wine and play as to unite Love and Politics. CHARLES. Pshaw--you may do both--Caesar made Love and Laws in a Breath--and was liked by the Senate as well as the Ladies--but no man can pretend to be a Believer in Love, who is an abjurer of wine--'tis the Test by which a Lover knows his own Heart--fill a dozen Bumpers to a dozen Beauties, and she that floats atop is the maid that has bewitched you. CARELESS. Now then Charles--be honest and give us yours---- CHARLES. Why I have withheld her only in compassion to you--if I toast her you should give a round of her Peers, which is impossible! on earth! CARELESS. O, then we'll find some canonized Vestals or heathen Goddesses that will do I warrant---- CHARLES. Here then--Bumpers--you Rogues--Bumpers! Maria--Maria---- FIRST GENTLEMAN. Maria who? CHARLES. Oh, damn the Surname 'tis too formal to be register'd in Love's calendar--but now Careless beware--beware--we must have Beauty's superlative. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Nay Never study[,] Careless--we'll stand to the Toast--tho' your mistress should want an eye--and you know you have a song will excuse you---- CARELESS. Egad so I have--and I'll give him the song instead of the Lady.---- SONG.--AND CHORUS--<4> Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen; Here's to the widow of fifty; Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean, And here's to the housewife that's thrifty. Chorus. Let the toast pass,-- Drink to the lass, I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for a glass. Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize; Now to the maid who has none, sir; Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, And here's to the nymph with but one, sir. Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c. Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow: Now to her that's as brown as a berry: Here's to the wife with a face full of woe, And now to the damsel that's merry. Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c. For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim, Young or ancient, I care not a feather; So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim, So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim, And let us e'en toast them together. Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c. [Enter TRIP whispers CHARLES] SECOND GENTLEMAN. Bravo Careless--Ther's Toast and Sentiment too. FIRST GENTLEMAN. E' faith there's infinite charity in that song.---- CHARLES. Gentlemen, you must excuse me a little.--Careless, take the Chair, will you? CARELESS. Nay prithee, Charles--what now--this is one of your Peerless Beauties I suppose--has dropped in by chance? CHARLES. No--Faith--to tell you the Truth 'tis a Jew and a Broker who are come by appointment. CARELESS. O dam it let's have the Jew in. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Aye and the Broker too by all means---- SECOND GENTLEMAN. Yes yes the Jew and the Broker. CHARLES. Egad with all my Heart--Trip--bid the Gentlemen walk in--tho' there's one of them a Stranger I can tell you---- TRIP. What Sir--would you chuse Mr. Premium to come up with---- FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes--yes Mr. Premium certainly. CARELESS. To be sure--Mr. Premium--by all means Charles, let us give them some generous Burgundy, and perhaps they'll grow conscientious---- CHARLES. O, Hang 'em--no--wine does but draw forth a man's natural qualities; and to make them drink would only be to whet their Knavery. Enter TRIP, SIR OLIVER, and MOSES CHARLES. So--honest Moses--walk in--walk in pray Mr. Premium--that's the Gentleman's name isn't it Moses. MOSES. Yes Sir. CHARLES. Set chairs--Trim.--Sit down, Mr Premium.--Glasses Trim.--sit down Moses.--Come, Mr. Premium I'll give you a sentiment--Here's Success to Usury--Moses fill the Gentleman a bumper. MOSES. Success to Usury! CARELESS. Right Moses--Usury is Prudence and industry and deserves to succeed---- SIR OLIVER. Then Here is--all the success it deserves! [Drinks.] CHARLES. Mr. Premium you and I are but strangers yet--but I hope we shall be better acquainted by and bye---- SIR OLIVER. Yes Sir hope we shall--more intimately perhaps than you'll wish. [Aside.<5>] CARELESS. No, no, that won't do! Mr. Premium, you have demurred at the toast, and must drink it in a pint bumper. FIRST GENTLEMAN. A pint bumper, at least. MOSES. Oh, pray, sir, consider--Mr. Premium's a gentleman. CARELESS. And therefore loves good wine. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Give Moses a quart glass--this is mutiny, and a high contempt for the chair. CARELESS. Here, now for't! I'll see justice done, to the last drop of my bottle. SIR OLIVER. Nay, pray, gentlemen--I did not expect this usage. CHARLES. No, hang it, you shan't; Mr. Premium's a stranger. SIR OLIVER. Odd! I wish I was well out of their company. [Aside.] CARELESS. Plague on 'em then! if they won't drink, we'll not sit down with them. Come, Harry, the dice are in the next room.--Charles, you'll join us when you have finished your business with the gentlemen? CHARLES. I will! I will!-- [Exeunt SIR HARRY BUMPER and GENTLEMEN; CARELESS following.] Careless. CARELESS. [Returning.] Well! CHARLES. Perhaps I may want you. CARELESS. Oh, you know I am always ready: word, note, or bond, 'tis all the same to me. [Exit.] MOSES. Sir, this is Mr. Premium, a gentleman of the strictest honour and secrecy; and always performs what he undertakes. Mr. Premium, this is---- CHARLES. Psha! have done. Sir, my friend Moses is a very honest fellow, but a little slow at expression: he'll be an hour giving us our titles. Mr. Premium, the plain state of the matter is this: I am an extravagant young fellow who wants to borrow money; you I take to be a prudent old fellow, who have got money to lend. I am blockhead enough to give fifty per cent. sooner than not have it! and you, I presume, are rogue enough to take a hundred if you can get it. Now, sir, you see we are acquainted at once, and may proceed to business without further ceremony. SIR OLIVER. Exceeding frank, upon my word. I see, sir, you are not a man of many compliments. CHARLES. Oh, no, sir! plain dealing in business I always think best. SIR OLIVER. Sir, I like you the better for it. However, You are mistaken in one thing; I have no money to lend, but I believe I could procure some of a friend; but then he's an unconscionable dog. Isn't he, Moses? And must sell stock to accommodate you. Mustn't he, Moses! MOSES. Yes, indeed! You know I always speak the truth, and scorn to tell a lie! CHARLES. Right. People that speak truth generally do. But these are trifles, Mr. Premium. What! I know money isn't to be bought without paying for't! SIR OLIVER. Well, but what security could you give? You have no land, I suppose? CHARLES. Not a mole-hill, nor a twig, but what's in the bough pots out of the window! SIR OLIVER. Nor any stock, I presume? CHARLES. Nothing but live stock--and that's only a few pointers and ponies. But pray, Mr. Premium, are you acquainted at all with any of my connections? SIR OLIVER. Why, to say the truth, I am. CHARLES. Then you must know that I have a devilish rich uncle in the East Indies, Sir Oliver Surface, from whom I have the greatest expectations? SIR OLIVER. That you have a wealthy uncle, I have heard; but how your expectations will turn out is more, I believe, than you can tell. CHARLES. Oh, no!--there can be no doubt. They tell me I'm a prodigious favourite, and that he talks of leaving me everything. SIR OLIVER. Indeed! this is the first I've heard of it. CHARLES. Yes, yes, 'tis just so. Moses knows 'tis true; don't you, Moses? MOSES. Oh, yes! I'll swear to't. SIR OLIVER. Egad, they'll persuade me presently I'm at Bengal. [Aside.] CHARLES. Now I propose, Mr. Premium, if it's agreeable to you, a post-obit on Sir Oliver's life: though at the same time the old fellow has been so liberal to me, that I give you my word, I should be very sorry to hear that anything had happened to him. SIR OLIVER. Not more than I should, I assure you. But the bond you mention happens to be just the worst security you could offer me--for I might live to a hundred and never see the principal. CHARLES. Oh, yes, you would! the moment Sir Oliver dies, you know, you would come on me for the money. SIR OLIVER. Then I believe I should be the most unwelcome dun you ever had in your life. CHARLES. What! I suppose you're afraid that Sir Oliver is too good a life? SIR OLIVER. No, indeed I am not; though I have heard he is as hale and healthy as any man of his years in Christendom. CHARLES. There again, now, you are misinformed. No, no, the climate has hurt him considerably, poor uncle Oliver. Yes, yes, he breaks apace, I'm told--and is so much altered lately that his nearest relations would not know him. SIR OLIVER. No! Ha! ha! ha! so much altered lately that his nearest relations would not know him! Ha! ha! ha! egad--ha! ha! ha! CHARLES. Ha! ha!--you're glad to hear that, little Premium? SIR OLIVER. No, no, I'm not. CHARLES. Yes, yes, you are--ha! ha! ha!--you know that mends your chance. SIR OLIVER. But I'm told Sir Oliver is coming over; nay, some say he is actually arrived. CHARLES. Psha! sure I must know better than you whether he's come or not. No, no, rely on't he's at this moment at Calcutta. Isn't he, Moses? MOSES. Oh, yes, certainly. SIR OLIVER. Very true, as you say, you must know better than I, though I have it from pretty good authority. Haven't I, Moses? MOSES. Yes, most undoubted! SIR OLIVER. But, Sir, as I understand you want a few hundreds immediately, is there nothing you could dispose of? CHARLES. How do you mean? SIR OLIVER. For instance, now, I have heard that your father left behind him a great quantity of massy old plate. CHARLES. O Lud! that's gone long ago. Moses can tell you how better than I can. SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] Good lack! all the family race-cups and corporation-bowls!--[Aloud.] Then it was also supposed that his library was one of the most valuable and compact. CHARLES. Yes, yes, so it was--vastly too much so for a private gentleman. For my part, I was always of a communicative disposition, so I thought it a shame to keep so much knowledge to myself. SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] Mercy upon me! learning that had run in the family like an heir-loom!--[Aloud.] Pray, what has become of the books? CHARLES. You must inquire of the auctioneer, Master Premium, for I don't believe even Moses can direct you. MOSES. I know nothing of books. SIR OLIVER. So, so, nothing of the family property left, I suppose? CHARLES. Not much, indeed; unless you have a mind to the family pictures. I have got a room full of ancestors above: and if you have a taste for old paintings, egad, you shall have 'em a bargain! SIR OLIVER. Hey! what the devil! sure, you wouldn't sell your forefathers, would you? CHARLES. Every man of them, to the best bidder. SIR OLIVER. What! your great-uncles and aunts? CHARLES. Ay, and my great-grandfathers and grandmothers too. SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] Now I give him up!--[Aloud.] What the plague, have you no bowels for your own kindred? Odd's life! do you take me for Shylock in the play, that you would raise money of me on your own flesh and blood? CHARLES. Nay, my little broker, don't be angry: what need you care, if you have your money's worth? SIR OLIVER. Well, I'll be the purchaser: I think I can dispose of the family canvas.--[Aside.] Oh, I'll never forgive him this! never! Re-enter CARELESS CARELESS. Come, Charles, what keeps you? CHARLES. I can't come yet. I'faith, we are going to have a sale above stairs; here's little Premium will buy all my ancestors! CARELESS. Oh, burn your ancestors! CHARLES. No, he may do that afterwards, if he pleases. Stay, Careless, we want you: egad, you shall be auctioneer--so come along with us. CARELESS. Oh, have with you, if that's the case. I can handle a hammer as well as a dice box! Going! going! SIR OLIVER. Oh, the profligates! [Aside.] CHARLES. Come, Moses, you shall be appraiser, if we want one. Gad's life, little Premium, you don't seem to like the business? SIR OLIVER. Oh, yes, I do, vastly! Ha! ha! ha! yes, yes, I think it a rare joke to sell one's family by auction--ha! ha!--[Aside.] Oh, the prodigal! CHARLES. To be sure! when a man wants money, where the plague should he get assistance, if he can't make free with his own relations? [Exeunt.] SIR OLIVER. I'll never forgive him; never! never! END OF THE THIRD ACT

act iii, Scene III

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Scene III shows Charles and his friends drinking and talking about some gentlemen's unwillingness to drink alcohol recently. They also talk about love, and Charles brings up Maria. They sing a song about loving all kinds of women. Trip enters and tells Charles about his guests' arrival. Trip goes off and then re-enters with Sir Oliver and Mr. Moses. Charles's friends soon leave out of boredom, going into the next room to play dice. Sir Oliver tells Charles his rehearsed story, and Charles even tells Sir Oliver about his rich uncle who plans to leave him everything. They discuss putting "a post-obit" on Sir Oliver's life, but Sir Oliver advises against this. Sir Oliver asks about various other ways Charles might make money by selling things from the house, but finds that Charles has already sold them. Charles offers to sell the collection of paintings of his family members. Sir Oliver is shocked by this proposal, but he pursues it, asking to see the portraits. Charles's friend Careless is swept up in the scene to play auctioneer in the room where the portraits are kept. They all leave the stage to go look at the portraits, with Sir Oliver vowing to himself that he'll never forgive Charles for this

Sheridan makes many allusions in the play during characters' dialogues with one another. This both shows Sheridan's own learnedness and underscores the education and high social status of the characters that make these references. One allusion of note comes early in Act III, made by Rowley. In conversation with Sir Oliver and Sir Peter about the young Surface boys, Joseph and Charles, he says, "as our immortal bard expresses it, -- 'a heart to pity, and a hand open as day for melting charity'" . This quote comes from Shakespeare's Henry VI. Rowley says this to the men to support Charles's remaining moral character. However, Sir Peter quips back, both as a response to Rowley and perhaps to Shakespeare himself, that having an open hand means nothing when one has spent all he had. It is important to read this section with historical context in mind, specifically as applies to anti-Semitism and the role of Jews and Judaism in society. In Sheridan's time and before, many Jews were involved in money-lending, the Jewish faith, unlike Christianity, did not forbid this job. Nevertheless, the play presents a stereotyped character, a Jewish money-lender who is willing to be involved in deceit, and who likely was dressed and made up to comply with a stereotypical Jewish appearance. Productions since Sheridan's time, especially contemporary productions, have had to decide whether to edit out these references to Judaism entirely or perform the play as it was written but provide relevant historical context to the audience. Sheridan uses a humorous scene to show Sir Oliver's transformation into the money-lender Mr. Premium. This humor is mostly created through repetition. For example, part of the interaction with Mr. Moses as he teaches the man how to play the role of Mr. Premium is as follows: "MOSESThen, you know, you haven't the moneys yourself, but are forcedto borrow them for him of a friend. SIR OLIVEROh! I borrow it of a friend, do I? MOSESAnd your friend is an unconscionable dog: but you can't helpthat. SIR OLIVERMy friend an unconscionable dog, is he?" The fact that Sir Oliver is not particularly good at acting his role, along with the fact that while acting his role he gives many asides to himself or the audience, increases the humor and dramatic irony in those scenes. Of the motivations to convince Maria to marry Joseph, Sir Peter's seem the most conscionable. While Lady Sneerwell wants to see Maria with Joseph because she loves Charles, Sir Peter seems to simply want what he sees as best for the ward for whom he has recently assumed responsibility. Sir Peter and Maria discuss the role of a father, with her saying that she has respected his wishes in not corresponding with Charles, but that she cannot regard him as a father if he forces her to marry Joseph, "compel to be miserable" . Though Lady Teazle told Sir Peter earlier in the play that he should have adopted her, not married her, if he wanted to control her, Maria shows still another example of a strong female character who will protest the dynamics of gender and power within families.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/12915-chapters/8.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The White Devil/section_7_part_0.txt

The White Devil.act 4.scene 1

act 4, scene 1

{"name": "Act 4, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210510044810/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-white-devil/summary/act-4-scene-1", "summary": "Francisco and Monticelso enter. Francisco says he doesn't want to pursue revenge--making war on Brachiano would be an unjust burden on his subjects, and a sin that will come back to haunt him. Monticelso says he's not in favor of war either--just using treachery to undermine Brachiano. Francisco pretends he's not in favor of treachery, but asks to see Monticelso's \"black book\"--containing the names of known criminals. Monticelso leaves to get the book. Alone, Francisco says he doesn't trust Monticelso, and won't indicate exactly how he plans to pursue revenge. Monticelso returns and explains the different kinds of people listed in the book: pirates, robbers, women who dress in men's clothing, usurers, corrupt lawyers and priests, and more. He exits. Francisco, alone, ruminates on the book. He doesn't like it, since it's a tool of corruption--people like the cardinal use it to collect bribes from the known criminals in exchange for not turning them in. But he, Francisco, will only use it for one purpose--to find people to help him get revenge. He laments, though, that religion lets itself get twisted to these corrupt purposes--what with a cardinal owning books like this. In a melancholy frame of mind, he sees the ghost of his sister , which makes him feel extremely sad. But he dismisses it as a hallucination--he needs to keep his mind on revenge. The ghost exits. He writes a fake love-letter to Vittoria and tells his servant to deliver it to her in her place of imprisonment when Brachiano's followers are around . The servant leaves. Francisco decides to pay Lodovico to be his instrument in gaining revenge. As the scene ends, he swears to have Brachiano killed.", "analysis": ""}

ACT IV SCENE I Enter Francisco and Monticelso Mont. Come, come, my lord, untie your folded thoughts, And let them dangle loose, as a bride's hair. Fran. Far be it from my thoughts To seek revenge. Mont. What, are you turn'd all marble? Fran. Shall I defy him, and impose a war, Most burthensome on my poor subjects' necks, Which at my will I have not power to end? You know, for all the murders, rapes, and thefts, Committed in the horrid lust of war, He that unjustly caus'd it first proceed, Shall find it in his grave, and in his seed. Mont. That 's not the course I 'd wish you; pray observe me. We see that undermining more prevails Than doth the cannon. Bear your wrongs conceal'd, And, patient as the tortoise, let this camel Stalk o'er your back unbruis'd: sleep with the lion, And let this brood of secure foolish mice Play with your nostrils, till the time be ripe For th' bloody audit, and the fatal gripe: Aim like a cunning fowler, close one eye, That you the better may your game espy. Fran. Free me, my innocence, from treacherous acts! I know there 's thunder yonder; and I 'll stand, Like a safe valley, which low bends the knee To some aspiring mountain: since I know Treason, like spiders weaving nets for flies, By her foul work is found, and in it dies. To pass away these thoughts, my honour'd lord, It is reported you possess a book, Wherein you have quoted, by intelligence, The names of all notorious offenders Lurking about the city. Mont. Sir, I do; And some there are which call it my black-book. Well may the title hold; for though it teach not The art of conjuring, yet in it lurk The names of many devils. Fran. Pray let 's see it. Mont. I 'll fetch it to your lordship. [Exit. Fran. Monticelso, I will not trust thee, but in all my plots I 'll rest as jealous as a town besieg'd. Thou canst not reach what I intend to act: Your flax soon kindles, soon is out again, But gold slow heats, and long will hot remain. Enter Monticelso, with the book Mont. 'Tis here, my lord. Fran. First, your intelligencers, pray let 's see. Mont. Their number rises strangely; And some of them You 'd take for honest men. Next are panders. These are your pirates; and these following leaves For base rogues, that undo young gentlemen, By taking up commodities; for politic bankrupts; For fellows that are bawds to their own wives, Only to put off horses, and slight jewels, Clocks, defac'd plate, and such commodities, At birth of their first children. Fran. Are there such? Mont. These are for impudent bawds, That go in men's apparel; for usurers That share with scriveners for their good reportage: For lawyers that will antedate their writs: And some divines you might find folded there, But that I slip them o'er for conscience' sake. Here is a general catalogue of knaves: A man might study all the prisons o'er, Yet never attain this knowledge. Fran. Murderers? Fold down the leaf, I pray; Good my lord, let me borrow this strange doctrine. Mont. Pray, use 't, my lord. Fran. I do assure your lordship, You are a worthy member of the State, And have done infinite good in your discovery Of these offenders. Mont. Somewhat, sir. Fran. O God! Better than tribute of wolves paid in England; 'Twill hang their skins o' th' hedge. Mont. I must make bold To leave your lordship. Fran. Dearly, sir, I thank you: If any ask for me at court, report You have left me in the company of knaves. [Exit Monticelso. I gather now by this, some cunning fellow That 's my lord's officer, and that lately skipp'd From a clerk's desk up to a justice' chair, Hath made this knavish summons, and intends, As th' rebels wont were to sell heads, So to make prize of these. And thus it happens: Your poor rogues pay for 't, which have not the means To present bribe in fist; the rest o' th' band Are razed out of the knaves' record; or else My lord he winks at them with easy will; His man grows rich, the knaves are the knaves still. But to the use I 'll make of it; it shall serve To point me out a list of murderers, Agents for my villany. Did I want Ten leash of courtesans, it would furnish me; Nay, laundress three armies. That in so little paper Should lie th' undoing of so many men! 'Tis not so big as twenty declarations. See the corrupted use some make of books: Divinity, wrested by some factious blood, Draws swords, swells battles, and o'erthrows all good. To fashion my revenge more seriously, Let me remember my dear sister's face: Call for her picture? no, I 'll close mine eyes, And in a melancholic thought I 'll frame [Enter Isabella's Ghost. Her figure 'fore me. Now I ha' 't--how strong Imagination works! how she can frame Things which are not! methinks she stands afore me, And by the quick idea of my mind, Were my skill pregnant, I could draw her picture. Thought, as a subtle juggler, makes us deem Things supernatural, which have cause Common as sickness. 'Tis my melancholy. How cam'st thou by thy death?--how idle am I To question mine own idleness!--did ever Man dream awake till now?--remove this object; Out of my brain with 't: what have I to do With tombs, or death-beds, funerals, or tears, That have to meditate upon revenge? [Exit Ghost. So, now 'tis ended, like an old wife's story. Statesmen think often they see stranger sights Than madmen. Come, to this weighty business. My tragedy must have some idle mirth in 't, Else it will never pass. I am in love, In love with Corombona; and my suit Thus halts to her in verse.-- [He writes. I have done it rarely: Oh, the fate of princes! I am so us'd to frequent flattery, That, being alone, I now flatter myself: But it will serve; 'tis seal'd. [Enter servant.] Bear this To the House of Convertites, and watch your leisure To give it to the hands of Corombona, Or to the Matron, when some followers Of Brachiano may be by. Away! [Exit Servant. He that deals all by strength, his wit is shallow; When a man's head goes through, each limb will follow. The engine for my business, bold Count Lodowick; 'Tis gold must such an instrument procure, With empty fist no man doth falcons lure. Brachiano, I am now fit for thy encounter: Like the wild Irish, I 'll ne'er think thee dead Till I can play at football with thy head, Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo. [Exit.

Act 4, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20210510044810/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/the-white-devil/summary/act-4-scene-1

Francisco and Monticelso enter. Francisco says he doesn't want to pursue revenge--making war on Brachiano would be an unjust burden on his subjects, and a sin that will come back to haunt him. Monticelso says he's not in favor of war either--just using treachery to undermine Brachiano. Francisco pretends he's not in favor of treachery, but asks to see Monticelso's "black book"--containing the names of known criminals. Monticelso leaves to get the book. Alone, Francisco says he doesn't trust Monticelso, and won't indicate exactly how he plans to pursue revenge. Monticelso returns and explains the different kinds of people listed in the book: pirates, robbers, women who dress in men's clothing, usurers, corrupt lawyers and priests, and more. He exits. Francisco, alone, ruminates on the book. He doesn't like it, since it's a tool of corruption--people like the cardinal use it to collect bribes from the known criminals in exchange for not turning them in. But he, Francisco, will only use it for one purpose--to find people to help him get revenge. He laments, though, that religion lets itself get twisted to these corrupt purposes--what with a cardinal owning books like this. In a melancholy frame of mind, he sees the ghost of his sister , which makes him feel extremely sad. But he dismisses it as a hallucination--he needs to keep his mind on revenge. The ghost exits. He writes a fake love-letter to Vittoria and tells his servant to deliver it to her in her place of imprisonment when Brachiano's followers are around . The servant leaves. Francisco decides to pay Lodovico to be his instrument in gaining revenge. As the scene ends, he swears to have Brachiano killed.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/66.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_65_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 2.chapter 36

part 2, chapter 36

{"name": "Part 2, Chapter 36", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-36", "summary": "Julien gets tackled while trying to leave the Verrieres church. He's arrested for the murder of Madame de Renal. He basically knows he's finished. Little does he know that his shots haven't killed Madame, but only wounded her. A judge visits Julien in prison. Julien tells him that he killed Madame out of cold blood and that it was all premeditated. It's like the guy wants the death penalty. He writes a letter to Mathilde explaining what he's done. Later, he finds out that Madame de Renal isn't dead. Then he just starts bawling over what a mess he's made out of his life. Julien thinks about bribing the guard to help him escape, then forgets it because he doesn't really care enough to bother.", "analysis": ""}

CHAPTER LXVI SAD DETAILS Do not expect any weakness on my part. I have avenged myself. I have deserved death, and here I am. Pray for my soul.--_Schiller_ Julien remained motionless. He saw nothing more. When he recovered himself a little he noticed all the faithful rushing from the church. The priest had left the altar. Julien started fairly slowly to follow some women who were going away with loud screams. A woman who was trying to get away more quickly than the others, pushed him roughly. He fell. His feet got entangled with a chair, knocked over by the crowd; when he got up, he felt his neck gripped. A gendarme, in full uniform, was arresting him. Julien tried mechanically to have recourse to his little pistol; but a second gendarme pinioned his arms. He was taken to the prison. They went into a room where irons were put on his hands. He was left alone. The door was doubly locked on him. All this was done very quickly, and he scarcely appreciated it at all. "Yes, upon my word, all is over," he said aloud as he recovered himself. "Yes, the guillotine in a fortnight ... or killing myself here." His reasoning did not go any further. His head felt as though it had been seized in some violent grip. He looked round to see if anyone was holding him. After some moments he fell into a deep sleep. Madame de Renal was not mortally wounded. The first bullet had pierced her hat. The second had been fired as she was turning round. The bullet had struck her on the shoulder, and, astonishing to relate, had ricocheted from off the shoulder bone (which it had, however, broken) against a gothic pillar, from which it had loosened an enormous splinter of stone. When, after a long and painful bandaging, the solemn surgeon said to madame de Renal, "I answer for your life as I would for my own," she was profoundly grieved. She had been sincerely desirous of death for a long time. The letter which she had written to M. de la Mole in accordance with the injunctions of her present confessor, had proved the final blow to a creature already weakened by an only too permanent unhappiness. This unhappiness was caused by Julien's absence; but she, for her own part, called it remorse. Her director, a young ecclesiastic, who was both virtuous and enthusiastic, and had recently come to Dijon, made no mistake as to its nature. "Dying in this way, though not by my own hand, is very far from being a sin," thought madame de Renal. "God will perhaps forgive me for rejoicing over my death." She did not dare to add, "and dying by Julien's hand puts the last touch on my happiness." She had scarcely been rid of the presence of the surgeon and of all the crowd of friends that had rushed to see her, than she called her maid, Elisa. "The gaoler," she said to her with a violent blush, "is a cruel man. He will doubtless ill-treat him, thinking to please me by doing so.... I cannot bear that idea. Could you not go, as though on your own account, and give the gaoler this little packet which contains some louis. You will tell him that religion forbids him to treat him badly, above all, he must not go and speak about the sending of this money." It was this circumstance, which we have just mentioned, that Julien had to thank for the humanity of the gaoler of Verrieres. It was still the same M. Noiraud, that ideal official, whom he remembered as being so finely alarmed by M. Appert's presence. A judge appeared in the prison. "I occasioned death by premeditation," said Julien to him. "I bought the pistols and had them loaded at so-and-so's, a gunsmith. Article 1342 of the penal code is clear. I deserve death, and I expect it." Astonished at this kind of answer, the judge started to multiply his questions, with a view of the accused contradicting himself in his answers. "Don't you see," said Julien to him with a smile, "that I am making myself out as guilty as you can possibly desire? Go away, monsieur, you will not fail to catch the quarry you are pursuing. You will have the pleasure to condemn me. Spare me your presence." "I have an irksome duty to perform," thought Julien. "I must write to mademoiselle de la Mole:--" "I have avenged myself," he said to her. "Unfortunately, my name will appear in the papers, and I shall not be able to escape from the world incognito. I shall die in two months' time. My revenge was ghastly, like the pain of being separated from you. From this moment I forbid myself to write or pronounce your name. Never speak of me even to my son; silence is the only way of honouring me. To the ordinary commonplace man, I shall represent a common assassin. Allow me the luxury of the truth at this supreme moment; you will forget me. This great catastrophe of which I advise you not to say a single word to a single living person, will exhaust, for several years to come, all that romantic and unduly adventurous element which I have detected in your character. You were intended by nature to live among the heroes of the middle ages; exhibit their firm character. Let what has to happen take place in secret and without your being compromised. You will assume a false name, and you will confide in no one. If you absolutely need a friend's help, I bequeath the abbe Pirard to you. "Do not talk to anyone else, particularly to the people of your own class--the de Luz's, the Caylus's. "A year after my death, marry M. de Croisenois; I command you as your husband. Do not write to me at all, I shall not answer. Though in my view, much less wicked than Iago, I am going to say, like him: 'From this time forth, I never will speack word.'[1] "I shall never be seen to speak or write again. You will have received my final words and my final expressions of adoration. "J. S." It was only after he had despatched this letter and had recovered himself a little, that Julien felt for the first time extremely unhappy. Those momentous words, I shall die, meant the successive tearing out of his heart of each individual hope and ambition. Death, in itself, was not horrible in his eyes. His whole life had been nothing but a long preparation for unhappiness, and he had made a point of not losing sight of what is considered the greatest unhappiness of all. "Come then," he said to himself; "if I had to fight a duel in a couple of months, with an expert duellist, should I be weak enough to think about it incessantly with panic in my soul?" He passed more than an hour in trying to analyze himself thoroughly on this score. When he saw clear in his own soul, and the truth appeared before his eyes with as much definiteness as one of the pillars of his prison, he thought about remorse. "Why should I have any? I have been atrociously injured; I have killed--I deserve death, but that is all. I die after having squared my account with humanity. I do not leave any obligation unfulfilled. I owe nothing to anybody; there is nothing shameful about my death, except the instrument of it; that alone, it is true, is simply sufficient to disgrace me in the eyes of the bourgeois of Verrieres; but from the intellectual standpoint, what could be more contemptible than they? I have one means of winning their consideration; by flinging pieces of gold to the people as I go to the scaffold. If my memory is linked with the idea of gold, they will always look upon it as resplendent." After this chain of reasoning, which after a minute's reflection seemed to him self-evident, Julien said to himself, "I have nothing left to do in the world," and fell into a deep sleep. About 9 o'clock in the evening the gaoler woke him up as he brought in his supper. "What are they saying in Verrieres?" "M. Julien, the oath which I took before the crucifix in the 'Royal Courtyard,' on the day when I was installed in my place, obliges me to silence." He was silent, but remained. Julien was amused by the sight of this vulgar hypocrisy. I must make him, he thought, wait a long time for the five francs which he wants to sell his conscience for. When the gaoler saw him finish his meal without making any attempt to corrupt him, he said in a soft and perfidious voice: "The affection which I have for you, M. Julien, compels me to speak. Although they say that it is contrary to the interests of justice, because it may assist you in preparing your defence. M. Julien you are a good fellow at heart, and you will be very glad to learn that madame de Renal is better." "What! she is not dead?" exclaimed Julien, beside himself. "What, you know nothing?" said the gaoler, with a stupid air which soon turned into exultant cupidity. "It would be very proper, monsieur, for you to give something to the surgeon, who, so far as law and justice go, ought not to have spoken. But in order to please you, monsieur, I went to him, and he told me everything." "Anyway, the wound is not mortal," said Julien to him impatiently, "you answer for it on your life?" The gaoler, who was a giant six feet tall, was frightened and retired towards the door. Julien saw that he was adopting bad tactics for getting at the truth. He sat down again and flung a napoleon to M. Noiraud. As the man's story proved to Julien more and more conclusively that madame de Renal's wound was not mortal, he felt himself overcome by tears. "Leave me," he said brusquely. The gaoler obeyed. Scarcely had the door shut, than Julien exclaimed: "Great God, she is not dead," and he fell on his knees, shedding hot tears. In this supreme moment he was a believer. What mattered the hypocrisies of the priests? Could they abate one whit of the truth and sublimity of the idea of God? It was only then that Julien began to repent of the crime that he had committed. By a coincidence, which prevented him falling into despair, it was only at the present moment that the condition of physical irritation and semi-madness, in which he had been plunged since his departure from Paris for Verrieres came to an end. His tears had a generous source. He had no doubt about the condemnation which awaited him. "So she will live," he said to himself. "She will live to forgive me and love me." Very late the next morning the gaoler woke him up and said, "You must have a famous spirit, M. Julien. I have come in twice, but I did not want to wake you up. Here are two bottles of excellent wine which our cure, M. Maslon, has sent you." "What, is that scoundrel still here?" said Julien. "Yes, monsieur," said the gaoler, lowering his voice. "But do not talk so loud, it may do you harm." Julien laughed heartily. "At the stage I have reached, my friend, you alone can do me harm in the event of your ceasing to be kind and tender. You will be well paid," said Julien, changing his tone and reverting to his imperious manner. This manner was immediately justified by the gift of a piece of money. M. Noiraud related again, with the greatest detail, everything he had learnt about madame de Renal, but he did not make any mention of mademoiselle Elisa's visit. The man was as base and servile as it was possible to be. An idea crossed Julien's mind. "This kind of misshapen giant cannot earn more than three or four hundred francs, for his prison is not at all full. I can guarantee him ten thousand francs, if he will escape with me to Switzerland. The difficulty will be in persuading him of my good faith." The idea of the long conversation he would need to have with so vile a person filled Julien with disgust. He thought of something else. In the evening the time had passed. A post-chaise had come to pick him up at midnight. He was very pleased with his travelling companions, the gendarmes. When he arrived at the prison of Besancon in the morning they were kind enough to place him in the upper storey of a Gothic turret. He judged the architecture to be of the beginning of the fourteenth century. He admired its fascinating grace and lightness. Through a narrow space between two walls, beyond the deep court, there opened a superb vista. On the following day there was an interrogation, after which he was left in peace for several days. His soul was calm. He found his affair a perfectly simple one. "I meant to kill. I deserve to be killed." His thoughts did not linger any further over this line of reasoning. As for the sentence, the disagreeableness of appearing in public, the defence, he considered all this as slight embarrassment, irksome formalities, which it would be time enough to consider on the actual day. The actual moment of death did not seize hold of his mind either. "I will think about it after the sentence." Life was no longer boring, he was envisaging everything from a new point of view, he had no longer any ambition. He rarely thought about mademoiselle de la Mole. His passion of remorse engrossed him a great deal, and often conjured up the image of madame de Renal, particularly during the silence of the night, which in this high turret was only disturbed by the song of the osprey. He thanked heaven that he had not inflicted a mortal wound. "Astonishing," he said to himself, "I thought that she had destroyed my future happiness for ever by her letter to M. de la Mole, and here am I, less than a fortnight after the date of that letter, not giving a single thought to all the things that engrossed me then. An income of two or three thousand francs, on which to live quietly in a mountain district, like Vergy.... I was happy then.... I did not realise my happiness." At other moments he would jump up from his chair. "If I had mortally wounded madame de Renal, I would have killed myself.... I need to feel certain of that so as not to horrify myself." "Kill myself? That's the great question," he said to himself. "Oh, those judges, those fiends of red tape, who would hang their best citizen in order to win the cross.... At any rate, I should escape from their control and from the bad French of their insults, which the local paper will call eloquence." "I still have five or six weeks, more or less to live.... Kill myself. No, not for a minute," he said to himself after some days, "Napoleon went on living." "Besides, I find life pleasant, this place is quiet, I am not troubled with bores," he added with a smile, and he began to make out a list of the books which he wanted to order from Paris. [1] Stendhal's bad spelling is here reproduced.

Part 2, Chapter 36

https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-36

Julien gets tackled while trying to leave the Verrieres church. He's arrested for the murder of Madame de Renal. He basically knows he's finished. Little does he know that his shots haven't killed Madame, but only wounded her. A judge visits Julien in prison. Julien tells him that he killed Madame out of cold blood and that it was all premeditated. It's like the guy wants the death penalty. He writes a letter to Mathilde explaining what he's done. Later, he finds out that Madame de Renal isn't dead. Then he just starts bawling over what a mess he's made out of his life. Julien thinks about bribing the guard to help him escape, then forgets it because he doesn't really care enough to bother.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/37.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_7_part_1.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 5.chapter 6

book 5, chapter 6

{"name": "book 5, Chapter 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section8/", "summary": "A Rather Obscure One for the Moment Since arriving at his father's house, Ivan has spent a great deal of time discussing religion and philosophy with Smerdyakov. But Ivan dislikes Smerdyakov, and when he returns home at night, he dreads the possibility of seeing him. At Fyodor Pavlovich's house, Ivan sees Smerdyakov sitting in the yard. Ivan intends to walk by Smerdyakov, or even insult him, but to his own surprise he finds himself stopping and asking about their father. Smerdyakov says that he is worried about Fyodor Pavlovich because Dmitri now knows the secret signs that Grushenka and Fyodor Pavlovich have agreed upon if Grushenka ever decides to be Fyodor Pavlovich's lover. If Grushenka comes to Fyodor Pavlovich, Dmitri will know about it, and Smerdyakov worries that there would be no one to defend Fyodor Pavlovich from Dmitri's rage. Smerdyakov says that Grigory and his wife have begun to take a medicine that makes them sleep deeply, and he is afraid that his own nervousness will cause him to have an epileptic seizure", "analysis": ""}

Chapter VI. For Awhile A Very Obscure One And Ivan, on parting from Alyosha, went home to Fyodor Pavlovitch's house. But, strange to say, he was overcome by insufferable depression, which grew greater at every step he took towards the house. There was nothing strange in his being depressed; what was strange was that Ivan could not have said what was the cause of it. He had often been depressed before, and there was nothing surprising at his feeling so at such a moment, when he had broken off with everything that had brought him here, and was preparing that day to make a new start and enter upon a new, unknown future. He would again be as solitary as ever, and though he had great hopes, and great--too great--expectations from life, he could not have given any definite account of his hopes, his expectations, or even his desires. Yet at that moment, though the apprehension of the new and unknown certainly found place in his heart, what was worrying him was something quite different. "Is it loathing for my father's house?" he wondered. "Quite likely; I am so sick of it; and though it's the last time I shall cross its hateful threshold, still I loathe it.... No, it's not that either. Is it the parting with Alyosha and the conversation I had with him? For so many years I've been silent with the whole world and not deigned to speak, and all of a sudden I reel off a rigmarole like that." It certainly might have been the youthful vexation of youthful inexperience and vanity--vexation at having failed to express himself, especially with such a being as Alyosha, on whom his heart had certainly been reckoning. No doubt that came in, that vexation, it must have done indeed; but yet that was not it, that was not it either. "I feel sick with depression and yet I can't tell what I want. Better not think, perhaps." Ivan tried "not to think," but that, too, was no use. What made his depression so vexatious and irritating was that it had a kind of casual, external character--he felt that. Some person or thing seemed to be standing out somewhere, just as something will sometimes obtrude itself upon the eye, and though one may be so busy with work or conversation that for a long time one does not notice it, yet it irritates and almost torments one till at last one realizes, and removes the offending object, often quite a trifling and ridiculous one--some article left about in the wrong place, a handkerchief on the floor, a book not replaced on the shelf, and so on. At last, feeling very cross and ill-humored, Ivan arrived home, and suddenly, about fifteen paces from the garden gate, he guessed what was fretting and worrying him. On a bench in the gateway the valet Smerdyakov was sitting enjoying the coolness of the evening, and at the first glance at him Ivan knew that the valet Smerdyakov was on his mind, and that it was this man that his soul loathed. It all dawned upon him suddenly and became clear. Just before, when Alyosha had been telling him of his meeting with Smerdyakov, he had felt a sudden twinge of gloom and loathing, which had immediately stirred responsive anger in his heart. Afterwards, as he talked, Smerdyakov had been forgotten for the time; but still he had been in his mind, and as soon as Ivan parted with Alyosha and was walking home, the forgotten sensation began to obtrude itself again. "Is it possible that a miserable, contemptible creature like that can worry me so much?" he wondered, with insufferable irritation. It was true that Ivan had come of late to feel an intense dislike for the man, especially during the last few days. He had even begun to notice in himself a growing feeling that was almost of hatred for the creature. Perhaps this hatred was accentuated by the fact that when Ivan first came to the neighborhood he had felt quite differently. Then he had taken a marked interest in Smerdyakov, and had even thought him very original. He had encouraged him to talk to him, although he had always wondered at a certain incoherence, or rather restlessness, in his mind, and could not understand what it was that so continually and insistently worked upon the brain of "the contemplative." They discussed philosophical questions and even how there could have been light on the first day when the sun, moon, and stars were only created on the fourth day, and how that was to be understood. But Ivan soon saw that, though the sun, moon, and stars might be an interesting subject, yet that it was quite secondary to Smerdyakov, and that he was looking for something altogether different. In one way and another, he began to betray a boundless vanity, and a wounded vanity, too, and that Ivan disliked. It had first given rise to his aversion. Later on, there had been trouble in the house. Grushenka had come on the scene, and there had been the scandals with his brother Dmitri--they discussed that, too. But though Smerdyakov always talked of that with great excitement, it was impossible to discover what he desired to come of it. There was, in fact, something surprising in the illogicality and incoherence of some of his desires, accidentally betrayed and always vaguely expressed. Smerdyakov was always inquiring, putting certain indirect but obviously premeditated questions, but what his object was he did not explain, and usually at the most important moment he would break off and relapse into silence or pass to another subject. But what finally irritated Ivan most and confirmed his dislike for him was the peculiar, revolting familiarity which Smerdyakov began to show more and more markedly. Not that he forgot himself and was rude; on the contrary, he always spoke very respectfully, yet he had obviously begun to consider--goodness knows why!--that there was some sort of understanding between him and Ivan Fyodorovitch. He always spoke in a tone that suggested that those two had some kind of compact, some secret between them, that had at some time been expressed on both sides, only known to them and beyond the comprehension of those around them. But for a long while Ivan did not recognize the real cause of his growing dislike and he had only lately realized what was at the root of it. With a feeling of disgust and irritation he tried to pass in at the gate without speaking or looking at Smerdyakov. But Smerdyakov rose from the bench, and from that action alone, Ivan knew instantly that he wanted particularly to talk to him. Ivan looked at him and stopped, and the fact that he did stop, instead of passing by, as he meant to the minute before, drove him to fury. With anger and repulsion he looked at Smerdyakov's emasculate, sickly face, with the little curls combed forward on his forehead. His left eye winked and he grinned as if to say, "Where are you going? You won't pass by; you see that we two clever people have something to say to each other." Ivan shook. "Get away, miserable idiot. What have I to do with you?" was on the tip of his tongue, but to his profound astonishment he heard himself say, "Is my father still asleep, or has he waked?" He asked the question softly and meekly, to his own surprise, and at once, again to his own surprise, sat down on the bench. For an instant he felt almost frightened; he remembered it afterwards. Smerdyakov stood facing him, his hands behind his back, looking at him with assurance and almost severity. "His honor is still asleep," he articulated deliberately ("You were the first to speak, not I," he seemed to say). "I am surprised at you, sir," he added, after a pause, dropping his eyes affectedly, setting his right foot forward, and playing with the tip of his polished boot. "Why are you surprised at me?" Ivan asked abruptly and sullenly, doing his utmost to restrain himself, and suddenly realizing, with disgust, that he was feeling intense curiosity and would not, on any account, have gone away without satisfying it. "Why don't you go to Tchermashnya, sir?" Smerdyakov suddenly raised his eyes and smiled familiarly. "Why I smile you must understand of yourself, if you are a clever man," his screwed-up left eye seemed to say. "Why should I go to Tchermashnya?" Ivan asked in surprise. Smerdyakov was silent again. "Fyodor Pavlovitch himself has so begged you to," he said at last, slowly and apparently attaching no significance to his answer. "I put you off with a secondary reason," he seemed to suggest, "simply to say something." "Damn you! Speak out what you want!" Ivan cried angrily at last, passing from meekness to violence. Smerdyakov drew his right foot up to his left, pulled himself up, but still looked at him with the same serenity and the same little smile. "Substantially nothing--but just by way of conversation." Another silence followed. They did not speak for nearly a minute. Ivan knew that he ought to get up and show anger, and Smerdyakov stood before him and seemed to be waiting as though to see whether he would be angry or not. So at least it seemed to Ivan. At last he moved to get up. Smerdyakov seemed to seize the moment. "I'm in an awful position, Ivan Fyodorovitch. I don't know how to help myself," he said resolutely and distinctly, and at his last word he sighed. Ivan Fyodorovitch sat down again. "They are both utterly crazy, they are no better than little children," Smerdyakov went on. "I am speaking of your parent and your brother Dmitri Fyodorovitch. Here Fyodor Pavlovitch will get up directly and begin worrying me every minute, 'Has she come? Why hasn't she come?' and so on up till midnight and even after midnight. And if Agrafena Alexandrovna doesn't come (for very likely she does not mean to come at all) then he will be at me again to-morrow morning, 'Why hasn't she come? When will she come?'--as though I were to blame for it. On the other side it's no better. As soon as it gets dark, or even before, your brother will appear with his gun in his hands: 'Look out, you rogue, you soup-maker. If you miss her and don't let me know she's been--I'll kill you before any one.' When the night's over, in the morning, he, too, like Fyodor Pavlovitch, begins worrying me to death. 'Why hasn't she come? Will she come soon?' And he, too, thinks me to blame because his lady hasn't come. And every day and every hour they get angrier and angrier, so that I sometimes think I shall kill myself in a fright. I can't depend upon them, sir." "And why have you meddled? Why did you begin to spy for Dmitri Fyodorovitch?" said Ivan irritably. "How could I help meddling? Though, indeed, I haven't meddled at all, if you want to know the truth of the matter. I kept quiet from the very beginning, not daring to answer; but he pitched on me to be his servant. He has had only one thing to say since: 'I'll kill you, you scoundrel, if you miss her,' I feel certain, sir, that I shall have a long fit to- morrow." "What do you mean by 'a long fit'?" "A long fit, lasting a long time--several hours, or perhaps a day or two. Once it went on for three days. I fell from the garret that time. The struggling ceased and then began again, and for three days I couldn't come back to my senses. Fyodor Pavlovitch sent for Herzenstube, the doctor here, and he put ice on my head and tried another remedy, too.... I might have died." "But they say one can't tell with epilepsy when a fit is coming. What makes you say you will have one to-morrow?" Ivan inquired, with a peculiar, irritable curiosity. "That's just so. You can't tell beforehand." "Besides, you fell from the garret then." "I climb up to the garret every day. I might fall from the garret again to-morrow. And, if not, I might fall down the cellar steps. I have to go into the cellar every day, too." Ivan took a long look at him. "You are talking nonsense, I see, and I don't quite understand you," he said softly, but with a sort of menace. "Do you mean to pretend to be ill to-morrow for three days, eh?" Smerdyakov, who was looking at the ground again, and playing with the toe of his right foot, set the foot down, moved the left one forward, and, grinning, articulated: "If I were able to play such a trick, that is, pretend to have a fit--and it would not be difficult for a man accustomed to them--I should have a perfect right to use such a means to save myself from death. For even if Agrafena Alexandrovna comes to see his father while I am ill, his honor can't blame a sick man for not telling him. He'd be ashamed to." "Hang it all!" Ivan cried, his face working with anger, "why are you always in such a funk for your life? All my brother Dmitri's threats are only hasty words and mean nothing. He won't kill you; it's not you he'll kill!" "He'd kill me first of all, like a fly. But even more than that, I am afraid I shall be taken for an accomplice of his when he does something crazy to his father." "Why should you be taken for an accomplice?" "They'll think I am an accomplice, because I let him know the signals as a great secret." "What signals? Whom did you tell? Confound you, speak more plainly." "I'm bound to admit the fact," Smerdyakov drawled with pedantic composure, "that I have a secret with Fyodor Pavlovitch in this business. As you know yourself (if only you do know it) he has for several days past locked himself in as soon as night or even evening comes on. Of late you've been going upstairs to your room early every evening, and yesterday you did not come down at all, and so perhaps you don't know how carefully he has begun to lock himself in at night, and even if Grigory Vassilyevitch comes to the door he won't open to him till he hears his voice. But Grigory Vassilyevitch does not come, because I wait upon him alone in his room now. That's the arrangement he made himself ever since this to-do with Agrafena Alexandrovna began. But at night, by his orders, I go away to the lodge so that I don't get to sleep till midnight, but am on the watch, getting up and walking about the yard, waiting for Agrafena Alexandrovna to come. For the last few days he's been perfectly frantic expecting her. What he argues is, she is afraid of him, Dmitri Fyodorovitch (Mitya, as he calls him), 'and so,' says he, 'she'll come the back-way, late at night, to me. You look out for her,' says he, 'till midnight and later; and if she does come, you run up and knock at my door or at the window from the garden. Knock at first twice, rather gently, and then three times more quickly, then,' says he, 'I shall understand at once that she has come, and will open the door to you quietly.' Another signal he gave me in case anything unexpected happens. At first, two knocks, and then, after an interval, another much louder. Then he will understand that something has happened suddenly and that I must see him, and he will open to me so that I can go and speak to him. That's all in case Agrafena Alexandrovna can't come herself, but sends a message. Besides, Dmitri Fyodorovitch might come, too, so I must let him know he is near. His honor is awfully afraid of Dmitri Fyodorovitch, so that even if Agrafena Alexandrovna had come and were locked in with him, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch were to turn up anywhere near at the time, I should be bound to let him know at once, knocking three times. So that the first signal of five knocks means Agrafena Alexandrovna has come, while the second signal of three knocks means 'something important to tell you.' His honor has shown me them several times and explained them. And as in the whole universe no one knows of these signals but myself and his honor, so he'd open the door without the slightest hesitation and without calling out (he is awfully afraid of calling out aloud). Well, those signals are known to Dmitri Fyodorovitch too, now." "How are they known? Did you tell him? How dared you tell him?" "It was through fright I did it. How could I dare to keep it back from him? Dmitri Fyodorovitch kept persisting every day, 'You are deceiving me, you are hiding something from me! I'll break both your legs for you.' So I told him those secret signals that he might see my slavish devotion, and might be satisfied that I was not deceiving him, but was telling him all I could." "If you think that he'll make use of those signals and try to get in, don't let him in." "But if I should be laid up with a fit, how can I prevent him coming in then, even if I dared prevent him, knowing how desperate he is?" "Hang it! How can you be so sure you are going to have a fit, confound you? Are you laughing at me?" "How could I dare laugh at you? I am in no laughing humor with this fear on me. I feel I am going to have a fit. I have a presentiment. Fright alone will bring it on." "Confound it! If you are laid up, Grigory will be on the watch. Let Grigory know beforehand; he will be sure not to let him in." "I should never dare to tell Grigory Vassilyevitch about the signals without orders from my master. And as for Grigory Vassilyevitch hearing him and not admitting him, he has been ill ever since yesterday, and Marfa Ignatyevna intends to give him medicine to-morrow. They've just arranged it. It's a very strange remedy of hers. Marfa Ignatyevna knows of a preparation and always keeps it. It's a strong thing made from some herb. She has the secret of it, and she always gives it to Grigory Vassilyevitch three times a year when his lumbago's so bad he is almost paralyzed by it. Then she takes a towel, wets it with the stuff, and rubs his whole back for half an hour till it's quite red and swollen, and what's left in the bottle she gives him to drink with a special prayer; but not quite all, for on such occasions she leaves some for herself, and drinks it herself. And as they never take strong drink, I assure you they both drop asleep at once and sleep sound a very long time. And when Grigory Vassilyevitch wakes up he is perfectly well after it, but Marfa Ignatyevna always has a headache from it. So, if Marfa Ignatyevna carries out her intention to- morrow, they won't hear anything and hinder Dmitri Fyodorovitch. They'll be asleep." "What a rigmarole! And it all seems to happen at once, as though it were planned. You'll have a fit and they'll both be unconscious," cried Ivan. "But aren't you trying to arrange it so?" broke from him suddenly, and he frowned threateningly. "How could I?... And why should I, when it all depends on Dmitri Fyodorovitch and his plans?... If he means to do anything, he'll do it; but if not, I shan't be thrusting him upon his father." "And why should he go to father, especially on the sly, if, as you say yourself, Agrafena Alexandrovna won't come at all?" Ivan went on, turning white with anger. "You say that yourself, and all the while I've been here, I've felt sure it was all the old man's fancy, and the creature won't come to him. Why should Dmitri break in on him if she doesn't come? Speak, I want to know what you are thinking!" "You know yourself why he'll come. What's the use of what I think? His honor will come simply because he is in a rage or suspicious on account of my illness perhaps, and he'll dash in, as he did yesterday through impatience to search the rooms, to see whether she hasn't escaped him on the sly. He is perfectly well aware, too, that Fyodor Pavlovitch has a big envelope with three thousand roubles in it, tied up with ribbon and sealed with three seals. On it is written in his own hand, 'To my angel Grushenka, if she will come,' to which he added three days later, 'for my little chicken.' There's no knowing what that might do." "Nonsense!" cried Ivan, almost beside himself. "Dmitri won't come to steal money and kill my father to do it. He might have killed him yesterday on account of Grushenka, like the frantic, savage fool he is, but he won't steal." "He is in very great need of money now--the greatest need, Ivan Fyodorovitch. You don't know in what need he is," Smerdyakov explained, with perfect composure and remarkable distinctness. "He looks on that three thousand as his own, too. He said so to me himself. 'My father still owes me just three thousand,' he said. And besides that, consider, Ivan Fyodorovitch, there is something else perfectly true. It's as good as certain, so to say, that Agrafena Alexandrovna will force him, if only she cares to, to marry her--the master himself, I mean, Fyodor Pavlovitch--if only she cares to, and of course she may care to. All I've said is that she won't come, but maybe she's looking for more than that--I mean to be mistress here. I know myself that Samsonov, her merchant, was laughing with her about it, telling her quite openly that it would not be at all a stupid thing to do. And she's got plenty of sense. She wouldn't marry a beggar like Dmitri Fyodorovitch. So, taking that into consideration, Ivan Fyodorovitch, reflect that then neither Dmitri Fyodorovitch nor yourself and your brother, Alexey Fyodorovitch, would have anything after the master's death, not a rouble, for Agrafena Alexandrovna would marry him simply to get hold of the whole, all the money there is. But if your father were to die now, there'd be some forty thousand for sure, even for Dmitri Fyodorovitch whom he hates so, for he's made no will.... Dmitri Fyodorovitch knows all that very well." A sort of shudder passed over Ivan's face. He suddenly flushed. "Then why on earth," he suddenly interrupted Smerdyakov, "do you advise me to go to Tchermashnya? What did you mean by that? If I go away, you see what will happen here." Ivan drew his breath with difficulty. "Precisely so," said Smerdyakov, softly and reasonably, watching Ivan intently, however. "What do you mean by 'precisely so'?" Ivan questioned him, with a menacing light in his eyes, restraining himself with difficulty. "I spoke because I felt sorry for you. If I were in your place I should simply throw it all up ... rather than stay on in such a position," answered Smerdyakov, with the most candid air looking at Ivan's flashing eyes. They were both silent. "You seem to be a perfect idiot, and what's more ... an awful scoundrel, too." Ivan rose suddenly from the bench. He was about to pass straight through the gate, but he stopped short and turned to Smerdyakov. Something strange followed. Ivan, in a sudden paroxysm, bit his lip, clenched his fists, and, in another minute, would have flung himself on Smerdyakov. The latter, anyway, noticed it at the same moment, started, and shrank back. But the moment passed without mischief to Smerdyakov, and Ivan turned in silence, as it seemed in perplexity, to the gate. "I am going away to Moscow to-morrow, if you care to know--early to-morrow morning. That's all!" he suddenly said aloud angrily, and wondered himself afterwards what need there was to say this then to Smerdyakov. "That's the best thing you can do," he responded, as though he had expected to hear it; "except that you can always be telegraphed for from Moscow, if anything should happen here." Ivan stopped again, and again turned quickly to Smerdyakov. But a change had passed over him, too. All his familiarity and carelessness had completely disappeared. His face expressed attention and expectation, intent but timid and cringing. "Haven't you something more to say--something to add?" could be read in the intent gaze he fixed on Ivan. "And couldn't I be sent for from Tchermashnya, too--in case anything happened?" Ivan shouted suddenly, for some unknown reason raising his voice. "From Tchermashnya, too ... you could be sent for," Smerdyakov muttered, almost in a whisper, looking disconcerted, but gazing intently into Ivan's eyes. "Only Moscow is farther and Tchermashnya is nearer. Is it to save my spending money on the fare, or to save my going so far out of my way, that you insist on Tchermashnya?" "Precisely so ..." muttered Smerdyakov, with a breaking voice. He looked at Ivan with a revolting smile, and again made ready to draw back. But to his astonishment Ivan broke into a laugh, and went through the gate still laughing. Any one who had seen his face at that moment would have known that he was not laughing from lightness of heart, and he could not have explained himself what he was feeling at that instant. He moved and walked as though in a nervous frenzy.

book 5, Chapter 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section8/

A Rather Obscure One for the Moment Since arriving at his father's house, Ivan has spent a great deal of time discussing religion and philosophy with Smerdyakov. But Ivan dislikes Smerdyakov, and when he returns home at night, he dreads the possibility of seeing him. At Fyodor Pavlovich's house, Ivan sees Smerdyakov sitting in the yard. Ivan intends to walk by Smerdyakov, or even insult him, but to his own surprise he finds himself stopping and asking about their father. Smerdyakov says that he is worried about Fyodor Pavlovich because Dmitri now knows the secret signs that Grushenka and Fyodor Pavlovich have agreed upon if Grushenka ever decides to be Fyodor Pavlovich's lover. If Grushenka comes to Fyodor Pavlovich, Dmitri will know about it, and Smerdyakov worries that there would be no one to defend Fyodor Pavlovich from Dmitri's rage. Smerdyakov says that Grigory and his wife have begun to take a medicine that makes them sleep deeply, and he is afraid that his own nervousness will cause him to have an epileptic seizure

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/24.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Prince/section_24_part_0.txt

The Prince.chapter 24

chapter 24

{"name": "Chapter 24", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210420060055/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/prince-machiavelli/summary/chapter-24", "summary": "These rules are a quick-start guide to ruling a kingdom. In just a few short years, you, too, can have all the prestige of a well-established ruler. Plus, people will love you more because they will be extra surprised that you didn't failjust like people are amazed when babies do anything. Enough of that. Let's talk about why Italy has been failing so hard recently. We all know why. What is Machiavelli's number one rule? Have a strong army. What haven't they had? Any kind of decent army at all. Yet they are whining about how they lost their states because of \"bad luck.\" It's not luck, people. You should have been training an army. Mr. Machiavelli gets himself pretty worked up about this.", "analysis": ""}

The previous suggestions, carefully observed, will enable a new prince to appear well established, and render him at once more secure and fixed in the state than if he had been long seated there. For the actions of a new prince are more narrowly observed than those of an hereditary one, and when they are seen to be able they gain more men and bind far tighter than ancient blood; because men are attracted more by the present than by the past, and when they find the present good they enjoy it and seek no further; they will also make the utmost defence of a prince if he fails them not in other things. Thus it will be a double glory for him to have established a new principality, and adorned and strengthened it with good laws, good arms, good allies, and with a good example; so will it be a double disgrace to him who, born a prince, shall lose his state by want of wisdom. And if those seigniors are considered who have lost their states in Italy in our times, such as the King of Naples, the Duke of Milan, and others, there will be found in them, firstly, one common defect in regard to arms from the causes which have been discussed at length; in the next place, some one of them will be seen, either to have had the people hostile, or if he has had the people friendly, he has not known how to secure the nobles. In the absence of these defects states that have power enough to keep an army in the field cannot be lost. Philip of Macedon, not the father of Alexander the Great, but he who was conquered by Titus Quintius, had not much territory compared to the greatness of the Romans and of Greece who attacked him, yet being a warlike man who knew how to attract the people and secure the nobles, he sustained the war against his enemies for many years, and if in the end he lost the dominion of some cities, nevertheless he retained the kingdom. Therefore, do not let our princes accuse fortune for the loss of their principalities after so many years' possession, but rather their own sloth, because in quiet times they never thought there could be a change (it is a common defect in man not to make any provision in the calm against the tempest), and when afterwards the bad times came they thought of flight and not of defending themselves, and they hoped that the people, disgusted with the insolence of the conquerors, would recall them. This course, when others fail, may be good, but it is very bad to have neglected all other expedients for that, since you would never wish to fall because you trusted to be able to find someone later on to restore you. This again either does not happen, or, if it does, it will not be for your security, because that deliverance is of no avail which does not depend upon yourself; those only are reliable, certain, and durable that depend on yourself and your valour.

Chapter 24

https://web.archive.org/web/20210420060055/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/prince-machiavelli/summary/chapter-24

These rules are a quick-start guide to ruling a kingdom. In just a few short years, you, too, can have all the prestige of a well-established ruler. Plus, people will love you more because they will be extra surprised that you didn't failjust like people are amazed when babies do anything. Enough of that. Let's talk about why Italy has been failing so hard recently. We all know why. What is Machiavelli's number one rule? Have a strong army. What haven't they had? Any kind of decent army at all. Yet they are whining about how they lost their states because of "bad luck." It's not luck, people. You should have been training an army. Mr. Machiavelli gets himself pretty worked up about this.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/174-chapters/20.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_19_part_0.txt

The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapter 20

chapter 20

{"name": "Chapter 20", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210304030722/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/picture-dorian-gray/summary/chapter-20", "summary": "Dorian walks pensively home from Henry's house in the pleasant, warm evening air. On his way, he hears people gossiping about him as he passes. Dorian wistfully thinks of the lovely country girl he left, and the idyllic town where nobody knew who he was. At home, Dorian begins to worry about what Henry said--is it true that people can't really change? He thinks back on his innocent boyhood, and knows that he's ruined himself--but can't he change back? Dorian regards his own beautiful face in the mirror, and suddenly is filled with self-loathing. He throws the mirror down, shattering it. He can't believe he's invested so much in youth--what a foolish thing! Now, Dorian tries to get over the past and think of the future. As far as he can tell, he's perfectly safe from the law, and from anyone ever knowing about the things he's done. Looking back, he blames everything on the portrait; it was the portrait's fault that he killed Basil, after all. Dorian longs for a new life, and wonders if he's already started it by saving Hetty, the young country girl, from his corruption. He wonders if this one good deed has started making the portrait look any different yet. Excited and anxious, Dorian goes upstairs to see. In the schoolroom, Dorian confronts his portrait again, certain that it will look less loathsome. However, the terrible truth is that it's actually worse than ever--the bloodstain on the figure's hand that dates from Basil's death looks even brighter and more real. Furthermore, there's a new look of hypocrisy on its face--the portrait knows, even if Dorian doesn't, that he doesn't actually want to become good again. Dorian wonders for a moment if he should confess all his crimes, but quickly dismisses that idea. Instead, he decides to destroy all the evidence of his shameful life--the portrait itself. Fittingly, Dorian grabs the very same knife he used to kill Basil, and stabs the picture with it. Downstairs, Dorian's servants are terrified--they hear a mysterious scream and a crash. It's even audible outside, and two passing gentleman go to get a policeman. The three men knock on the door, but there's no answer. When they find out that it's Dorian Gray's house, they leave--they don't want to help him. Dorian's valet, Francis, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Leaf, are petrified. Finally, Francis and two other servants go up to the schoolroom to investigate. They easily knock down the old door. Inside the schoolroom, the servants discover something terrible: the portrait of their master, Dorian, restored to its youth and beauty, hangs over an old, hideous, dead man with a knife in his heart. When they look at the mysterious corpse's rings, they realize that it's Dorian.", "analysis": ""}

It was a lovely night, so warm that he threw his coat over his arm and did not even put his silk scarf round his throat. As he strolled home, smoking his cigarette, two young men in evening dress passed him. He heard one of them whisper to the other, "That is Dorian Gray." He remembered how pleased he used to be when he was pointed out, or stared at, or talked about. He was tired of hearing his own name now. Half the charm of the little village where he had been so often lately was that no one knew who he was. He had often told the girl whom he had lured to love him that he was poor, and she had believed him. He had told her once that he was wicked, and she had laughed at him and answered that wicked people were always very old and very ugly. What a laugh she had!--just like a thrush singing. And how pretty she had been in her cotton dresses and her large hats! She knew nothing, but she had everything that he had lost. When he reached home, he found his servant waiting up for him. He sent him to bed, and threw himself down on the sofa in the library, and began to think over some of the things that Lord Henry had said to him. Was it really true that one could never change? He felt a wild longing for the unstained purity of his boyhood--his rose-white boyhood, as Lord Henry had once called it. He knew that he had tarnished himself, filled his mind with corruption and given horror to his fancy; that he had been an evil influence to others, and had experienced a terrible joy in being so; and that of the lives that had crossed his own, it had been the fairest and the most full of promise that he had brought to shame. But was it all irretrievable? Was there no hope for him? Ah! in what a monstrous moment of pride and passion he had prayed that the portrait should bear the burden of his days, and he keep the unsullied splendour of eternal youth! All his failure had been due to that. Better for him that each sin of his life had brought its sure swift penalty along with it. There was purification in punishment. Not "Forgive us our sins" but "Smite us for our iniquities" should be the prayer of man to a most just God. The curiously carved mirror that Lord Henry had given to him, so many years ago now, was standing on the table, and the white-limbed Cupids laughed round it as of old. He took it up, as he had done on that night of horror when he had first noted the change in the fatal picture, and with wild, tear-dimmed eyes looked into its polished shield. Once, some one who had terribly loved him had written to him a mad letter, ending with these idolatrous words: "The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history." The phrases came back to his memory, and he repeated them over and over to himself. Then he loathed his own beauty, and flinging the mirror on the floor, crushed it into silver splinters beneath his heel. It was his beauty that had ruined him, his beauty and the youth that he had prayed for. But for those two things, his life might have been free from stain. His beauty had been to him but a mask, his youth but a mockery. What was youth at best? A green, an unripe time, a time of shallow moods, and sickly thoughts. Why had he worn its livery? Youth had spoiled him. It was better not to think of the past. Nothing could alter that. It was of himself, and of his own future, that he had to think. James Vane was hidden in a nameless grave in Selby churchyard. Alan Campbell had shot himself one night in his laboratory, but had not revealed the secret that he had been forced to know. The excitement, such as it was, over Basil Hallward's disappearance would soon pass away. It was already waning. He was perfectly safe there. Nor, indeed, was it the death of Basil Hallward that weighed most upon his mind. It was the living death of his own soul that troubled him. Basil had painted the portrait that had marred his life. He could not forgive him that. It was the portrait that had done everything. Basil had said things to him that were unbearable, and that he had yet borne with patience. The murder had been simply the madness of a moment. As for Alan Campbell, his suicide had been his own act. He had chosen to do it. It was nothing to him. A new life! That was what he wanted. That was what he was waiting for. Surely he had begun it already. He had spared one innocent thing, at any rate. He would never again tempt innocence. He would be good. As he thought of Hetty Merton, he began to wonder if the portrait in the locked room had changed. Surely it was not still so horrible as it had been? Perhaps if his life became pure, he would be able to expel every sign of evil passion from the face. Perhaps the signs of evil had already gone away. He would go and look. He took the lamp from the table and crept upstairs. As he unbarred the door, a smile of joy flitted across his strangely young-looking face and lingered for a moment about his lips. Yes, he would be good, and the hideous thing that he had hidden away would no longer be a terror to him. He felt as if the load had been lifted from him already. He went in quietly, locking the door behind him, as was his custom, and dragged the purple hanging from the portrait. A cry of pain and indignation broke from him. He could see no change, save that in the eyes there was a look of cunning and in the mouth the curved wrinkle of the hypocrite. The thing was still loathsome--more loathsome, if possible, than before--and the scarlet dew that spotted the hand seemed brighter, and more like blood newly spilled. Then he trembled. Had it been merely vanity that had made him do his one good deed? Or the desire for a new sensation, as Lord Henry had hinted, with his mocking laugh? Or that passion to act a part that sometimes makes us do things finer than we are ourselves? Or, perhaps, all these? And why was the red stain larger than it had been? It seemed to have crept like a horrible disease over the wrinkled fingers. There was blood on the painted feet, as though the thing had dripped--blood even on the hand that had not held the knife. Confess? Did it mean that he was to confess? To give himself up and be put to death? He laughed. He felt that the idea was monstrous. Besides, even if he did confess, who would believe him? There was no trace of the murdered man anywhere. Everything belonging to him had been destroyed. He himself had burned what had been below-stairs. The world would simply say that he was mad. They would shut him up if he persisted in his story.... Yet it was his duty to confess, to suffer public shame, and to make public atonement. There was a God who called upon men to tell their sins to earth as well as to heaven. Nothing that he could do would cleanse him till he had told his own sin. His sin? He shrugged his shoulders. The death of Basil Hallward seemed very little to him. He was thinking of Hetty Merton. For it was an unjust mirror, this mirror of his soul that he was looking at. Vanity? Curiosity? Hypocrisy? Had there been nothing more in his renunciation than that? There had been something more. At least he thought so. But who could tell? ... No. There had been nothing more. Through vanity he had spared her. In hypocrisy he had worn the mask of goodness. For curiosity's sake he had tried the denial of self. He recognized that now. But this murder--was it to dog him all his life? Was he always to be burdened by his past? Was he really to confess? Never. There was only one bit of evidence left against him. The picture itself--that was evidence. He would destroy it. Why had he kept it so long? Once it had given him pleasure to watch it changing and growing old. Of late he had felt no such pleasure. It had kept him awake at night. When he had been away, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes should look upon it. It had brought melancholy across his passions. Its mere memory had marred many moments of joy. It had been like conscience to him. Yes, it had been conscience. He would destroy it. He looked round and saw the knife that had stabbed Basil Hallward. He had cleaned it many times, till there was no stain left upon it. It was bright, and glistened. As it had killed the painter, so it would kill the painter's work, and all that that meant. It would kill the past, and when that was dead, he would be free. It would kill this monstrous soul-life, and without its hideous warnings, he would be at peace. He seized the thing, and stabbed the picture with it. There was a cry heard, and a crash. The cry was so horrible in its agony that the frightened servants woke and crept out of their rooms. Two gentlemen, who were passing in the square below, stopped and looked up at the great house. They walked on till they met a policeman and brought him back. The man rang the bell several times, but there was no answer. Except for a light in one of the top windows, the house was all dark. After a time, he went away and stood in an adjoining portico and watched. "Whose house is that, Constable?" asked the elder of the two gentlemen. "Mr. Dorian Gray's, sir," answered the policeman. They looked at each other, as they walked away, and sneered. One of them was Sir Henry Ashton's uncle. Inside, in the servants' part of the house, the half-clad domestics were talking in low whispers to each other. Old Mrs. Leaf was crying and wringing her hands. Francis was as pale as death. After about a quarter of an hour, he got the coachman and one of the footmen and crept upstairs. They knocked, but there was no reply. They called out. Everything was still. Finally, after vainly trying to force the door, they got on the roof and dropped down on to the balcony. The windows yielded easily--their bolts were old. When they entered, they found hanging upon the wall a splendid portrait of their master as they had last seen him, in all the wonder of his exquisite youth and beauty. Lying on the floor was a dead man, in evening dress, with a knife in his heart. He was withered, wrinkled, and loathsome of visage. It was not till they had examined the rings that they recognized who it was.

Chapter 20

https://web.archive.org/web/20210304030722/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/picture-dorian-gray/summary/chapter-20

Dorian walks pensively home from Henry's house in the pleasant, warm evening air. On his way, he hears people gossiping about him as he passes. Dorian wistfully thinks of the lovely country girl he left, and the idyllic town where nobody knew who he was. At home, Dorian begins to worry about what Henry said--is it true that people can't really change? He thinks back on his innocent boyhood, and knows that he's ruined himself--but can't he change back? Dorian regards his own beautiful face in the mirror, and suddenly is filled with self-loathing. He throws the mirror down, shattering it. He can't believe he's invested so much in youth--what a foolish thing! Now, Dorian tries to get over the past and think of the future. As far as he can tell, he's perfectly safe from the law, and from anyone ever knowing about the things he's done. Looking back, he blames everything on the portrait; it was the portrait's fault that he killed Basil, after all. Dorian longs for a new life, and wonders if he's already started it by saving Hetty, the young country girl, from his corruption. He wonders if this one good deed has started making the portrait look any different yet. Excited and anxious, Dorian goes upstairs to see. In the schoolroom, Dorian confronts his portrait again, certain that it will look less loathsome. However, the terrible truth is that it's actually worse than ever--the bloodstain on the figure's hand that dates from Basil's death looks even brighter and more real. Furthermore, there's a new look of hypocrisy on its face--the portrait knows, even if Dorian doesn't, that he doesn't actually want to become good again. Dorian wonders for a moment if he should confess all his crimes, but quickly dismisses that idea. Instead, he decides to destroy all the evidence of his shameful life--the portrait itself. Fittingly, Dorian grabs the very same knife he used to kill Basil, and stabs the picture with it. Downstairs, Dorian's servants are terrified--they hear a mysterious scream and a crash. It's even audible outside, and two passing gentleman go to get a policeman. The three men knock on the door, but there's no answer. When they find out that it's Dorian Gray's house, they leave--they don't want to help him. Dorian's valet, Francis, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Leaf, are petrified. Finally, Francis and two other servants go up to the schoolroom to investigate. They easily knock down the old door. Inside the schoolroom, the servants discover something terrible: the portrait of their master, Dorian, restored to its youth and beauty, hangs over an old, hideous, dead man with a knife in his heart. When they look at the mysterious corpse's rings, they realize that it's Dorian.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/1232-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Prince/section_6_part_3.txt

The Prince.chapter xvii

chapter xvii

{"name": "Chapter XVII", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210303115306/https://www.sparknotes.com/philosophy/prince/section7/", "summary": "Concerning Cruelty: Whether It Is Better to Be Loved Than to Be Feared, or the Reverse Compassion, like generosity, is usually admired. But a prince must be careful that he does not show compassion unwisely. If a prince is too compassionate, and does not adequately punish disloyal subjects, he creates an atmosphere of disorder, since his subjects take the liberty to do what they please--even to the extremes of murder and theft. Crime harms the entire community, whereas executions harm only the individuals who commit crimes. Some measure of cruelty is necessary to maintain order. But a prince should be careful in his exercise of cruelty, tempering it with humanity and prudence. Machiavelli then asks whether being feared or loved is preferable. Ideally, a prince should be both loved and feared, but this state of affairs is difficult to attain. Forced to make a choice, it is much better to be feared than loved. This is because men, by nature, are \"ungrateful, fickle, dissembling, anxious to flee danger, and covetous of gain. In times of remote danger, they are willing to take risks for their prince, but if the danger is real, they turn against their prince. It is easy to break a bond of love when the situation arises, but the fear of punishment is always effective, regardless of the situation. When inducing fear, however, a prince must be careful to avoid inducing hatred. He must make sure that any executions are properly justified. Above all, a prince should never confiscate the property of his subjects or take their women, since these actions are most likely to breed hatred. If a prince must confiscate property, he must make sure he has a convincing reason. With one's army, however, there is no such thing as too much cruelty. Keeping an army disciplined and united requires cruelty, even inhuman cruelty.", "analysis": "Chapter XV attacks the conceptions of virtue proposed by classical philosophers. Machiavelli criticizes the concept of a \"good life,\" the Aristotelian doctrine that demands virtuous actions in all types of behavior. Machiavelli debunks Aristotle's metaphysical approach to politics by arguing that metaphysics is inconsistent with the real world. Ultimately, a philosophy must be judged by its practical consequences. Because virtue, as an abstract concept, does not concern itself with such consequences, it can never serve as an effective guide for political action. Machiavelli's definition of virtue is not the same as that of classical philosophers. While Aristotle and others define virtue in relation to a highest good, Machiavelli defines it simply as that which receives the praise of others. Thus, generosity is a virtue only because other people praise it. From this premise, Machiavelli builds a case for the necessity of committing certain crimes. A prince, if he truly wishes to safeguard his state, will inevitably be forced to act in a manner that others consider evil or deplorable. Although Machiavelli only mentions cruelty and stinginess in Chapters XVI and XVII, the argument could extend to other so-called vices, such as stubbornness or cowardice. The mind of Machiavelli's prince is cold and calculating, concerned with ends rather than means. Virtually any action that contributes to the overall goal of maintaining control of the state is acceptable to him. Unlike the previous chapters, which contain specific instructions regarding domestic, international, and military affairs, these chapters deal with general trends of popular opinion that might affect the prince's actions. Machiavelli urges the prince not to worry too much about what others might think of his actions and to act only in the way that will result in the best practical advantage--which will often garner greater approval from other people in the long run. In most cases, the prince must favor miserliness over generosity, and cruelty over benevolence. But Machiavelli does not advocate wholesale cruelty or a complete lack of generosity; it is possible for a prince to be too miserly or too cruel. A prince might choose cowardice over courage--for example, fleeing a palace under siege instead of remaining and rallying the people--but the effectiveness of either option depends on the surrounding circumstances. The advice put forth in these chapters is substantially less concrete than that offered in previous chapters. Machiavelli's oft-quoted line \"Anyone compelled to choose will find far greater security in being feared than in being loved\" is sometimes misinterpreted to suggest that a prince need not worry about public opinion. But Machiavelli explicitly argues the contrary: it is critical that a prince avoid the hatred of his subjects. The statement is less radical than it might seem. People, states Machiavelli, are all self-interested to a certain degree. During difficult times, this sense of self-interest is stronger than any sense of obligation toward the ruler or the state. No matter how strongly they might love their prince, people will not follow orders if it means sacrificing their own well-being. The only motivating factor that can guarantee citizens' obedience to a prince's orders is the threat of punishment. Although Machiavelli's conclusions may seem disturbing, if we consider contemporary society, we might conclude that little has changed since the era of The Prince. Even today, while some people certainly follow laws because they feel that they have a moral obligation to do so, or because they respect the institution that makes the laws, many others follow them simply because they fear the punishment that comes with breaking those laws. Supporters of the death penalty in the United States usually argue that the use of capital punishment acts as a deterrent, discouraging the general populace from committing capital crimes"}

Coming now to the other qualities mentioned above, I say that every prince ought to desire to be considered clement and not cruel. Nevertheless he ought to take care not to misuse this clemency. Cesare Borgia was considered cruel; notwithstanding, his cruelty reconciled the Romagna, unified it, and restored it to peace and loyalty. And if this be rightly considered, he will be seen to have been much more merciful than the Florentine people, who, to avoid a reputation for cruelty, permitted Pistoia to be destroyed.(*) Therefore a prince, so long as he keeps his subjects united and loyal, ought not to mind the reproach of cruelty; because with a few examples he will be more merciful than those who, through too much mercy, allow disorders to arise, from which follow murders or robberies; for these are wont to injure the whole people, whilst those executions which originate with a prince offend the individual only. (*) During the rioting between the Cancellieri and Panciatichi factions in 1502 and 1503. And of all princes, it is impossible for the new prince to avoid the imputation of cruelty, owing to new states being full of dangers. Hence Virgil, through the mouth of Dido, excuses the inhumanity of her reign owing to its being new, saying: "Res dura, et regni novitas me talia cogunt Moliri, et late fines custode tueri."(*) Nevertheless he ought to be slow to believe and to act, nor should he himself show fear, but proceed in a temperate manner with prudence and humanity, so that too much confidence may not make him incautious and too much distrust render him intolerable. (*) . . . against my will, my fate A throne unsettled, and an infant state, Bid me defend my realms with all my pow'rs, And guard with these severities my shores. Christopher Pitt. Upon this a question arises: whether it be better to be loved than feared or feared than loved? It may be answered that one should wish to be both, but, because it is difficult to unite them in one person, it is much safer to be feared than loved, when, of the two, either must be dispensed with. Because this is to be asserted in general of men, that they are ungrateful, fickle, false, cowardly, covetous, and as long as you succeed they are yours entirely; they will offer you their blood, property, life, and children, as is said above, when the need is far distant; but when it approaches they turn against you. And that prince who, relying entirely on their promises, has neglected other precautions, is ruined; because friendships that are obtained by payments, and not by greatness or nobility of mind, may indeed be earned, but they are not secured, and in time of need cannot be relied upon; and men have less scruple in offending one who is beloved than one who is feared, for love is preserved by the link of obligation which, owing to the baseness of men, is broken at every opportunity for their advantage; but fear preserves you by a dread of punishment which never fails. Nevertheless a prince ought to inspire fear in such a way that, if he does not win love, he avoids hatred; because he can endure very well being feared whilst he is not hated, which will always be as long as he abstains from the property of his citizens and subjects and from their women. But when it is necessary for him to proceed against the life of someone, he must do it on proper justification and for manifest cause, but above all things he must keep his hands off the property of others, because men more quickly forget the death of their father than the loss of their patrimony. Besides, pretexts for taking away the property are never wanting; for he who has once begun to live by robbery will always find pretexts for seizing what belongs to others; but reasons for taking life, on the contrary, are more difficult to find and sooner lapse. But when a prince is with his army, and has under control a multitude of soldiers, then it is quite necessary for him to disregard the reputation of cruelty, for without it he would never hold his army united or disposed to its duties. Among the wonderful deeds of Hannibal this one is enumerated: that having led an enormous army, composed of many various races of men, to fight in foreign lands, no dissensions arose either among them or against the prince, whether in his bad or in his good fortune. This arose from nothing else than his inhuman cruelty, which, with his boundless valour, made him revered and terrible in the sight of his soldiers, but without that cruelty, his other virtues were not sufficient to produce this effect. And short-sighted writers admire his deeds from one point of view and from another condemn the principal cause of them. That it is true his other virtues would not have been sufficient for him may be proved by the case of Scipio, that most excellent man, not only of his own times but within the memory of man, against whom, nevertheless, his army rebelled in Spain; this arose from nothing but his too great forbearance, which gave his soldiers more license than is consistent with military discipline. For this he was upbraided in the Senate by Fabius Maximus, and called the corrupter of the Roman soldiery. The Locrians were laid waste by a legate of Scipio, yet they were not avenged by him, nor was the insolence of the legate punished, owing entirely to his easy nature. Insomuch that someone in the Senate, wishing to excuse him, said there were many men who knew much better how not to err than to correct the errors of others. This disposition, if he had been continued in the command, would have destroyed in time the fame and glory of Scipio; but, he being under the control of the Senate, this injurious characteristic not only concealed itself, but contributed to his glory. Returning to the question of being feared or loved, I come to the conclusion that, men loving according to their own will and fearing according to that of the prince, a wise prince should establish himself on that which is in his own control and not in that of others; he must endeavour only to avoid hatred, as is noted.

Chapter XVII

https://web.archive.org/web/20210303115306/https://www.sparknotes.com/philosophy/prince/section7/

Concerning Cruelty: Whether It Is Better to Be Loved Than to Be Feared, or the Reverse Compassion, like generosity, is usually admired. But a prince must be careful that he does not show compassion unwisely. If a prince is too compassionate, and does not adequately punish disloyal subjects, he creates an atmosphere of disorder, since his subjects take the liberty to do what they please--even to the extremes of murder and theft. Crime harms the entire community, whereas executions harm only the individuals who commit crimes. Some measure of cruelty is necessary to maintain order. But a prince should be careful in his exercise of cruelty, tempering it with humanity and prudence. Machiavelli then asks whether being feared or loved is preferable. Ideally, a prince should be both loved and feared, but this state of affairs is difficult to attain. Forced to make a choice, it is much better to be feared than loved. This is because men, by nature, are "ungrateful, fickle, dissembling, anxious to flee danger, and covetous of gain. In times of remote danger, they are willing to take risks for their prince, but if the danger is real, they turn against their prince. It is easy to break a bond of love when the situation arises, but the fear of punishment is always effective, regardless of the situation. When inducing fear, however, a prince must be careful to avoid inducing hatred. He must make sure that any executions are properly justified. Above all, a prince should never confiscate the property of his subjects or take their women, since these actions are most likely to breed hatred. If a prince must confiscate property, he must make sure he has a convincing reason. With one's army, however, there is no such thing as too much cruelty. Keeping an army disciplined and united requires cruelty, even inhuman cruelty.

Chapter XV attacks the conceptions of virtue proposed by classical philosophers. Machiavelli criticizes the concept of a "good life," the Aristotelian doctrine that demands virtuous actions in all types of behavior. Machiavelli debunks Aristotle's metaphysical approach to politics by arguing that metaphysics is inconsistent with the real world. Ultimately, a philosophy must be judged by its practical consequences. Because virtue, as an abstract concept, does not concern itself with such consequences, it can never serve as an effective guide for political action. Machiavelli's definition of virtue is not the same as that of classical philosophers. While Aristotle and others define virtue in relation to a highest good, Machiavelli defines it simply as that which receives the praise of others. Thus, generosity is a virtue only because other people praise it. From this premise, Machiavelli builds a case for the necessity of committing certain crimes. A prince, if he truly wishes to safeguard his state, will inevitably be forced to act in a manner that others consider evil or deplorable. Although Machiavelli only mentions cruelty and stinginess in Chapters XVI and XVII, the argument could extend to other so-called vices, such as stubbornness or cowardice. The mind of Machiavelli's prince is cold and calculating, concerned with ends rather than means. Virtually any action that contributes to the overall goal of maintaining control of the state is acceptable to him. Unlike the previous chapters, which contain specific instructions regarding domestic, international, and military affairs, these chapters deal with general trends of popular opinion that might affect the prince's actions. Machiavelli urges the prince not to worry too much about what others might think of his actions and to act only in the way that will result in the best practical advantage--which will often garner greater approval from other people in the long run. In most cases, the prince must favor miserliness over generosity, and cruelty over benevolence. But Machiavelli does not advocate wholesale cruelty or a complete lack of generosity; it is possible for a prince to be too miserly or too cruel. A prince might choose cowardice over courage--for example, fleeing a palace under siege instead of remaining and rallying the people--but the effectiveness of either option depends on the surrounding circumstances. The advice put forth in these chapters is substantially less concrete than that offered in previous chapters. Machiavelli's oft-quoted line "Anyone compelled to choose will find far greater security in being feared than in being loved" is sometimes misinterpreted to suggest that a prince need not worry about public opinion. But Machiavelli explicitly argues the contrary: it is critical that a prince avoid the hatred of his subjects. The statement is less radical than it might seem. People, states Machiavelli, are all self-interested to a certain degree. During difficult times, this sense of self-interest is stronger than any sense of obligation toward the ruler or the state. No matter how strongly they might love their prince, people will not follow orders if it means sacrificing their own well-being. The only motivating factor that can guarantee citizens' obedience to a prince's orders is the threat of punishment. Although Machiavelli's conclusions may seem disturbing, if we consider contemporary society, we might conclude that little has changed since the era of The Prince. Even today, while some people certainly follow laws because they feel that they have a moral obligation to do so, or because they respect the institution that makes the laws, many others follow them simply because they fear the punishment that comes with breaking those laws. Supporters of the death penalty in the United States usually argue that the use of capital punishment acts as a deterrent, discouraging the general populace from committing capital crimes

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/23046-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Comedy of Errors/section_10_part_0.txt

The Comedy of Errors.act v.scene i

act v, scene i

{"name": "Act V, Scene i", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219160210/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/comedy-of-errors/summary/act-v-scene-i", "summary": "Angelo the goldsmith apologizes to the Merchant to whom he owes money. Angelo's sorry to have made the Merchant wait, but he's really shocked that E. Antipholus hasn't come through. Then, to everyone's surprise, S. Antipholus approaches, wearing Angelo's necklace. Angelo confronts S. Antipholus about the necklace, and S. Antipholus rightly says he never denied he had it. The Merchant gets involved, and says he heard Antipholus deny he had the necklace he now wears. Tempers get hot and the men draw their swords. Adriana thankfully enters just in time to break up the fight. She tells the Merchant that her husband is mad, and she calls upon others present to bind up the mad men. S. Antipholus and S. Dromio, sensing their doom, run off into the priory and seek sanctuary. Just then an abbess enters, and asks just what exactly everybody thinks they're doing, disturbing God's peace. Adriana informs the Abbess she's just trying to get her man, who's been strange over the last week, but seems to be particularly insane today. The Abbess wonders what it is that has made the man mad. She asks if he's lost money in a sea venture, or perhaps buried a friend, or fallen in love with another woman. Adriana admits it might be the last one about another woman . The Abbess says Adriana should have been more firm about this. Adriana insists she did nag him about it often, and the Abbess decides it was Adriana's nagging that did the man in. The Abbess goes on for a bit, painting Adriana as a nagging shrew, and Luciana is surprised that her sister just lies down and takes it. Adriana says the Abbess's criticisms of her are basically how she would've criticized herself. Regardless, she'd just like them to go into the priory and fetch her husband. The Abbess is all, \"I don't think so.\" She says if the guys went into the priory for sanctuary, it's sanctuary they'll get. The Abbess also insists the man won't leave her care until she tries all sorts of drugs and prayers and \"wholesome syrups\" on him. The Abbess is insistent, and she leaves Adriana distressed and without a man. At Luciana's suggestion, Adriana decides she'll go to the Duke and weep at his feet until he has her husband forcibly removed from the Abbess's care. The Merchant points out that it's 5pm, so the Duke should be along soon to oversee the public beheading of a poor Syracusian merchant for showing up in Ephesus. The Duke enters with Egeon and some officers. He reminds the crowd that if anyone will provide the sum of 1,000 marks, Egeon's life will be spared. Adriana doesn't care so much about Egeon, and instead shouts out that she seeks some other justice, specifically against the tiny old nun. She explains to the Duke that her husband seems mad, and that the Abbess won't let him out of, nor let anyone into, the priory. A messenger arrives and claims that Antipholus and Dromio have broken their bonds and attacked the doctor who has been attending them with fire and scissors. The messenger says Antipholus promised he was coming to get his wife next. Adriana is incredulous, as she thinks her husband is actually in the priory. But she's wrong! Of course, just then, E. Antipholus shows up with E. Dromio. Adriana is shocked and convinced he moves about invisibly, as there's no way to explain how he left the priory without her notice. E. Antipholus pleads that the Duke owes him justice, especially in exchange for all the service E. Antipholus did for him in war. Egeon offers that he recognizes these men as his son and his son's servant, Dromio, but the old man is ignored. Egeon's claims are drowned out by E. Antipholus railing against his wife for abusing and dishonoring him. The Duke then gets the whole story from E. Antipholus's perspective: E. Antipholus complains that his wife locked him out of the house and that Angelo wrongly accused him of taking the golden necklace. Then he was wrongly arrested, and his servant, Dromio, didn't bring his bail. When he finally got fed up and went with the officer to collect the bail from his house, he found his wife with a quack doctor, who declared him possessed and left him tied up and sealed in a dark vault in his own home. He gnawed open his bonds with his own teeth, and escaped to see the Duke. It's been quite a day. All this would be reason to feel really bad for E. Antipholus, but Angelo points out that he actually did give E. Antipholus the necklace, and the man was seen wearing it. The Merchant asks whether E. Antipholus doesn't remember being challenged to a duel and running into the priory . Of course, E. Antipholus has no idea about any of this; S. Antipholus is still locked in the priory, and frankly this whole situation is getting a bit tiresome. The Duke squabbles around about the Courtesan's ring, and finally he decides everyone is mad, and someone should call the Abbess. Egeon finally speaks up, saying he thinks he's found men to pay his bond. He identifies Antipholus and Dromio correctly, but they have no idea who he is. He laments that he must appear much changed by grief, and then gives a beautiful speech about the passage of time. Though his face is grizzled and wrinkled, and he hasn't aged gracefully, he says his memory still glimmers--he recognizes in this man his son, Antipholus. Antipholus of Ephesus, seemingly unmoved, offers that he's never met his dad. Like, ever. Egeon is insistent, he says it's only been seven years since the men parted in Syracuse. He wonders if his son is ashamed to acknowledge him because of his miserable state. E. Antipholus insists he's never even been to Syracuse and the Duke also asserts that he's known E. Antipholus for twenty years, and the young man has never been to Syracuse in all that time. Egeon is about to be dismissed as a doddering old man when the Abbess enters. Actually, not only has the Abbess come, she's brought with her Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse. Finally, everyone is face to face with the two sets of identical twins. The Abbess reveals that she's Aemilia, Egeon's long lost wife. After the shipwreck, her boys were taken from her by some Corinthian fisherman, leaving her alone in Epidamium. She didn't know what happened to them from there, but it's been her lot to live as a nun ever since. The Duke dons his Captain Obvious hat and declares, \"These sets of identical twins are long lost brothers. The Antipholuses are sons of Egeon and Aemilia, and the Dromios are the two servant boys!\" The boys who were taken to Corinth by the fisherman explain that they eventually came to Ephesus with the warrior Duke Menaphon, who is the Duke's uncle. Moving briskly along, the pairs then clear up the calamity about who had dinner with Adriana, who got the necklace, who was sent for bail money, and who brought bail money. E. Antipholus tries to pay the Duke bail for his father, but the Duke demurs, and instead just grants Egeon his life. The Courtesan gets her ring back; Egeon gets his sons back; and Aemilia gets her husband back. Also, now that it's clear that he isn't Adriana's husband, S. Antipholus reiterates his offer to Luciana to be her husband and give her happiness. Finally, Aemilia ushers everyone into the abbey so they can talk over that bad, fateful day when they were separated, and the fateful day that's brought them together again.", "analysis": ""}

ACT V. SCENE I. A street before a Priory. _Enter _Second Merchant_ and ANGELO._ _Ang._ I am sorry, sir, that I have hinder'd you; But, I protest, he had the chain of me, Though most dishonestly he doth deny it. _Sec. Mer._ How is the man esteem'd here in the city? _Ang._ Of very reverent reputation, sir, 5 Of credit infinite, highly beloved, Second to none that lives here in the city: His word might bear my wealth at any time. _Sec. Mer._ Speak softly: yonder, as I think, he walks. _Enter _ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse_ and _DROMIO of Syracuse_._ _Ang._ 'Tis so; and that self chain about his neck, 10 Which he forswore most monstrously to have. Good sir, draw near to me, I'll speak to him; Signior Antipholus, I wonder much That you would put me to this shame and trouble; And, not without some scandal to yourself, 15 With circumstance and oaths so to deny This chain which now you wear so openly: Beside the charge, the shame, imprisonment, You have done wrong to this my honest friend; Who, but for staying on our controversy, 20 Had hoisted sail and put to sea to-day: This chain you had of me; can you deny it? _Ant. S._ I think I had; I never did deny it. _Sec. Mer._ Yes, that you did, sir, and forswore it too. _Ant. S._ Who heard me to deny it or forswear it? 25 _Sec. Mer._ These ears of mine, thou know'st, did hear thee. Fie on thee, wretch! 'tis pity that thou livest To walk where any honest men resort. _Ant. S._ Thou art a villain to impeach me thus: I'll prove mine honour and mine honesty 30 Against thee presently, if thou darest stand. _Sec. Mer._ I dare, and do defy thee for a villain. [_They draw._ _Enter ADRIANA, LUCIANA, the _Courtezan_, and others._ _Adr._ Hold, hurt him not, for God's sake! he is mad. Some get within him, take his sword away: Bind Dromio too, and bear them to my house. 35 _Dro. S._ Run, master, run; for God's sake, take a house! This is some priory.--In, or we are spoil'd! [_Exeunt Ant. S. and Dro. S. to the Priory._ _Enter the _Lady Abbess_._ _Abb._ Be quiet, people. Wherefore throng you hither? _Adr._ To fetch my poor distracted husband hence. Let us come in, that we may bind him fast, 40 And bear him home for his recovery. _Ang._ I knew he was not in his perfect wits. _Sec. Mer._ I am sorry now that I did draw on him. _Abb._ How long hath this possession held the man? _Adr._ This week he hath been heavy, sour, sad, 45 And much different from the man he was; But till this afternoon his passion Ne'er brake into extremity of rage. _Abb._ Hath he not lost much wealth by wreck of sea? Buried some dear friend? Hath not else his eye 50 Stray'd his affection in unlawful love? A sin prevailing much in youthful men, Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing. Which of these sorrows is he subject to? _Adr._ To none of these, except it be the last; 55 Namely, some love that drew him oft from home. _Abb._ You should for that have reprehended him. _Adr._ Why, so I did. _Abb._ Ay, but not rough enough. _Adr._ As roughly as my modesty would let me. _Abb._ Haply, in private. _Adr._ And in assemblies too. 60 _Abb._ Ay, but not enough. _Adr._ It was the copy of our conference: In bed, he slept not for my urging it; At board, he fed not for my urging it; Alone, it was the subject of my theme; 65 In company I often glanced it; Still did I tell him it was vile and bad. _Abb._ And thereof came it that the man was mad:-- The venom clamours of a jealous woman, Poisons more deadly than a mad dog's tooth. 70 It seems his sleeps were hinder'd by thy railing: And thereof comes it that his head is light. Thou say'st his meat was sauced with thy upbraidings: Unquiet meals make ill digestions; Thereof the raging fire of fever bred; 75 And what's a fever but a fit of madness? Thou say'st his sports were hinder'd by thy brawls: Sweet recreation barr'd, what doth ensue But moody and dull melancholy, Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair; 80 And at her heels a huge infectious troop Of pale distemperatures and foes to life? In food, in sport, and life-preserving rest To be disturb'd, would mad or man or beast: The consequence is, then, thy jealous fits 85 Have scared thy husband from the use of wits. _Luc._ She never reprehended him but mildly, When he demean'd himself rough, rude, and wildly. Why bear you these rebukes, and answer not? _Adr._ She did betray me to my own reproof. 90 Good people, enter, and lay hold on him. _Abb._ No, not a creature enters in my house. _Adr._ Then let your servants bring my husband forth. _Abb._ Neither: he took this place for sanctuary, And it shall privilege him from your hands 95 Till I have brought him to his wits again, Or lose my labour in assaying it. _Adr._ I will attend my husband, be his nurse, Diet his sickness, for it is my office, And will have no attorney but myself; 100 And therefore let me have him home with me. _Abb._ Be patient; for I will not let him stir Till I have used the approved means I have, With wholesome syrups, drugs and holy prayers, To make of him a formal man again: 105 It is a branch and parcel of mine oath, A charitable duty of my order. Therefore depart, and leave him here with me. _Adr._ I will not hence, and leave my husband here: And ill it doth beseem your holiness 110 To separate the husband and the wife. _Abb._ Be quiet, and depart: thou shalt not have him. [_Exit._ _Luc._ Complain unto the Duke of this indignity. _Adr._ Come, go: I will fall prostrate at his feet, And never rise until my tears and prayers 115 Have won his Grace to come in person hither, And take perforce my husband from the abbess. _Sec. Mer._ By this, I think, the dial points at five: Anon, I'm sure, the Duke himself in person Comes this way to the melancholy vale, 120 The place of death and sorry execution, Behind the ditches of the abbey here. _Ang._ Upon what cause? _Sec. Mer._ To see a reverend Syracusian merchant, Who put unluckily into this bay 125 Against the laws and statutes of this town, Beheaded publicly for his offence. _Ang._ See where they come: we will behold his death. _Luc._ Kneel to the Duke before he pass the abbey. _Enter DUKE, attended; AEGEON bareheaded; with the _Headsman_ and other _Officers_._ _Duke._ Yet once again proclaim it publicly, 130 If any friend will pay the sum for him, He shall not die; so much we tender him. _Adr._ Justice, most sacred Duke, against the abbess! _Duke._ She is a virtuous and a reverend lady: It cannot be that she hath done thee wrong. 135 _Adr._ May it please your Grace, Antipholus my husband,-- Whom I made lord of me and all I had, At your important letters,--this ill day A most outrageous fit of madness took him; That desperately he hurried through the street,-- 140 With him his bondman, all as mad as he,-- Doing displeasure to the citizens By rushing in their houses, bearing thence Rings, jewels, any thing his rage did like. Once did I get him bound, and sent him home, 145 Whilst to take order for the wrongs I went, That here and there his fury had committed. Anon, I wot not by what strong escape, He broke from those that had the guard of him; And with his mad attendant and himself, 150 Each one with ireful passion, with drawn swords, Met us again, and, madly bent on us, Chased us away; till, raising of more aid, We came again to bind them. Then they fled Into this abbey, whither we pursued them; 155 And here the abbess shuts the gates on us, And will not suffer us to fetch him out, Nor send him forth, that we may bear him hence. Therefore, most gracious Duke, with thy command Let him be brought forth, and borne hence for help. 160 _Duke._ Long since thy husband served me in my wars; And I to thee engaged a prince's word, When thou didst make him master of thy bed, To do him all the grace and good I could. Go, some of you, knock at the abbey-gate, 165 And bid the lady abbess come to me. I will determine this before I stir. _Enter a _Servant_._ _Serv._ O mistress, mistress, shift and save yourself! My master and his man are both broke loose, Beaten the maids a-row, and bound the doctor, 170 Whose beard they have singed off with brands of fire; And ever, as it blazed, they threw on him Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair: My master preaches patience to him, and the while His man with scissors nicks him like a fool; 175 And sure, unless you send some present help, Between them they will kill the conjurer. _Adr._ Peace, fool! thy master and his man are here; And that is false thou dost report to us. _Serv._ Mistress, upon my life, I tell you true; 180 I have not breathed almost since I did see it. He cries for you, and vows, if he can take you, To scorch your face and to disfigure you. [_Cry within._ Hark, hark! I hear him, mistress: fly, be gone! _Duke._ Come, stand by me; fear nothing. Guard with halberds! 185 _Adr._ Ay me, it is my husband! Witness you, That he is borne about invisible: Even now we housed him in the abbey here; And now he's there, past thought of human reason. _Enter _ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus_ and _DROMIO of Ephesus_._ _Ant. E._ Justice, most gracious Duke, O, grant me justice! 190 Even for the service that long since I did thee, When I bestrid thee in the wars, and took Deep scars to save thy life; even for the blood That then I lost for thee, now grant me justice. _Aege._ Unless the fear of death doth make me dote, 195 I see my son Antipholus, and Dromio. _Ant. E._ Justice, sweet prince, against that woman there! She whom thou gavest to me to be my wife, That hath abused and dishonour'd me Even in the strength and height of injury: 200 Beyond imagination is the wrong That she this day hath shameless thrown on me. _Duke._ Discover how, and thou shalt find me just. _Ant. E._ This day, great Duke, she shut the doors upon me, While she with harlots feasted in my house. 205 _Duke._ A grievous fault! Say, woman, didst thou so? _Adr._ No, my good lord: myself, he and my sister To-day did dine together. So befal my soul As this is false he burdens me withal! _Luc._ Ne'er may I look on day, nor sleep on night, 210 But she tells to your Highness simple truth! _Ang._ O perjured woman! They are both forsworn: In this the madman justly chargeth them. _Ant. E._ My liege, I am advised what I say; Neither disturbed with the effect of wine, 215 Nor heady-rash, provoked with raging ire, Albeit my wrongs might make one wiser mad. This woman lock'd me out this day from dinner: That goldsmith there, were he not pack'd with her, Could witness it, for he was with me then; 220 Who parted with me to go fetch a chain, Promising to bring it to the Porpentine, Where Balthazar and I did dine together. Our dinner done, and he not coming thither, I went to seek him: in the street I met him, 225 And in his company that gentleman. There did this perjured goldsmith swear me down That I this day of him received the chain, Which, God he knows, I saw not: for the which He did arrest me with an officer. 230 I did obey; and sent my peasant home For certain ducats: he with none return'd. Then fairly I bespoke the officer To go in person with me to my house. By the way we met my wife, her sister, and a rabble more 235 Of vile confederates. Along with them They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-faced villain, A mere anatomy, a mountebank, A threadbare juggler, and a fortune-teller, A needy, hollow-eyed, sharp-looking wretch, 240 A living-dead man: this pernicious slave, Forsooth, took on him as a conjurer; And, gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse, And with no face, as 'twere, outfacing me, Cries out, I was possess'd. Then all together 245 They fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence, And in a dark and dankish vault at home There left me and my man, both bound together; Till, gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder, I gain'd my freedom, and immediately 250 Ran hither to your Grace; whom I beseech To give me ample satisfaction For these deep shames and great indignities. _Ang._ My lord, in truth, thus far I witness with him, That he dined not at home, but was lock'd out. 255 _Duke._ But had he such a chain of thee or no? _Ang._ He had, my lord: and when he ran in here, These people saw the chain about his neck. _Sec. Mer._ Besides, I will be sworn these ears of mine Heard you confess you had the chain of him, 260 After you first forswore it on the mart: And thereupon I drew my sword on you; And then you fled into this abbey here, From whence, I think, you are come by miracle. _Ant. E._ I never came within these abbey-walls; 265 Nor ever didst thou draw thy sword on me: I never saw the chain, so help me Heaven: And this is false you burden me withal! _Duke._ Why, what an intricate impeach is this! I think you all have drunk of Circe's cup. 270 If here you housed him, here he would have been; If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly: You say he dined at home; the goldsmith here Denies that saying. Sirrah, what say you? _Dro. E._ Sir, he dined with her there, at the Porpentine. 275 _Cour._ He did; and from my finger snatch'd that ring. _Ant. E._ 'Tis true, my liege; this ring I had of her. _Duke._ Saw'st thou him enter at the abbey here? _Cour._ As sure, my liege, as I do see your Grace. _Duke._ Why, this is strange. Go call the abbess hither. 280 I think you are all mated, or stark mad. [_Exit one to the Abbess._ _Aege._ Most mighty Duke, vouchsafe me speak a word: Haply I see a friend will save my life, And pay the sum that may deliver me. _Duke._ Speak freely, Syracusian, what thou wilt. 285 _Aege._ Is not your name, sir, call'd Antipholus? And is not that your bondman, Dromio? _Dro. E._ Within this hour I was his bondman, sir, But he, I thank him, gnaw'd in two my cords: Now am I Dromio, and his man unbound. 290 _Aege._ I am sure you both of you remember me. _Dro. E._ Ourselves we do remember, sir, by you; For lately we were bound, as you are now. You are not Pinch's patient, are you, sir? _Aege._ Why look you strange on me? you know me well. 295 _Ant. E._ I never saw you in my life till now. _Aege._ O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last, And careful hours with time's deformed hand Have written strange defeatures in my face: But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice? 300 _Ant. E._ Neither. _Aege._ Dromio, nor thou? _Dro. E._ No, trust me, sir, nor I. _Aege._ I am sure thou dost. _Dro. E._ Ay, sir, but I am sure I do not; and whatsoever a man denies, you are now bound to believe him. 305 _Aege._ Not know my voice! O time's extremity, Hast thou so crack'd and splitted my poor tongue In seven short years, that here my only son Knows not my feeble key of untuned cares? Though now this grained face of mine be hid 310 In sap-consuming winter's drizzled snow, And all the conduits of my blood froze up, Yet hath my night of life some memory, My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left, My dull deaf ears a little use to hear: 315 All these old witnesses--I cannot err-- Tell me thou art my son Antipholus. _Ant. E._ I never saw my father in my life. _Aege._ But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy, Thou know'st we parted: but perhaps, my son, 320 Thou shamest to acknowledge me in misery. _Ant. E._ The Duke and all that know me in the city Can witness with me that it is not so: I ne'er saw Syracusa in my life. _Duke._ I tell thee, Syracusian, twenty years 325 Have I been patron to Antipholus, During which time he ne'er saw Syracusa: I see thy age and dangers make thee dote. _Re-enter _Abbess_, with _ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse_ and _DROMIO of Syracuse_._ _Abb._ Most mighty Duke, behold a man much wrong'd. [_All gather to see them._ _Adr._ I see two husbands, or mine eyes deceive me. 330 _Duke._ One of these men is Genius to the other; And so of these. Which is the natural man, And which the spirit? who deciphers them? _Dro. S._ I, sir, am Dromio: command him away. _Dro. E._ I, sir, am Dromio: pray, let me stay. 335 _Ant. S._ Aegeon art thou not? or else his ghost? _Dro. S._ O, my old master! who hath bound him here? _Abb._ Whoever bound him, I will loose his bonds, And gain a husband by his liberty. Speak, old Aegeon, if thou be'st the man 340 That hadst a wife once call'd Aemilia, That bore thee at a burden two fair sons: O, if thou be'st the same Aegeon, speak, And speak unto the same Aemilia! _Aege._ If I dream not, thou art Aemilia: 345 If thou art she, tell me where is that son That floated with thee on the fatal raft? _Abb._ By men of Epidamnum he and I And the twin Dromio, all were taken up; But by and by rude fishermen of Corinth 350 By force took Dromio and my son from them, And me they left with those of Epidamnum. What then became of them I cannot tell; I to this fortune that you see me in. _Duke._ Why, here begins his morning story right: 355 These two Antipholuses, these two so like, And these two Dromios, one in semblance,-- Besides her urging of her wreck at sea,-- These are the parents to these children, Which accidentally are met together. 360 Antipholus, thou camest from Corinth first? _Ant. S._ No, sir, not I; I came from Syracuse. _Duke._ Stay, stand apart; I know not which is which. _Ant. E._ I came from Corinth, my most gracious lord,-- _Dro. E._ And I with him. 365 _Ant. E._ Brought to this town by that most famous warrior. Duke Menaphon, your most renowned uncle. _Adr._ Which of you two did dine with me to-day? _Ant. S._ I, gentle mistress. _Adr._ And are not you my husband? _Ant. E._ No; I say nay to that. 370 _Ant. S._ And so do I; yet did she call me so: And this fair gentlewoman, her sister here, Did call me brother. [_To Lucia._] What I told you then, I hope I shall have leisure to make good; If this be not a dream I see and hear. 375 _Ang._ That is the chain, sir, which you had of me. _Ant. S._ I think it be, sir; I deny it not. _Ant. E._ And you, sir, for this chain arrested me. _Ang._ I think I did, sir; I deny it not. _Adr._ I sent you money, sir, to be your bail, 380 By Dromio; but I think he brought it not. _Dro. E._ No, none by me. _Ant. S._ This purse of ducats I received from you, And Dromio my man did bring them me. I see we still did meet each other's man; 385 And I was ta'en for him, and he for me; And thereupon these ERRORS are arose. _Ant. E._ These ducats pawn I for my father here. _Duke._ It shall not need; thy father hath his life. _Cour._ Sir, I must have that diamond from you. 390 _Ant. E._ There, take it; and much thanks for my good cheer. _Abb._ Renowned Duke, vouchsafe to take the pains To go with us into the abbey here, And hear at large discoursed all our fortunes;-- And all that are assembled in this place, 395 That by this sympathized one day's error Have suffer'd wrong, go keep us company, And we shall make full satisfaction.-- Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail Of you, my sons; and till this present hour 400 My heavy burthen ne'er delivered. The Duke, my husband, and my children both, And you the calendars of their nativity, Go to a gossips' feast, and go with me; After so long grief, such nativity! 405 _Duke._ With all my heart, I'll gossip at this feast. [_Exeunt all but Ant. S., Ant. E., Dro. S., and Dro. E._ _Dro. S._ Master, shall I fetch your stuff from ship-board? _Ant. E._ Dromio, what stuff of mine hast thou embark'd? _Dro. S._ Your goods that lay at host, sir, in the Centaur. _Ant. S._ He speaks to me. --I am your master, Dromio: 410 Come, go with us; we'll look to that anon: Embrace thy brother there; rejoice with him. [_Exeunt Ant. S. and Ant. E._ _Dro. S._ There is a fat friend at your master's house, That kitchen'd me for you to-day at dinner: She now shall be my sister, not my wife. 415 _Dro. E._ Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth. Will you walk in to see their gossiping? _Dro. S._ Not I, sir; you are my elder. _Dro. E._ That's a question: how shall we try it? 420 _Dro. S._ We'll draw cuts for the senior: till then lead thou first. _Dro. E._ Nay, then, thus:-- We came into the world like brother and brother; And now let's go hand in hand, not one before another. [_Exeunt._ NOTES: V, 1. SCENE I. A street ... Priory] Pope. See note (VIII). 3: _doth_] F1. _did_ F2 F3 F4. 9: Enter ...] Enter Antipholis and Dromio againe. Ff. 12: _to me_] _with me_ Collier MS. 18: _Beside_] Ff. _Besides_ Pope. 26: _know'st ... thee._] Ff. _knowest ... thee._ Pope. _knowest well ... thee._ Hanmer. _know'st ... thee, sir._ Capell. _know'st ... thee swear_ Grant White conj. 30: _mine honesty_] F1 F2 F3. _my honesty_ F4. 33: SCENE II. Pope. 33, 36: _God's ... God's_] F3 F4. _God ... God's_ F1 F2. 38: _quiet, people._] Theobald. _quiet people._ Ff. 45: _sour_] Rowe. _sower_ Ff. 46: _much_] F1 F4. _much, much_ F2 F3. 49: _of sea_] F1. _at sea_ F2 F3 F4. 50: _Hath not else his eye_] _Hath nought else his eye?_ Anon. conj. 51: _his ... in_] _in ... and_ Anon. conj. 61: _Ay_] _Ay, ay_ Hanmer. 66: _it_] _at it_ Pope. 69: _venom_] _venome_ F1 F2. _venomous_ F3 F4. _venom'd_ Pope. _woman,_] _woman_ Pope. 69, 70: _clamours ... Poisons_] _clamours ... Poison_ Pope. _clamour ... Poisons_ Capell. 72, 75: _thereof_] _therefore_ Johnson. 74: _make_] F1. _makes_ F2 F3 F4. 77: _by_] _with_ Pope. 79: _moody_] F1. _muddy_ F2 F3 F4.] _moody, moping_ Hanmer. _moody sadness_ Singer conj. _melancholy_] _melancholia_ Anon. conj. 80: _Kinsman_] _kins-woman_ Capell. ending line 79 at _kins-_. _A'kin_ Hanmer. Warburton marks this line as spurious. 81: _her_] _their_ Malone (Heath conj.). 86: _Have_] F2 F3 F4. _Hath_ F1. 88: _wildly_] _wild_ Capell. 89: _these_] F1 F2. _those_ F3 F4. 112: [Exit.] Theobald. 117: [Exeunt. Enter Merchant and Goldsmith. F2. 121: _death_] F3 F4. _depth_ F1 F2. _sorry_] _solemn_ Collier MS. 124: _reverend_ F3 F4. _reverent_ F1 F2. 128: Enter Adriana and Lucia. F2. 130: SCENE III. Pope. attended] Theobald. 132: Enter Adriana. F2. 134: _reverend_] Ff. 137: _Whom_] F2 F3 F4. _Who_ F1. 138: _important_] F1. _impoteant_ F2. _impotent_ F3 F4. _all-potent_ Rowe. _letters_] F1 F2 F3. _letter_ F4. 148: _strong_] _strange_ Malone conj. 150: _with_] _here_ Capell. _then_ Ritson conj. _and himself_] mad himself Warburton. 158: _hence_] F1 F2. _thence_ F3 F4. 168: SCENE IV. Pope. Enter a servant.] Capell. Enter a Messenger. Ff. 174: _to him_] om. Capell. _and_] om. Hanmer. _and the_ om. Steevens. 176: _some_] F1 _some other_ F2 F3 F4. 179: _to_] F1 F3 F4. _of_ F2. 183: _scorch_] _scotch_ Warburton. 205: _While_] F1 _Whilst_ F2 F3 F4. 208: _To-day_] om. Hanmer. _So befal_] _So fall_ Capell. 212, 213: [To Mer. Capell. 228: _of_] F1. _from_ F2 F3 F4. 235: _By the way_] _To which he yielded: by the way_ Capell, making two verses of 235. See note (IX). 235, 236: Pope ends these lines _and ... confederates_. 236: _Along with them_] om. Pope. 247: _And in_] _Into_ Lettsom conj. 248: _There_] _They_ Collier MS. 249: _in sunder_] F1. _asunder_ F2 F3 F4. 267, 268: _chain, so ... Heaven: And_] _chain. So ... heaven As_ Dyce. 281: _mad_] _made_ F2. [Exit ...] F1 F2. [Enter ... F3 F4. 291: _you both_] F1. _both_ F2 F3 F4. 298: _deformed_] _deforming_ Capell. 304: _Ay, sir,_] Capell. _I sir,_ Ff. _I, sir?_ Pope. _Ay, sir?_ Malone. 304, 305: Printed as verse by Capell: _But ... whatsoever A ... him_. 307: _crack'd and splitted_] _crack'd my voice, split_ Collier MS. 309: _of untuned cares_] _untuned of cares_ Anon. conj. _cares_] _ears_ Anon. conj. 314: _lamps_] _lamp_ Pope. 316: _All_] _And all_ Rowe. _old_] _hold_ Warburton. _witnesses--I cannot err--_] _witnesses, I cannot erre._ Ff. 319: _Syracusa, boy_] Capell. _Syracusa boy_ Ff. _Syracusa bay_ Rowe. _Syracusa's bay_ Hanmer. 329: SCENE VII. Pope. [All ... them.] [All ... him. Warburton. 332: _these. Which_] _these, which_ Ff. 355-360: _Why ... together_] Ff insert this speech after 344. The alteration is due to Capell. 355: _his_] F1 F2. _this_ F3 F4. _the_ Pope. _story right_] _story's light_ Capell. 356: _Antipholuses, these_] _Antipholus, these_ F1. _Antipholis, these_ F2 F3 F4. _Antipholis's_ Hanmer. See note (I). 357: _these_] F1 F4. _those_ F2 F3. _semblance_] _semblance prove_ Capell. 358: _Besides her urging of her_] _Both sides emerging from their_ Hanmer. _Besides his urging of his_ Collier MS. _Besides his urging of her_ Dyce conj. Malone supposes a line, beginning with _These_, lost after 358. _wreck at sea,--_] _wreck,--all say,_ Jackson conj. 359: _These are_] _These plainly are_ Pope. 361: Ff prefix 'Duke.' 372: _her sister_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. 373: [To Lucia.] [Aside to Lucia. Staunton conj. 387: _are arose_] Ff. _all arose_ Rowe. _rare arose_ Staunton. _here arose_ Anon. conj. 394: _hear_] _here_ Johnson. 398: _we shall make_] _ye shalt have_ Pope. 399: _Thirty-three_] Ff. _Twenty-five_ Theobald. _Twenty-three_ Capell. See note (X). _but_] F1. _been_ F2 F3 F4. om. Hanmer. 400: _and till_] _nor till_ Theobald. _until_ Malone (Boaden conj.). _and at_ Collier MS. 401: _burthen ne'er_] Dyce. _burthen are_ F1. _burthens are_ F2 F3 F4. _burden not_ Capell. _burden undelivered_ Collier. _burden here_ Grant White. _burden has_ Anon. conj. (ap. Halliwell). 404: _Go ... and go_] _Hence ... along_ Lettsom conj. _So ... all go_ Edd. conj. _and go_] F1 F3 F4. _and goe_ F2. _and gaud_ Warburton. _and joy_ Heath conj. _and gout_ Jackson conj. _and see_ Anon. conj. 405: _nativity_] Ff. _felicity_ Hanmer. _festivity_ Dyce (Johnson conj.). _such nativity!_] _suits festivity._ Anon. conj. 406: [Exeunt ...] [Exeunt omnes. Manet the two Dromio's and two brothers. Ff. 407: SCENE VIII. Pope. _fetch_] _go fetch_ S. Walker conj. _ship-board_] _shipboard for you_ Capell conj. 412: [Exeunt ...] [Exit. Ff. 420: _we try it?_] _we trie it._ F1 _I try it._ F2 F3 F4. _we try it, brother?_ Capell. 421: _We'll_] _We will_ Capell, ending lines 419-421 at _question ... draw ... first._ _senior_] Pope. _signior_ F1 F2. _signiority_ F3 F4. 422: [embracing. Rowe. NOTES. NOTE I. In the spelling of the name of 'Solinus' we have followed the first Folio. In the subsequent Folios it was altered, most probably by an accident in F2 to 'Salinus.' The name occurs only once in the copies, and that in the first line of the text. The name which we have given as 'Antipholus' is spelt indifferently thus, and 'Antipholis' in the Folios. It will hardly be doubted that the lines in the rhyming passage, III. 2. 2, 4, where the Folios read 'Antipholus,' are correctly amended by Capell, and prove that 'Antipholus' is the spelling of Shakespeare. Either word is evidently corrupted from 'Antiphilus.' These names are merely arbitrary, but the surnames, 'Erotes' and 'Sereptus,' are most probably errors for 'Errans,' or 'Erraticus' and 'Surreptus,' of which the latter is plainly derived from Plautus' _Menaechmus Surreptus_, a well-known character in Shakespeare's day: see Brian Melbancke's _Philotimus_ (1582), p. 160: 'Thou art like Menechmus Subreptus his wife ... whose "husband shall not neede to be justice of peace" for she "will have a charter to make her justice of coram."' See _Merry Wives_, I. 1. 4, 5. In spelling 'Syracusian' instead of 'Syracusan' we follow the practice of the Folios in an indifferent matter. 'Epidamnum' not 'Epidamium' is found in the English translation of the _Menaechmi_, 1595, so the latter form in F1 is probably a printer's error. NOTE II. I. 2. 1. That this scene is laid at the Mart appears from Antipholus's allusion to this place in II. 2. 5, 6: 'I could not speak with Dromio since at first I sent him from the mart.' As this play is derived from a classical prototype, Capell has supposed no change of scene, but lays the whole action in 'a Publick Place;' evidently with much inconvenience to the Persons. NOTE III. II. 1. 30. Johnson's ingenious conjecture may have been suggested to him by a passage in _As you like it_, IV. 3. 17: 'Her love is not the hare that I do hunt.' But the received reading of the Folios is perhaps confirmed by a line in the present play, III. 2. 7: 'Or if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth.' NOTE IV. II. 1. 108 sqq. The only correction of this passage which we believe to be quite free from doubt is that in line 112, 'Wear' for 'Where.' Accordingly, with this exception, we have retained the precise words of the first Folio. NOTE V. IV. 2. 38. Grey's conjecture of 'lanes' for 'lands' is made somewhat more probable by the existence of copies of F1 in which the word appears 'lans.' A corrector would naturally change this rather to 'lands' than to 'lanes,' because of the rhyme. NOTE VI. IV. 2. 46. The Folios have 'send him Mistris redemption,' and Rowe, by his punctuation and capital R, made Dromio call Luciana 'Redemption.' Pope and Theobald seem to have followed him, though they give the small r. The Folios cannot be made chargeable with this error, for the comma does not regularly follow vocatives in these editions where we expect it. There is no comma, for instance, following the word 'Mistress' in IV. 3. 75 or in IV. 4. 39. NOTE VII. IV. 4. 29. The word 'ears' might probably be better printed ''ears' for 'years;' for a pun--hitherto, however, unnoticed--seems to be indicated by the following words. A very farfetched explanation has been offered by Steevens, and accepted by Delius and, we believe, by all the modern editors, namely, that Antipholus has wrung Dromio's ears so often that they have attained a length like an ass's. NOTE VIII. V. 1. 1. Shakespeare uses the words 'Priory' and 'Abbey' as synonymous. Compare V. 1. 37 and V. 1. 122. NOTE IX. V. 1. 235. It might possibly be better to print this line as two lines, the first being broken: 'By the way we met My wife....' But the place is probably corrupt. NOTE X. V. 1. 399. The number Thirty-three has been altered by editors to bring the figures into harmony with other periods named in the play. From I. 1. 126, 133 the age of Antipholus has been computed at twenty-three; from I. 1. 126 and V. 1. 308 we derive twenty-five. The Duke says he has been patron to Antipholus for twenty years, V. 1. 325; but three or five seems too small an age to assign for the commencement of this patronage. Antipholus saved the Duke's life in the wars 'long since,' V. 1. 161, 191. His 'long experience' of his wife's 'wisdom' and her 'years' are mentioned, III. 1. 89, 90. But Shakespeare probably did not compute the result of his own figures with any great care or accuracy. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Sources: The editors' Preface (e-text 23041) discusses the 17th- and 18th-century editions in detail; the newer (19th-century) editions are simply listed by name. The following editions may appear in the Notes. All inset text is quoted from the Preface. Folios: F1 1623; F2 (no date given); F3 1663; F4 1685. "The five plays contained in this volume occur in the first Folio in the same order, and ... were there printed for the first time." Early editions: Rowe 1709 Pope 1715 "Pope was the first to indicate the _place_ of each new scene; as, for instance, _Tempest_, I. 1. 'On a ship at sea.' He also subdivided the scenes as given by the Folios and Rowe, making a fresh scene whenever a new character entered--an arrangement followed by Hanmer, Warburton, and Johnson. For convenience of reference to these editions, we have always recorded the commencement of Pope's scenes." Theobald 1733 Hanmer ("Oxford edition") 1744 Warburton 1747 Johnson 1765 Capell 1768; _also Capell's annotated copy of F2_ Steevens 1773 Malone 1790 Reed 1803 Later editions: Singer, Knight, Cornwall, Collier, Phelps, Halliwell, Dyce, Staunton * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Errata IV. 2. 17 note: ... Anon. [Aonn.] Note IV. ... line 112, 'Wear' for 'Where.' [line 111] Note VI. ... the word 'Mistress' in / IV. 3. 75 ... [IV. 3. 74]

Act V, Scene i

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Angelo the goldsmith apologizes to the Merchant to whom he owes money. Angelo's sorry to have made the Merchant wait, but he's really shocked that E. Antipholus hasn't come through. Then, to everyone's surprise, S. Antipholus approaches, wearing Angelo's necklace. Angelo confronts S. Antipholus about the necklace, and S. Antipholus rightly says he never denied he had it. The Merchant gets involved, and says he heard Antipholus deny he had the necklace he now wears. Tempers get hot and the men draw their swords. Adriana thankfully enters just in time to break up the fight. She tells the Merchant that her husband is mad, and she calls upon others present to bind up the mad men. S. Antipholus and S. Dromio, sensing their doom, run off into the priory and seek sanctuary. Just then an abbess enters, and asks just what exactly everybody thinks they're doing, disturbing God's peace. Adriana informs the Abbess she's just trying to get her man, who's been strange over the last week, but seems to be particularly insane today. The Abbess wonders what it is that has made the man mad. She asks if he's lost money in a sea venture, or perhaps buried a friend, or fallen in love with another woman. Adriana admits it might be the last one about another woman . The Abbess says Adriana should have been more firm about this. Adriana insists she did nag him about it often, and the Abbess decides it was Adriana's nagging that did the man in. The Abbess goes on for a bit, painting Adriana as a nagging shrew, and Luciana is surprised that her sister just lies down and takes it. Adriana says the Abbess's criticisms of her are basically how she would've criticized herself. Regardless, she'd just like them to go into the priory and fetch her husband. The Abbess is all, "I don't think so." She says if the guys went into the priory for sanctuary, it's sanctuary they'll get. The Abbess also insists the man won't leave her care until she tries all sorts of drugs and prayers and "wholesome syrups" on him. The Abbess is insistent, and she leaves Adriana distressed and without a man. At Luciana's suggestion, Adriana decides she'll go to the Duke and weep at his feet until he has her husband forcibly removed from the Abbess's care. The Merchant points out that it's 5pm, so the Duke should be along soon to oversee the public beheading of a poor Syracusian merchant for showing up in Ephesus. The Duke enters with Egeon and some officers. He reminds the crowd that if anyone will provide the sum of 1,000 marks, Egeon's life will be spared. Adriana doesn't care so much about Egeon, and instead shouts out that she seeks some other justice, specifically against the tiny old nun. She explains to the Duke that her husband seems mad, and that the Abbess won't let him out of, nor let anyone into, the priory. A messenger arrives and claims that Antipholus and Dromio have broken their bonds and attacked the doctor who has been attending them with fire and scissors. The messenger says Antipholus promised he was coming to get his wife next. Adriana is incredulous, as she thinks her husband is actually in the priory. But she's wrong! Of course, just then, E. Antipholus shows up with E. Dromio. Adriana is shocked and convinced he moves about invisibly, as there's no way to explain how he left the priory without her notice. E. Antipholus pleads that the Duke owes him justice, especially in exchange for all the service E. Antipholus did for him in war. Egeon offers that he recognizes these men as his son and his son's servant, Dromio, but the old man is ignored. Egeon's claims are drowned out by E. Antipholus railing against his wife for abusing and dishonoring him. The Duke then gets the whole story from E. Antipholus's perspective: E. Antipholus complains that his wife locked him out of the house and that Angelo wrongly accused him of taking the golden necklace. Then he was wrongly arrested, and his servant, Dromio, didn't bring his bail. When he finally got fed up and went with the officer to collect the bail from his house, he found his wife with a quack doctor, who declared him possessed and left him tied up and sealed in a dark vault in his own home. He gnawed open his bonds with his own teeth, and escaped to see the Duke. It's been quite a day. All this would be reason to feel really bad for E. Antipholus, but Angelo points out that he actually did give E. Antipholus the necklace, and the man was seen wearing it. The Merchant asks whether E. Antipholus doesn't remember being challenged to a duel and running into the priory . Of course, E. Antipholus has no idea about any of this; S. Antipholus is still locked in the priory, and frankly this whole situation is getting a bit tiresome. The Duke squabbles around about the Courtesan's ring, and finally he decides everyone is mad, and someone should call the Abbess. Egeon finally speaks up, saying he thinks he's found men to pay his bond. He identifies Antipholus and Dromio correctly, but they have no idea who he is. He laments that he must appear much changed by grief, and then gives a beautiful speech about the passage of time. Though his face is grizzled and wrinkled, and he hasn't aged gracefully, he says his memory still glimmers--he recognizes in this man his son, Antipholus. Antipholus of Ephesus, seemingly unmoved, offers that he's never met his dad. Like, ever. Egeon is insistent, he says it's only been seven years since the men parted in Syracuse. He wonders if his son is ashamed to acknowledge him because of his miserable state. E. Antipholus insists he's never even been to Syracuse and the Duke also asserts that he's known E. Antipholus for twenty years, and the young man has never been to Syracuse in all that time. Egeon is about to be dismissed as a doddering old man when the Abbess enters. Actually, not only has the Abbess come, she's brought with her Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse. Finally, everyone is face to face with the two sets of identical twins. The Abbess reveals that she's Aemilia, Egeon's long lost wife. After the shipwreck, her boys were taken from her by some Corinthian fisherman, leaving her alone in Epidamium. She didn't know what happened to them from there, but it's been her lot to live as a nun ever since. The Duke dons his Captain Obvious hat and declares, "These sets of identical twins are long lost brothers. The Antipholuses are sons of Egeon and Aemilia, and the Dromios are the two servant boys!" The boys who were taken to Corinth by the fisherman explain that they eventually came to Ephesus with the warrior Duke Menaphon, who is the Duke's uncle. Moving briskly along, the pairs then clear up the calamity about who had dinner with Adriana, who got the necklace, who was sent for bail money, and who brought bail money. E. Antipholus tries to pay the Duke bail for his father, but the Duke demurs, and instead just grants Egeon his life. The Courtesan gets her ring back; Egeon gets his sons back; and Aemilia gets her husband back. Also, now that it's clear that he isn't Adriana's husband, S. Antipholus reiterates his offer to Luciana to be her husband and give her happiness. Finally, Aemilia ushers everyone into the abbey so they can talk over that bad, fateful day when they were separated, and the fateful day that's brought them together again.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_10_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 1.chapter 11

part 1, chapter 11

{"name": "Part 1, Chapter 11", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-1-chapter-11", "summary": "After a quick visit to Father Chelan, Julien returns to the de Renals' house. He goes into the garden and sits with Madame de Renal and her cousin, Madame Dervilles. Monsieur de Renal comes to sit with them and talks angrily about politics. When he's not looking, Julien kisses Madame de Renal's arm. After her husband has left, Madame de Renal feels overcome with passion. But she's also scared that she's on the road to becoming an adulteress. She's also scared that Julien still loves another woman. She decides to treat Julien with total coldness the next time she sees him.", "analysis": ""}

CHAPTER XI AN EVENING Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, And tremulously gently her small hand Withdrew itself from his, but left behind A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland, And slight, so very slight that to the mind, 'Twas but a doubt. _Don Juan_, c. I. st, 71. It was necessary, however, to put in an appearance at Verrieres. As Julien left the cure house he was fortunate enough to meet M. Valenod, whom he hastened to tell of the increase in his salary. On returning to Vergy, Julien waited till night had fallen before going down into the garden. His soul was fatigued by the great number of violent emotions which had agitated him during the day. "What shall I say to them?" he reflected anxiously, as he thought about the ladies. He was far from realising that his soul was just in a mood to discuss those trivial circumstances which usually monopolise all feminine interests. Julien was often unintelligible to Madame Derville, and even to her friend, and he in his turn only half understood all that they said to him. Such was the effect of the force and, if I may venture to use such language, the greatness of the transports of passion which overwhelmed the soul of this ambitious youth. In this singular being it was storm nearly every day. As he entered the garden this evening, Julien was inclined to take an interest in what the pretty cousins were thinking. They were waiting for him impatiently. He took his accustomed seat next to Madame de Renal. The darkness soon became profound. He attempted to take hold of a white hand which he had seen some time near him, as it leant on the back of a chair. Some hesitation was shewn, but eventually the hand was withdrawn in a manner which indicated displeasure. Julien was inclined to give up the attempt as a bad job, and to continue his conversation quite gaily, when he heard M. de Renal approaching. The coarse words he had uttered in the morning were still ringing in Julien's ears. "Would not taking possession of his wife's hand in his very presence," he said to himself, "be a good way of scoring off that creature who has all that life can give him. Yes! I will do it. I, the very man for whom he has evidenced so great a contempt." From that moment the tranquillity which was so alien to Julien's real character quickly disappeared. He was obsessed by an anxious desire that Madame de Renal should abandon her hand to him. M. de Renal was talking politics with vehemence; two or three commercial men in Verrieres had been growing distinctly richer than he was, and were going to annoy him over the elections. Madame Derville was listening to him. Irritated by these tirades, Julien brought his chair nearer Madame de Renal. All his movements were concealed by the darkness. He dared to put his hand very near to the pretty arm which was left uncovered by the dress. He was troubled and had lost control of his mind. He brought his face near to that pretty arm and dared to put his lips on it. Madame de Renal shuddered. Her husband was four paces away. She hastened to give her hand to Julien, and at the same time to push him back a little. As M. de Renal was continuing his insults against those ne'er-do-wells and Jacobins who were growing so rich, Julien covered the hand which had been abandoned to him with kisses, which were either really passionate or at any rate seemed so to Madame de Renal. But the poor woman had already had the proofs on that same fatal day that the man whom she adored, without owning it to herself, loved another! During the whole time Julien had been absent she had been the prey to an extreme unhappiness which had made her reflect. "What," she said to herself, "Am I going to love, am I going to be in love? Am I, a married woman, going to fall in love? But," she said to herself, "I have never felt for my husband this dark madness, which never permits of my keeping Julien out of my thoughts. After all, he is only a child who is full of respect for me. This madness will be fleeting. In what way do the sentiments which I may have for this young man concern my husband? M. de Renal would be bored by the conversations which I have with Julien on imaginative subjects. As for him, he simply thinks of his business. I am not taking anything away from him to give to Julien." No hypocrisy had sullied the purity of that naive soul, now swept away by a passion such as it had never felt before. She deceived herself, but without knowing it. But none the less, a certain instinct of virtue was alarmed. Such were the combats which were agitating her when Julien appeared in the garden. She heard him speak and almost at the same moment she saw him sit down by her side. Her soul was as it were transported by this charming happiness which had for the last fortnight surprised her even more than it had allured. Everything was novel for her. None the less, she said to herself after some moments, "the mere presence of Julien is quite enough to blot out all his wrongs." She was frightened; it was then that she took away her hand. His passionate kisses, the like of which she had never received before, made her forget that perhaps he loved another woman. Soon he was no longer guilty in her eyes. The cessation of that poignant pain which suspicion had engendered and the presence of a happiness that she had never even dreamt of, gave her ecstasies of love and of mad gaiety. The evening was charming for everyone, except the mayor of Verrieres, who was unable to forget his _parvenu_ manufacturers. Julien left off thinking about his black ambition, or about those plans of his which were so difficult to accomplish. For the first time in his life he was led away by the power of beauty. Lost in a sweetly vague reverie, quite alien to his character, and softly pressing that hand, which he thought ideally pretty, he half listened to the rustle of the leaves of the pine trees, swept by the light night breeze, and to the dogs of the mill on the Doubs, who barked in the distance. But this emotion was one of pleasure and not passion. As he entered his room, he only thought of one happiness, that of taking up again his favourite book. When one is twenty the idea of the world and the figure to be cut in it dominate everything. He soon, however, laid down the book. As the result of thinking of the victories of Napoleon, he had seen a new element in his own victory. "Yes," he said to himself, "I have won a battle. I must exploit it. I must crush the pride of that proud gentleman while he is in retreat. That would be real Napoleon. I must ask him for three days' holiday to go and see my friend Fouque. If he refuses me I will threaten to give him notice, but he will yield the point." Madame de Renal could not sleep a wink. It seemed as though, until this moment, she had never lived. She was unable to distract her thoughts from the happiness of feeling Julian cover her hand with his burning kisses. Suddenly the awful word adultery came into her mind. All the loathesomeness with which the vilest debauchery can invest sensual love presented itself to her imagination. These ideas essayed to pollute the divinely tender image which she was fashioning of Julien, and of the happiness of loving him. The future began to be painted in terrible colours. She began to regard herself as contemptible. That moment was awful. Her soul was arriving in unknown countries. During the evening she had tasted a novel happiness. Now she found herself suddenly plunged in an atrocious unhappiness. She had never had any idea of such sufferings; they troubled her reason. She thought for a moment of confessing to her husband that she was apprehensive of loving Julien. It would be an opportunity of speaking of him. Fortunately her memory threw up a maxim which her aunt had once given her on the eve of her marriage. The maxim dealt with the danger of making confidences to a husband, for a husband is after all a master. She wrung her hands in the excess of her grief. She was driven this way and that by clashing and painful ideas. At one moment she feared that she was not loved. The next the awful idea of crime tortured her, as much as if she had to be exposed in the pillory on the following day in the public square of Verrieres, with a placard to explain her adultery to the populace. Madame de Renal had no experience of life. Even in the full possession of her faculties, and when fully exercising her reason, she would never have appreciated any distinction between being guilty in the eyes of God, and finding herself publicly overwhelmed with the crudest marks of universal contempt. When the awful idea of adultery, and of all the disgrace which in her view that crime brought in its train, left her some rest, she began to dream of the sweetness of living innocently with Julien as in the days that had gone by. She found herself confronted with the horrible idea that Julien loved another woman. She still saw his pallor when he had feared to lose her portrait, or to compromise her by exposing it to view. For the first time she had caught fear on that tranquil and noble visage. He had never shewn such emotion to her or her children. This additional anguish reached the maximum of unhappiness which the human soul is capable of enduring. Unconsciously, Madame de Renal uttered cries which woke up her maid. Suddenly she saw the brightness of a light appear near her bed, and recognized Elisa. "Is it you he loves?" she exclaimed in her delirium. Fortunately, the maid was so astonished by the terrible trouble in which she found her mistress that she paid no attention to this singular expression. Madame de Renal appreciated her imprudence. "I have the fever," she said to her, "and I think I am a little delirious." Completely woken up by the necessity of controlling herself, she became less unhappy. Reason regained that supreme control which the semi-somnolent state had taken away. To free herself from her maid's continual stare, she ordered her maid to read the paper, and it was as she listened to the monotonous voice of this girl, reading a long article from the _Quotidienne_ that Madame de Renal made the virtuous resolution to treat Julien with absolute coldness when she saw him again.

Part 1, Chapter 11

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After a quick visit to Father Chelan, Julien returns to the de Renals' house. He goes into the garden and sits with Madame de Renal and her cousin, Madame Dervilles. Monsieur de Renal comes to sit with them and talks angrily about politics. When he's not looking, Julien kisses Madame de Renal's arm. After her husband has left, Madame de Renal feels overcome with passion. But she's also scared that she's on the road to becoming an adulteress. She's also scared that Julien still loves another woman. She decides to treat Julien with total coldness the next time she sees him.

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/174-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Picture of Dorian Gray/section_13_part_0.txt

The Picture of Dorian Gray.chapter 14

chapter 14

{"name": "Chapter 14", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219150422/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/summary-and-analysis/chapter-14", "summary": "The next morning, Dorian wakes from a long and untroubled sleep, but the events of the previous night begin to bother him. Basil is still in the attic room, sitting dead in the sunlight. Dorian feels that he must take action reasonably soon. At breakfast, he looks at the morning mail. He writes two letters, sticking one in his pocket and directing Francis, his newly hired servant, to deliver the other to Mr. Campbell. As he waits to hear from Mr. Campbell, Dorian seeks distraction. He sketches, but every drawing he does reminds him of Basil. Finally, he pulls a book at random from the shelf. It is Theophile Gautier's Emaux et Camees, a book of poems that inspired other French Aesthetes, including Charles Baudelaire. Especially touched by a poem about Venice, he is momentarily transported from the horrible situation he finds himself in. As he thinks about Venice, he suddenly recalls that Basil was with him during his last visit there; although he tries to read other poems, his attempts to distract himself fail and he is drawn back to the reality of the murder. He grows increasingly more nervous and wonders what he will do if he cannot find Alan Campbell. Campbell is a passionate scientist, very knowledgeable, and has his own laboratory. The man had been a close friend of Dorian's five years before, but their friendship ended abruptly. Time passes so slowly that it seems to stop. In a typically self-centered moment, Dorian imagines a \"hideous future\" for himself. Finally, the servant announces Campbell's arrival. Campbell clearly feels bitterly hostile toward Dorian. He is there only because Dorian's letter mentioned a \"matter of life and death.\" Dorian confirms the graveness of the situation and confides that there is a corpse in the attic room, dead now ten hours. Campbell interrupts, saying that he does not want to hear more about the matter. Dorian first claims that the body is that of a suicide but finally admits to having committed murder. He blames the victim for shaping his life, although perhaps unwittingly. He pleads with Campbell to help, reasoning that because Campbell often works with corpses, he will know how to destroy a body. The job will be no worse than many that Campbell has performed on corpses at the morgue. When Campbell still refuses to help, Dorian writes a few words on a piece of paper and gives the secret message to Campbell. As the scientist reads the brief note, he turns white and falls back in his chair. Dorian expresses pity for Campbell's situation but announces that he has already written a letter regarding the secret. He threatens to send the letter unless Campbell cooperates. Campbell makes one last, lame effort to avoid helping Dorian. He says that he cannot do the job. When Dorian reminds him that he has no choice, Campbell finally gives in; he writes a list of the required equipment, and Francis is dispatched to Campbell's laboratory to pick up the supplies. Upstairs, Dorian discovers that he forgot to cover the portrait when he left the room the previous night. There is a \"loathsome red dew . . . wet and glistening\" on one of the hands in the picture. Momentarily, the portrait seems more real and horrible to Dorian than Basil's corpse. Dorian hastily covers the portrait, and Campbell brings in his equipment. The job takes the full five hours that Campbell has predicted. Dorian is waiting downstairs in the library when Campbell enters, pale but calm, well after seven that evening. The scientist curtly states that he has done what he was asked to do and hopes never to see Dorian again. He then leaves. When Dorian enters the attic room, he detects a horrible smell. However, there is no sign of Basil Howard.", "analysis": "Throughout the novel, Wilde only hints at the nature of Dorian's secret life, leaving the reader to wonder what sins Dorian commits. Wilde surely could have been more specific about Dorian's secretive passions, but he deliberately keeps the issue vague so that readers must define sin for themselves. In this way, Wilde draws readers closer to the story. In a similar way, Wilde doesn't say what secret Dorian holds over Campbell. Most likely, it is something that the scientist did years ago while under Dorian's influence. In any case, Dorian is fully aware that blackmailing Campbell into helping him is dreadful, but he doesn't hesitate for a moment to do so. In fact, he scolds Campbell for not wanting to help him at first, and he even seems to take pleasure in forcing Campbell to comply eventually. Dorian has become dominated by the evil of his secrets, and he in turn seeks to dominate and control those around him. At this point in the story, Dorian shows that he has surpassed his mentor -- Lord Henry -- in his power to manipulate. The interlude concerning Gautier's poetry works within the context of this novel. The poem is translated: On a colorful scale, andnbsp;andnbsp;andnbsp;andnbsp;andnbsp;Her breast dripping with pearls, The Venus of the Adriatic Draws her pink and white body out of the water. andnbsp;andnbsp;andnbsp;andnbsp;andnbsp;The domes, on the azure of the waves Following the pure contour of the phrase, Swell like rounded breasts Lifted by a sigh of love. andnbsp;andnbsp;andnbsp;andnbsp;andnbsp;The skiff lands and drops me off, Casting its rope to the pillar, In front of a pink facade On the marble of a staircase. The beautiful poem about Venice contrasts with the horror of Dorian's situation and briefly carries him away to a happier, more beautiful time and place. The recollection that Basil had been with him, however, startles Dorian back to reality. The idle pleasures that Dorian uses to amuse himself can't erase, or even distract him from, the evil that he has committed. Strangely, the passions that drove him to the mad act of murder no longer hold any pleasure for him. Note that Dorian defends Lord Henry but is quite willing to blame Basil for the loss of his soul. While Basil created the portrait, he was never part of the pact and never tried to manipulate Dorian toward a life of self-serving debauchery and vanity. Dorian, of course, is not about to put the responsibility where it belongs -- on himself. In fact, by the end of the chapter, Dorian has emotionally and psychologically divorced himself from Basil entirely, referring to him as \"the thing that had been sitting at the table.\" It appears that Dorian has begun to lose touch with even his self-centered version of reality. Glossary drugged with poppies a reference to opium, which is prepared from dried juice of unripe pods of the opium poppy. gilt covered with gold or something resembling gold. trellis a support frame. du supplice encore mal lavee French, \"not cleansed from torment.\" doigts de faune French, \"fingers of the faun.\" faun in Roman mythology, a royal deity having the body of a man but the horns, ears, tail, and sometimes the legs of a goat. Lido an island off Venice. Tintoret Tintoretto; original name, Jacopo Robusti , Italian painter. Nile the longest river in Africa, running from Lake Victoria to the Mediterranean. sphinx a figure with the body of a lion and the head of a man, ram, or hawk. monstre charmant French, \"charming monster.\" Rubinstein Anton Rubinstein , Russian concert pianist, composer, and educator. ague chills, or shivering. nitric acid a fuming, corrosive liquid."}

At nine o'clock the next morning his servant came in with a cup of chocolate on a tray and opened the shutters. Dorian was sleeping quite peacefully, lying on his right side, with one hand underneath his cheek. He looked like a boy who had been tired out with play, or study. The man had to touch him twice on the shoulder before he woke, and as he opened his eyes a faint smile passed across his lips, as though he had been lost in some delightful dream. Yet he had not dreamed at all. His night had been untroubled by any images of pleasure or of pain. But youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms. He turned round, and leaning upon his elbow, began to sip his chocolate. The mellow November sun came streaming into the room. The sky was bright, and there was a genial warmth in the air. It was almost like a morning in May. Gradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent, blood-stained feet into his brain and reconstructed themselves there with terrible distinctness. He winced at the memory of all that he had suffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling of loathing for Basil Hallward that had made him kill him as he sat in the chair came back to him, and he grew cold with passion. The dead man was still sitting there, too, and in the sunlight now. How horrible that was! Such hideous things were for the darkness, not for the day. He felt that if he brooded on what he had gone through he would sicken or grow mad. There were sins whose fascination was more in the memory than in the doing of them, strange triumphs that gratified the pride more than the passions, and gave to the intellect a quickened sense of joy, greater than any joy they brought, or could ever bring, to the senses. But this was not one of them. It was a thing to be driven out of the mind, to be drugged with poppies, to be strangled lest it might strangle one itself. When the half-hour struck, he passed his hand across his forehead, and then got up hastily and dressed himself with even more than his usual care, giving a good deal of attention to the choice of his necktie and scarf-pin and changing his rings more than once. He spent a long time also over breakfast, tasting the various dishes, talking to his valet about some new liveries that he was thinking of getting made for the servants at Selby, and going through his correspondence. At some of the letters, he smiled. Three of them bored him. One he read several times over and then tore up with a slight look of annoyance in his face. "That awful thing, a woman's memory!" as Lord Henry had once said. After he had drunk his cup of black coffee, he wiped his lips slowly with a napkin, motioned to his servant to wait, and going over to the table, sat down and wrote two letters. One he put in his pocket, the other he handed to the valet. "Take this round to 152, Hertford Street, Francis, and if Mr. Campbell is out of town, get his address." As soon as he was alone, he lit a cigarette and began sketching upon a piece of paper, drawing first flowers and bits of architecture, and then human faces. Suddenly he remarked that every face that he drew seemed to have a fantastic likeness to Basil Hallward. He frowned, and getting up, went over to the book-case and took out a volume at hazard. He was determined that he would not think about what had happened until it became absolutely necessary that he should do so. When he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the title-page of the book. It was Gautier's Emaux et Camees, Charpentier's Japanese-paper edition, with the Jacquemart etching. The binding was of citron-green leather, with a design of gilt trellis-work and dotted pomegranates. It had been given to him by Adrian Singleton. As he turned over the pages, his eye fell on the poem about the hand of Lacenaire, the cold yellow hand "_du supplice encore mal lavee_," with its downy red hairs and its "_doigts de faune_." He glanced at his own white taper fingers, shuddering slightly in spite of himself, and passed on, till he came to those lovely stanzas upon Venice: Sur une gamme chromatique, Le sein de perles ruisselant, La Venus de l'Adriatique Sort de l'eau son corps rose et blanc. Les domes, sur l'azur des ondes Suivant la phrase au pur contour, S'enflent comme des gorges rondes Que souleve un soupir d'amour. L'esquif aborde et me depose, Jetant son amarre au pilier, Devant une facade rose, Sur le marbre d'un escalier. How exquisite they were! As one read them, one seemed to be floating down the green water-ways of the pink and pearl city, seated in a black gondola with silver prow and trailing curtains. The mere lines looked to him like those straight lines of turquoise-blue that follow one as one pushes out to the Lido. The sudden flashes of colour reminded him of the gleam of the opal-and-iris-throated birds that flutter round the tall honeycombed Campanile, or stalk, with such stately grace, through the dim, dust-stained arcades. Leaning back with half-closed eyes, he kept saying over and over to himself: "Devant une facade rose, Sur le marbre d'un escalier." The whole of Venice was in those two lines. He remembered the autumn that he had passed there, and a wonderful love that had stirred him to mad delightful follies. There was romance in every place. But Venice, like Oxford, had kept the background for romance, and, to the true romantic, background was everything, or almost everything. Basil had been with him part of the time, and had gone wild over Tintoret. Poor Basil! What a horrible way for a man to die! He sighed, and took up the volume again, and tried to forget. He read of the swallows that fly in and out of the little _cafe_ at Smyrna where the Hadjis sit counting their amber beads and the turbaned merchants smoke their long tasselled pipes and talk gravely to each other; he read of the Obelisk in the Place de la Concorde that weeps tears of granite in its lonely sunless exile and longs to be back by the hot, lotus-covered Nile, where there are Sphinxes, and rose-red ibises, and white vultures with gilded claws, and crocodiles with small beryl eyes that crawl over the green steaming mud; he began to brood over those verses which, drawing music from kiss-stained marble, tell of that curious statue that Gautier compares to a contralto voice, the "_monstre charmant_" that couches in the porphyry-room of the Louvre. But after a time the book fell from his hand. He grew nervous, and a horrible fit of terror came over him. What if Alan Campbell should be out of England? Days would elapse before he could come back. Perhaps he might refuse to come. What could he do then? Every moment was of vital importance. They had been great friends once, five years before--almost inseparable, indeed. Then the intimacy had come suddenly to an end. When they met in society now, it was only Dorian Gray who smiled: Alan Campbell never did. He was an extremely clever young man, though he had no real appreciation of the visible arts, and whatever little sense of the beauty of poetry he possessed he had gained entirely from Dorian. His dominant intellectual passion was for science. At Cambridge he had spent a great deal of his time working in the laboratory, and had taken a good class in the Natural Science Tripos of his year. Indeed, he was still devoted to the study of chemistry, and had a laboratory of his own in which he used to shut himself up all day long, greatly to the annoyance of his mother, who had set her heart on his standing for Parliament and had a vague idea that a chemist was a person who made up prescriptions. He was an excellent musician, however, as well, and played both the violin and the piano better than most amateurs. In fact, it was music that had first brought him and Dorian Gray together--music and that indefinable attraction that Dorian seemed to be able to exercise whenever he wished--and, indeed, exercised often without being conscious of it. They had met at Lady Berkshire's the night that Rubinstein played there, and after that used to be always seen together at the opera and wherever good music was going on. For eighteen months their intimacy lasted. Campbell was always either at Selby Royal or in Grosvenor Square. To him, as to many others, Dorian Gray was the type of everything that is wonderful and fascinating in life. Whether or not a quarrel had taken place between them no one ever knew. But suddenly people remarked that they scarcely spoke when they met and that Campbell seemed always to go away early from any party at which Dorian Gray was present. He had changed, too--was strangely melancholy at times, appeared almost to dislike hearing music, and would never himself play, giving as his excuse, when he was called upon, that he was so absorbed in science that he had no time left in which to practise. And this was certainly true. Every day he seemed to become more interested in biology, and his name appeared once or twice in some of the scientific reviews in connection with certain curious experiments. This was the man Dorian Gray was waiting for. Every second he kept glancing at the clock. As the minutes went by he became horribly agitated. At last he got up and began to pace up and down the room, looking like a beautiful caged thing. He took long stealthy strides. His hands were curiously cold. The suspense became unbearable. Time seemed to him to be crawling with feet of lead, while he by monstrous winds was being swept towards the jagged edge of some black cleft of precipice. He knew what was waiting for him there; saw it, indeed, and, shuddering, crushed with dank hands his burning lids as though he would have robbed the very brain of sight and driven the eyeballs back into their cave. It was useless. The brain had its own food on which it battened, and the imagination, made grotesque by terror, twisted and distorted as a living thing by pain, danced like some foul puppet on a stand and grinned through moving masks. Then, suddenly, time stopped for him. Yes: that blind, slow-breathing thing crawled no more, and horrible thoughts, time being dead, raced nimbly on in front, and dragged a hideous future from its grave, and showed it to him. He stared at it. Its very horror made him stone. At last the door opened and his servant entered. He turned glazed eyes upon him. "Mr. Campbell, sir," said the man. A sigh of relief broke from his parched lips, and the colour came back to his cheeks. "Ask him to come in at once, Francis." He felt that he was himself again. His mood of cowardice had passed away. The man bowed and retired. In a few moments, Alan Campbell walked in, looking very stern and rather pale, his pallor being intensified by his coal-black hair and dark eyebrows. "Alan! This is kind of you. I thank you for coming." "I had intended never to enter your house again, Gray. But you said it was a matter of life and death." His voice was hard and cold. He spoke with slow deliberation. There was a look of contempt in the steady searching gaze that he turned on Dorian. He kept his hands in the pockets of his Astrakhan coat, and seemed not to have noticed the gesture with which he had been greeted. "Yes: it is a matter of life and death, Alan, and to more than one person. Sit down." Campbell took a chair by the table, and Dorian sat opposite to him. The two men's eyes met. In Dorian's there was infinite pity. He knew that what he was going to do was dreadful. After a strained moment of silence, he leaned across and said, very quietly, but watching the effect of each word upon the face of him he had sent for, "Alan, in a locked room at the top of this house, a room to which nobody but myself has access, a dead man is seated at a table. He has been dead ten hours now. Don't stir, and don't look at me like that. Who the man is, why he died, how he died, are matters that do not concern you. What you have to do is this--" "Stop, Gray. I don't want to know anything further. Whether what you have told me is true or not true doesn't concern me. I entirely decline to be mixed up in your life. Keep your horrible secrets to yourself. They don't interest me any more." "Alan, they will have to interest you. This one will have to interest you. I am awfully sorry for you, Alan. But I can't help myself. You are the one man who is able to save me. I am forced to bring you into the matter. I have no option. Alan, you are scientific. You know about chemistry and things of that kind. You have made experiments. What you have got to do is to destroy the thing that is upstairs--to destroy it so that not a vestige of it will be left. Nobody saw this person come into the house. Indeed, at the present moment he is supposed to be in Paris. He will not be missed for months. When he is missed, there must be no trace of him found here. You, Alan, you must change him, and everything that belongs to him, into a handful of ashes that I may scatter in the air." "You are mad, Dorian." "Ah! I was waiting for you to call me Dorian." "You are mad, I tell you--mad to imagine that I would raise a finger to help you, mad to make this monstrous confession. I will have nothing to do with this matter, whatever it is. Do you think I am going to peril my reputation for you? What is it to me what devil's work you are up to?" "It was suicide, Alan." "I am glad of that. But who drove him to it? You, I should fancy." "Do you still refuse to do this for me?" "Of course I refuse. I will have absolutely nothing to do with it. I don't care what shame comes on you. You deserve it all. I should not be sorry to see you disgraced, publicly disgraced. How dare you ask me, of all men in the world, to mix myself up in this horror? I should have thought you knew more about people's characters. Your friend Lord Henry Wotton can't have taught you much about psychology, whatever else he has taught you. Nothing will induce me to stir a step to help you. You have come to the wrong man. Go to some of your friends. Don't come to me." "Alan, it was murder. I killed him. You don't know what he had made me suffer. Whatever my life is, he had more to do with the making or the marring of it than poor Harry has had. He may not have intended it, the result was the same." "Murder! Good God, Dorian, is that what you have come to? I shall not inform upon you. It is not my business. Besides, without my stirring in the matter, you are certain to be arrested. Nobody ever commits a crime without doing something stupid. But I will have nothing to do with it." "You must have something to do with it. Wait, wait a moment; listen to me. Only listen, Alan. All I ask of you is to perform a certain scientific experiment. You go to hospitals and dead-houses, and the horrors that you do there don't affect you. If in some hideous dissecting-room or fetid laboratory you found this man lying on a leaden table with red gutters scooped out in it for the blood to flow through, you would simply look upon him as an admirable subject. You would not turn a hair. You would not believe that you were doing anything wrong. On the contrary, you would probably feel that you were benefiting the human race, or increasing the sum of knowledge in the world, or gratifying intellectual curiosity, or something of that kind. What I want you to do is merely what you have often done before. Indeed, to destroy a body must be far less horrible than what you are accustomed to work at. And, remember, it is the only piece of evidence against me. If it is discovered, I am lost; and it is sure to be discovered unless you help me." "I have no desire to help you. You forget that. I am simply indifferent to the whole thing. It has nothing to do with me." "Alan, I entreat you. Think of the position I am in. Just before you came I almost fainted with terror. You may know terror yourself some day. No! don't think of that. Look at the matter purely from the scientific point of view. You don't inquire where the dead things on which you experiment come from. Don't inquire now. I have told you too much as it is. But I beg of you to do this. We were friends once, Alan." "Don't speak about those days, Dorian--they are dead." "The dead linger sometimes. The man upstairs will not go away. He is sitting at the table with bowed head and outstretched arms. Alan! Alan! If you don't come to my assistance, I am ruined. Why, they will hang me, Alan! Don't you understand? They will hang me for what I have done." "There is no good in prolonging this scene. I absolutely refuse to do anything in the matter. It is insane of you to ask me." "You refuse?" "Yes." "I entreat you, Alan." "It is useless." The same look of pity came into Dorian Gray's eyes. Then he stretched out his hand, took a piece of paper, and wrote something on it. He read it over twice, folded it carefully, and pushed it across the table. Having done this, he got up and went over to the window. Campbell looked at him in surprise, and then took up the paper, and opened it. As he read it, his face became ghastly pale and he fell back in his chair. A horrible sense of sickness came over him. He felt as if his heart was beating itself to death in some empty hollow. After two or three minutes of terrible silence, Dorian turned round and came and stood behind him, putting his hand upon his shoulder. "I am so sorry for you, Alan," he murmured, "but you leave me no alternative. I have a letter written already. Here it is. You see the address. If you don't help me, I must send it. If you don't help me, I will send it. You know what the result will be. But you are going to help me. It is impossible for you to refuse now. I tried to spare you. You will do me the justice to admit that. You were stern, harsh, offensive. You treated me as no man has ever dared to treat me--no living man, at any rate. I bore it all. Now it is for me to dictate terms." Campbell buried his face in his hands, and a shudder passed through him. "Yes, it is my turn to dictate terms, Alan. You know what they are. The thing is quite simple. Come, don't work yourself into this fever. The thing has to be done. Face it, and do it." A groan broke from Campbell's lips and he shivered all over. The ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to him to be dividing time into separate atoms of agony, each of which was too terrible to be borne. He felt as if an iron ring was being slowly tightened round his forehead, as if the disgrace with which he was threatened had already come upon him. The hand upon his shoulder weighed like a hand of lead. It was intolerable. It seemed to crush him. "Come, Alan, you must decide at once." "I cannot do it," he said, mechanically, as though words could alter things. "You must. You have no choice. Don't delay." He hesitated a moment. "Is there a fire in the room upstairs?" "Yes, there is a gas-fire with asbestos." "I shall have to go home and get some things from the laboratory." "No, Alan, you must not leave the house. Write out on a sheet of notepaper what you want and my servant will take a cab and bring the things back to you." Campbell scrawled a few lines, blotted them, and addressed an envelope to his assistant. Dorian took the note up and read it carefully. Then he rang the bell and gave it to his valet, with orders to return as soon as possible and to bring the things with him. As the hall door shut, Campbell started nervously, and having got up from the chair, went over to the chimney-piece. He was shivering with a kind of ague. For nearly twenty minutes, neither of the men spoke. A fly buzzed noisily about the room, and the ticking of the clock was like the beat of a hammer. As the chime struck one, Campbell turned round, and looking at Dorian Gray, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. There was something in the purity and refinement of that sad face that seemed to enrage him. "You are infamous, absolutely infamous!" he muttered. "Hush, Alan. You have saved my life," said Dorian. "Your life? Good heavens! what a life that is! You have gone from corruption to corruption, and now you have culminated in crime. In doing what I am going to do--what you force me to do--it is not of your life that I am thinking." "Ah, Alan," murmured Dorian with a sigh, "I wish you had a thousandth part of the pity for me that I have for you." He turned away as he spoke and stood looking out at the garden. Campbell made no answer. After about ten minutes a knock came to the door, and the servant entered, carrying a large mahogany chest of chemicals, with a long coil of steel and platinum wire and two rather curiously shaped iron clamps. "Shall I leave the things here, sir?" he asked Campbell. "Yes," said Dorian. "And I am afraid, Francis, that I have another errand for you. What is the name of the man at Richmond who supplies Selby with orchids?" "Harden, sir." "Yes--Harden. You must go down to Richmond at once, see Harden personally, and tell him to send twice as many orchids as I ordered, and to have as few white ones as possible. In fact, I don't want any white ones. It is a lovely day, Francis, and Richmond is a very pretty place--otherwise I wouldn't bother you about it." "No trouble, sir. At what time shall I be back?" Dorian looked at Campbell. "How long will your experiment take, Alan?" he said in a calm indifferent voice. The presence of a third person in the room seemed to give him extraordinary courage. Campbell frowned and bit his lip. "It will take about five hours," he answered. "It will be time enough, then, if you are back at half-past seven, Francis. Or stay: just leave my things out for dressing. You can have the evening to yourself. I am not dining at home, so I shall not want you." "Thank you, sir," said the man, leaving the room. "Now, Alan, there is not a moment to be lost. How heavy this chest is! I'll take it for you. You bring the other things." He spoke rapidly and in an authoritative manner. Campbell felt dominated by him. They left the room together. When they reached the top landing, Dorian took out the key and turned it in the lock. Then he stopped, and a troubled look came into his eyes. He shuddered. "I don't think I can go in, Alan," he murmured. "It is nothing to me. I don't require you," said Campbell coldly. Dorian half opened the door. As he did so, he saw the face of his portrait leering in the sunlight. On the floor in front of it the torn curtain was lying. He remembered that the night before he had forgotten, for the first time in his life, to hide the fatal canvas, and was about to rush forward, when he drew back with a shudder. What was that loathsome red dew that gleamed, wet and glistening, on one of the hands, as though the canvas had sweated blood? How horrible it was!--more horrible, it seemed to him for the moment, than the silent thing that he knew was stretched across the table, the thing whose grotesque misshapen shadow on the spotted carpet showed him that it had not stirred, but was still there, as he had left it. He heaved a deep breath, opened the door a little wider, and with half-closed eyes and averted head, walked quickly in, determined that he would not look even once upon the dead man. Then, stooping down and taking up the gold-and-purple hanging, he flung it right over the picture. There he stopped, feeling afraid to turn round, and his eyes fixed themselves on the intricacies of the pattern before him. He heard Campbell bringing in the heavy chest, and the irons, and the other things that he had required for his dreadful work. He began to wonder if he and Basil Hallward had ever met, and, if so, what they had thought of each other. "Leave me now," said a stern voice behind him. He turned and hurried out, just conscious that the dead man had been thrust back into the chair and that Campbell was gazing into a glistening yellow face. As he was going downstairs, he heard the key being turned in the lock. It was long after seven when Campbell came back into the library. He was pale, but absolutely calm. "I have done what you asked me to do," he muttered. "And now, good-bye. Let us never see each other again." "You have saved me from ruin, Alan. I cannot forget that," said Dorian simply. As soon as Campbell had left, he went upstairs. There was a horrible smell of nitric acid in the room. But the thing that had been sitting at the table was gone.

Chapter 14

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219150422/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/p/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/summary-and-analysis/chapter-14

The next morning, Dorian wakes from a long and untroubled sleep, but the events of the previous night begin to bother him. Basil is still in the attic room, sitting dead in the sunlight. Dorian feels that he must take action reasonably soon. At breakfast, he looks at the morning mail. He writes two letters, sticking one in his pocket and directing Francis, his newly hired servant, to deliver the other to Mr. Campbell. As he waits to hear from Mr. Campbell, Dorian seeks distraction. He sketches, but every drawing he does reminds him of Basil. Finally, he pulls a book at random from the shelf. It is Theophile Gautier's Emaux et Camees, a book of poems that inspired other French Aesthetes, including Charles Baudelaire. Especially touched by a poem about Venice, he is momentarily transported from the horrible situation he finds himself in. As he thinks about Venice, he suddenly recalls that Basil was with him during his last visit there; although he tries to read other poems, his attempts to distract himself fail and he is drawn back to the reality of the murder. He grows increasingly more nervous and wonders what he will do if he cannot find Alan Campbell. Campbell is a passionate scientist, very knowledgeable, and has his own laboratory. The man had been a close friend of Dorian's five years before, but their friendship ended abruptly. Time passes so slowly that it seems to stop. In a typically self-centered moment, Dorian imagines a "hideous future" for himself. Finally, the servant announces Campbell's arrival. Campbell clearly feels bitterly hostile toward Dorian. He is there only because Dorian's letter mentioned a "matter of life and death." Dorian confirms the graveness of the situation and confides that there is a corpse in the attic room, dead now ten hours. Campbell interrupts, saying that he does not want to hear more about the matter. Dorian first claims that the body is that of a suicide but finally admits to having committed murder. He blames the victim for shaping his life, although perhaps unwittingly. He pleads with Campbell to help, reasoning that because Campbell often works with corpses, he will know how to destroy a body. The job will be no worse than many that Campbell has performed on corpses at the morgue. When Campbell still refuses to help, Dorian writes a few words on a piece of paper and gives the secret message to Campbell. As the scientist reads the brief note, he turns white and falls back in his chair. Dorian expresses pity for Campbell's situation but announces that he has already written a letter regarding the secret. He threatens to send the letter unless Campbell cooperates. Campbell makes one last, lame effort to avoid helping Dorian. He says that he cannot do the job. When Dorian reminds him that he has no choice, Campbell finally gives in; he writes a list of the required equipment, and Francis is dispatched to Campbell's laboratory to pick up the supplies. Upstairs, Dorian discovers that he forgot to cover the portrait when he left the room the previous night. There is a "loathsome red dew . . . wet and glistening" on one of the hands in the picture. Momentarily, the portrait seems more real and horrible to Dorian than Basil's corpse. Dorian hastily covers the portrait, and Campbell brings in his equipment. The job takes the full five hours that Campbell has predicted. Dorian is waiting downstairs in the library when Campbell enters, pale but calm, well after seven that evening. The scientist curtly states that he has done what he was asked to do and hopes never to see Dorian again. He then leaves. When Dorian enters the attic room, he detects a horrible smell. However, there is no sign of Basil Howard.

Throughout the novel, Wilde only hints at the nature of Dorian's secret life, leaving the reader to wonder what sins Dorian commits. Wilde surely could have been more specific about Dorian's secretive passions, but he deliberately keeps the issue vague so that readers must define sin for themselves. In this way, Wilde draws readers closer to the story. In a similar way, Wilde doesn't say what secret Dorian holds over Campbell. Most likely, it is something that the scientist did years ago while under Dorian's influence. In any case, Dorian is fully aware that blackmailing Campbell into helping him is dreadful, but he doesn't hesitate for a moment to do so. In fact, he scolds Campbell for not wanting to help him at first, and he even seems to take pleasure in forcing Campbell to comply eventually. Dorian has become dominated by the evil of his secrets, and he in turn seeks to dominate and control those around him. At this point in the story, Dorian shows that he has surpassed his mentor -- Lord Henry -- in his power to manipulate. The interlude concerning Gautier's poetry works within the context of this novel. The poem is translated: On a colorful scale, andnbsp;andnbsp;andnbsp;andnbsp;andnbsp;Her breast dripping with pearls, The Venus of the Adriatic Draws her pink and white body out of the water. andnbsp;andnbsp;andnbsp;andnbsp;andnbsp;The domes, on the azure of the waves Following the pure contour of the phrase, Swell like rounded breasts Lifted by a sigh of love. andnbsp;andnbsp;andnbsp;andnbsp;andnbsp;The skiff lands and drops me off, Casting its rope to the pillar, In front of a pink facade On the marble of a staircase. The beautiful poem about Venice contrasts with the horror of Dorian's situation and briefly carries him away to a happier, more beautiful time and place. The recollection that Basil had been with him, however, startles Dorian back to reality. The idle pleasures that Dorian uses to amuse himself can't erase, or even distract him from, the evil that he has committed. Strangely, the passions that drove him to the mad act of murder no longer hold any pleasure for him. Note that Dorian defends Lord Henry but is quite willing to blame Basil for the loss of his soul. While Basil created the portrait, he was never part of the pact and never tried to manipulate Dorian toward a life of self-serving debauchery and vanity. Dorian, of course, is not about to put the responsibility where it belongs -- on himself. In fact, by the end of the chapter, Dorian has emotionally and psychologically divorced himself from Basil entirely, referring to him as "the thing that had been sitting at the table." It appears that Dorian has begun to lose touch with even his self-centered version of reality. Glossary drugged with poppies a reference to opium, which is prepared from dried juice of unripe pods of the opium poppy. gilt covered with gold or something resembling gold. trellis a support frame. du supplice encore mal lavee French, "not cleansed from torment." doigts de faune French, "fingers of the faun." faun in Roman mythology, a royal deity having the body of a man but the horns, ears, tail, and sometimes the legs of a goat. Lido an island off Venice. Tintoret Tintoretto; original name, Jacopo Robusti , Italian painter. Nile the longest river in Africa, running from Lake Victoria to the Mediterranean. sphinx a figure with the body of a lion and the head of a man, ram, or hawk. monstre charmant French, "charming monster." Rubinstein Anton Rubinstein , Russian concert pianist, composer, and educator. ague chills, or shivering. nitric acid a fuming, corrosive liquid.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/38.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_4_part_3.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 37

chapter 37

{"name": "Chapter 37", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-5-chapters-35-44", "summary": "At midnight, Angel enters the bedroom to find Tess, who was asleep. Standing still, he murmurs in an indescribably sad tone \"dead, dead, dead. Angel occasionally walks in his sleep as he does now. Tess sees this continued mental distress. Angel bends low and encloses Tess in his arms, and rolls her in the sheet as in a shroud. He lifts her from the bed and carries her across the room, murmuring \"my dearest darling Tess. So sweet so good, so true. He leans her against the banister as if to throw her down, but rather kisses her and descends the staircase. Tess cannot determine Angel's ultimate intention, but finally realizes that he is dreaming about the Sunday when he carried her across the water with the other milkmaids. He carries her near the river, and she believes he may drown her. He walks through the shallow areas of the river carrying her, but they reach the other side in safety; if she had awakened him, they would have fallen into the gulf and both died. Angel carries her to the empty stone coffin of an abbot, where he lays Tess and then falls down asleep. Tess sits up in the coffin, but does not awake Angel out of fear that he may die if awakened from sleep-walking. She walks him back to the house and induces him to lay down on the sofa bed. The next morning, Angel seems to know nothing about the previous night's events. The two leave Wellbridge to return to Talbothays to pay a visit to the Cricks. At Talbothays, Tess learns that Marian and Retty have left Talbothays, and she fears they will come to no good. After Tess and Angel leave, Mrs. Crick remarks how unnatural the two look, as if they were in a dream. Angel tells Tess that he has no anger, and he will let her know where he is going as soon as he himself knows. He tells her that until he comes to her she should not come to him, and that she should write if she is ill or if she wants anything.", "analysis": "Hardy explores the depths to which Angel has been wounded by Tess's revelation in this chapter, in which Angel, while sleepwalking, reveals the great psychological torment that he feels. He so fervently believes that his wife is dead that he carries her to a coffin and lays her there. This is a departure from previous chapters in which Hardy has portrayed Angel as coldly observing his principles without any display of affection for his wife. Here the unconscious Angel shows that he still loves the previous conception he had of Tess, yet cannot reconcile it with this new information about her. His anguish is so great that it possesses him while asleep. However, that Angel cannot realize what he has done while sleepwalking demonstrates that he is unaware of the deep emotional vein of his torment; rather, he focuses on the intellectual disappointment. If Hardy allows Angel greater sympathy in this chapter, he also shows the degree to which Tess will sacrifice herself for her husband. Tess remains completely submissive to her sleepwalking husband as he carries her across the river and to the cemetery. She remains open to the possibility that he may murder her or cause their mutual death, but remains still rather than disturb Angel. Tess therefore makes manifest her promise to Angel in previous chapters by leaving her life in his hands. The final separation of Tess and Angel that ends this chapter leaves some degree of room for consideration. Angel remains calm, as always, yet realizes that it is he who must change before he can accept Tess again. He therefore places the burden of acceptance on himself rather than on Tess, while still allowing for her sustenance. Angel takes grudging steps toward admitting his own fallibility; his struggle to sacrifice his principles for greater ones and Tess's reaction to her new fate will provide a great deal of the narrative drive of the rest of the novel"}

Midnight came and passed silently, for there was nothing to announce it in the Valley of the Froom. Not long after one o'clock there was a slight creak in the darkened farmhouse once the mansion of the d'Urbervilles. Tess, who used the upper chamber, heard it and awoke. It had come from the corner step of the staircase, which, as usual, was loosely nailed. She saw the door of her bedroom open, and the figure of her husband crossed the stream of moonlight with a curiously careful tread. He was in his shirt and trousers only, and her first flush of joy died when she perceived that his eyes were fixed in an unnatural stare on vacancy. When he reached the middle of the room he stood still and murmured in tones of indescribable sadness-- "Dead! dead! dead!" Under the influence of any strongly-disturbing force, Clare would occasionally walk in his sleep, and even perform strange feats, such as he had done on the night of their return from market just before their marriage, when he re-enacted in his bedroom his combat with the man who had insulted her. Tess saw that continued mental distress had wrought him into that somnambulistic state now. Her loyal confidence in him lay so deep down in her heart, that, awake or asleep, he inspired her with no sort of personal fear. If he had entered with a pistol in his hand he would scarcely have disturbed her trust in his protectiveness. Clare came close, and bent over her. "Dead, dead, dead!" he murmured. After fixedly regarding her for some moments with the same gaze of unmeasurable woe, he bent lower, enclosed her in his arms, and rolled her in the sheet as in a shroud. Then lifting her from the bed with as much respect as one would show to a dead body, he carried her across the room, murmuring-- "My poor, poor Tess--my dearest, darling Tess! So sweet, so good, so true!" The words of endearment, withheld so severely in his waking hours, were inexpressibly sweet to her forlorn and hungry heart. If it had been to save her weary life she would not, by moving or struggling, have put an end to the position she found herself in. Thus she lay in absolute stillness, scarcely venturing to breathe, and, wondering what he was going to do with her, suffered herself to be borne out upon the landing. "My wife--dead, dead!" he said. He paused in his labours for a moment to lean with her against the banister. Was he going to throw her down? Self-solicitude was near extinction in her, and in the knowledge that he had planned to depart on the morrow, possibly for always, she lay in his arms in this precarious position with a sense rather of luxury than of terror. If they could only fall together, and both be dashed to pieces, how fit, how desirable. However, he did not let her fall, but took advantage of the support of the handrail to imprint a kiss upon her lips--lips in the day-time scorned. Then he clasped her with a renewed firmness of hold, and descended the staircase. The creak of the loose stair did not awaken him, and they reached the ground-floor safely. Freeing one of his hands from his grasp of her for a moment, he slid back the door-bar and passed out, slightly striking his stockinged toe against the edge of the door. But this he seemed not to mind, and, having room for extension in the open air, he lifted her against his shoulder, so that he could carry her with ease, the absence of clothes taking much from his burden. Thus he bore her off the premises in the direction of the river a few yards distant. His ultimate intention, if he had any, she had not yet divined; and she found herself conjecturing on the matter as a third person might have done. So easefully had she delivered her whole being up to him that it pleased her to think he was regarding her as his absolute possession, to dispose of as he should choose. It was consoling, under the hovering terror of to-morrow's separation, to feel that he really recognized her now as his wife Tess, and did not cast her off, even if in that recognition he went so far as to arrogate to himself the right of harming her. Ah! now she knew what he was dreaming of--that Sunday morning when he had borne her along through the water with the other dairymaids, who had loved him nearly as much as she, if that were possible, which Tess could hardly admit. Clare did not cross the bridge with her, but proceeding several paces on the same side towards the adjoining mill, at length stood still on the brink of the river. Its waters, in creeping down these miles of meadowland, frequently divided, serpentining in purposeless curves, looping themselves around little islands that had no name, returning and re-embodying themselves as a broad main stream further on. Opposite the spot to which he had brought her was such a general confluence, and the river was proportionately voluminous and deep. Across it was a narrow foot-bridge; but now the autumn flood had washed the handrail away, leaving the bare plank only, which, lying a few inches above the speeding current, formed a giddy pathway for even steady heads; and Tess had noticed from the window of the house in the day-time young men walking across upon it as a feat in balancing. Her husband had possibly observed the same performance; anyhow, he now mounted the plank, and, sliding one foot forward, advanced along it. Was he going to drown her? Probably he was. The spot was lonely, the river deep and wide enough to make such a purpose easy of accomplishment. He might drown her if he would; it would be better than parting to-morrow to lead severed lives. The swift stream raced and gyrated under them, tossing, distorting, and splitting the moon's reflected face. Spots of froth travelled past, and intercepted weeds waved behind the piles. If they could both fall together into the current now, their arms would be so tightly clasped together that they could not be saved; they would go out of the world almost painlessly, and there would be no more reproach to her, or to him for marrying her. His last half-hour with her would have been a loving one, while if they lived till he awoke, his day-time aversion would return, and this hour would remain to be contemplated only as a transient dream. The impulse stirred in her, yet she dared not indulge it, to make a movement that would have precipitated them both into the gulf. How she valued her own life had been proved; but his--she had no right to tamper with it. He reached the other side with her in safety. Here they were within a plantation which formed the Abbey grounds, and taking a new hold of her he went onward a few steps till they reached the ruined choir of the Abbey-church. Against the north wall was the empty stone coffin of an abbot, in which every tourist with a turn for grim humour was accustomed to stretch himself. In this Clare carefully laid Tess. Having kissed her lips a second time he breathed deeply, as if a greatly desired end were attained. Clare then lay down on the ground alongside, when he immediately fell into the deep dead slumber of exhaustion, and remained motionless as a log. The spurt of mental excitement which had produced the effort was now over. Tess sat up in the coffin. The night, though dry and mild for the season, was more than sufficiently cold to make it dangerous for him to remain here long, in his half-clothed state. If he were left to himself he would in all probability stay there till the morning, and be chilled to certain death. She had heard of such deaths after sleep-walking. But how could she dare to awaken him, and let him know what he had been doing, when it would mortify him to discover his folly in respect of her? Tess, however, stepping out of her stone confine, shook him slightly, but was unable to arouse him without being violent. It was indispensable to do something, for she was beginning to shiver, the sheet being but a poor protection. Her excitement had in a measure kept her warm during the few minutes' adventure; but that beatific interval was over. It suddenly occurred to her to try persuasion; and accordingly she whispered in his ear, with as much firmness and decision as she could summon-- "Let us walk on, darling," at the same time taking him suggestively by the arm. To her relief, he unresistingly acquiesced; her words had apparently thrown him back into his dream, which thenceforward seemed to enter on a new phase, wherein he fancied she had risen as a spirit, and was leading him to Heaven. Thus she conducted him by the arm to the stone bridge in front of their residence, crossing which they stood at the manor-house door. Tess's feet were quite bare, and the stones hurt her, and chilled her to the bone; but Clare was in his woollen stockings, and appeared to feel no discomfort. There was no further difficulty. She induced him to lie down on his own sofa bed, and covered him up warmly, lighting a temporary fire of wood, to dry any dampness out of him. The noise of these attentions she thought might awaken him, and secretly wished that they might. But the exhaustion of his mind and body was such that he remained undisturbed. As soon as they met the next morning Tess divined that Angel knew little or nothing of how far she had been concerned in the night's excursion, though, as regarded himself, he may have been aware that he had not lain still. In truth, he had awakened that morning from a sleep deep as annihilation; and during those first few moments in which the brain, like a Samson shaking himself, is trying its strength, he had some dim notion of an unusual nocturnal proceeding. But the realities of his situation soon displaced conjecture on the other subject. He waited in expectancy to discern some mental pointing; he knew that if any intention of his, concluded over-night, did not vanish in the light of morning, it stood on a basis approximating to one of pure reason, even if initiated by impulse of feeling; that it was so far, therefore, to be trusted. He thus beheld in the pale morning light the resolve to separate from her; not as a hot and indignant instinct, but denuded of the passionateness which had made it scorch and burn; standing in its bones; nothing but a skeleton, but none the less there. Clare no longer hesitated. At breakfast, and while they were packing the few remaining articles, he showed his weariness from the night's effort so unmistakeably that Tess was on the point of revealing all that had happened; but the reflection that it would anger him, grieve him, stultify him, to know that he had instinctively manifested a fondness for her of which his common-sense did not approve, that his inclination had compromised his dignity when reason slept, again deterred her. It was too much like laughing at a man when sober for his erratic deeds during intoxication. It just crossed her mind, too, that he might have a faint recollection of his tender vagary, and was disinclined to allude to it from a conviction that she would take amatory advantage of the opportunity it gave her of appealing to him anew not to go. He had ordered by letter a vehicle from the nearest town, and soon after breakfast it arrived. She saw in it the beginning of the end--the temporary end, at least, for the revelation of his tenderness by the incident of the night raised dreams of a possible future with him. The luggage was put on the top, and the man drove them off, the miller and the old waiting-woman expressing some surprise at their precipitate departure, which Clare attributed to his discovery that the mill-work was not of the modern kind which he wished to investigate, a statement that was true so far as it went. Beyond this there was nothing in the manner of their leaving to suggest a fiasco, or that they were not going together to visit friends. Their route lay near the dairy from which they had started with such solemn joy in each other a few days back, and as Clare wished to wind up his business with Mr Crick, Tess could hardly avoid paying Mrs Crick a call at the same time, unless she would excite suspicion of their unhappy state. To make the call as unobtrusive as possible, they left the carriage by the wicket leading down from the high road to the dairy-house, and descended the track on foot, side by side. The withy-bed had been cut, and they could see over the stumps the spot to which Clare had followed her when he pressed her to be his wife; to the left the enclosure in which she had been fascinated by his harp; and far away behind the cow-stalls the mead which had been the scene of their first embrace. The gold of the summer picture was now gray, the colours mean, the rich soil mud, and the river cold. Over the barton-gate the dairyman saw them, and came forward, throwing into his face the kind of jocularity deemed appropriate in Talbothays and its vicinity on the re-appearance of the newly-married. Then Mrs Crick emerged from the house, and several others of their old acquaintance, though Marian and Retty did not seem to be there. Tess valiantly bore their sly attacks and friendly humours, which affected her far otherwise than they supposed. In the tacit agreement of husband and wife to keep their estrangement a secret they behaved as would have been ordinary. And then, although she would rather there had been no word spoken on the subject, Tess had to hear in detail the story of Marian and Retty. The later had gone home to her father's, and Marian had left to look for employment elsewhere. They feared she would come to no good. To dissipate the sadness of this recital Tess went and bade all her favourite cows goodbye, touching each of them with her hand, and as she and Clare stood side by side at leaving, as if united body and soul, there would have been something peculiarly sorry in their aspect to one who should have seen it truly; two limbs of one life, as they outwardly were, his arm touching hers, her skirts touching him, facing one way, as against all the dairy facing the other, speaking in their adieux as "we", and yet sundered like the poles. Perhaps something unusually stiff and embarrassed in their attitude, some awkwardness in acting up to their profession of unity, different from the natural shyness of young couples, may have been apparent, for when they were gone Mrs Crick said to her husband-- "How onnatural the brightness of her eyes did seem, and how they stood like waxen images and talked as if they were in a dream! Didn't it strike 'ee that 'twas so? Tess had always sommat strange in her, and she's not now quite like the proud young bride of a well-be-doing man." They re-entered the vehicle, and were driven along the roads towards Weatherbury and Stagfoot Lane, till they reached the Lane inn, where Clare dismissed the fly and man. They rested here a while, and entering the Vale were next driven onward towards her home by a stranger who did not know their relations. At a midway point, when Nuttlebury had been passed, and where there were cross-roads, Clare stopped the conveyance and said to Tess that if she meant to return to her mother's house it was here that he would leave her. As they could not talk with freedom in the driver's presence he asked her to accompany him for a few steps on foot along one of the branch roads; she assented, and directing the man to wait a few minutes they strolled away. "Now, let us understand each other," he said gently. "There is no anger between us, though there is that which I cannot endure at present. I will try to bring myself to endure it. I will let you know where I go to as soon as I know myself. And if I can bring myself to bear it--if it is desirable, possible--I will come to you. But until I come to you it will be better that you should not try to come to me." The severity of the decree seemed deadly to Tess; she saw his view of her clearly enough; he could regard her in no other light than that of one who had practised gross deceit upon him. Yet could a woman who had done even what she had done deserve all this? But she could contest the point with him no further. She simply repeated after him his own words. "Until you come to me I must not try to come to you?" "Just so." "May I write to you?" "O yes--if you are ill, or want anything at all. I hope that will not be the case; so that it may happen that I write first to you." "I agree to the conditions, Angel; because you know best what my punishment ought to be; only--only--don't make it more than I can bear!" That was all she said on the matter. If Tess had been artful, had she made a scene, fainted, wept hysterically, in that lonely lane, notwithstanding the fury of fastidiousness with which he was possessed, he would probably not have withstood her. But her mood of long-suffering made his way easy for him, and she herself was his best advocate. Pride, too, entered into her submission--which perhaps was a symptom of that reckless acquiescence in chance too apparent in the whole d'Urberville family--and the many effective chords which she could have stirred by an appeal were left untouched. The remainder of their discourse was on practical matters only. He now handed her a packet containing a fairly good sum of money, which he had obtained from his bankers for the purpose. The brilliants, the interest in which seemed to be Tess's for her life only (if he understood the wording of the will), he advised her to let him send to a bank for safety; and to this she readily agreed. These things arranged, he walked with Tess back to the carriage, and handed her in. The coachman was paid and told where to drive her. Taking next his own bag and umbrella--the sole articles he had brought with him hitherwards--he bade her goodbye; and they parted there and then. The fly moved creepingly up a hill, and Clare watched it go with an unpremeditated hope that Tess would look out of the window for one moment. But that she never thought of doing, would not have ventured to do, lying in a half-dead faint inside. Thus he beheld her recede, and in the anguish of his heart quoted a line from a poet, with peculiar emendations of his own-- God's NOT in his heaven: All's WRONG with the world! When Tess had passed over the crest of the hill he turned to go his own way, and hardly knew that he loved her still.

Chapter 37

https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-5-chapters-35-44

At midnight, Angel enters the bedroom to find Tess, who was asleep. Standing still, he murmurs in an indescribably sad tone "dead, dead, dead. Angel occasionally walks in his sleep as he does now. Tess sees this continued mental distress. Angel bends low and encloses Tess in his arms, and rolls her in the sheet as in a shroud. He lifts her from the bed and carries her across the room, murmuring "my dearest darling Tess. So sweet so good, so true. He leans her against the banister as if to throw her down, but rather kisses her and descends the staircase. Tess cannot determine Angel's ultimate intention, but finally realizes that he is dreaming about the Sunday when he carried her across the water with the other milkmaids. He carries her near the river, and she believes he may drown her. He walks through the shallow areas of the river carrying her, but they reach the other side in safety; if she had awakened him, they would have fallen into the gulf and both died. Angel carries her to the empty stone coffin of an abbot, where he lays Tess and then falls down asleep. Tess sits up in the coffin, but does not awake Angel out of fear that he may die if awakened from sleep-walking. She walks him back to the house and induces him to lay down on the sofa bed. The next morning, Angel seems to know nothing about the previous night's events. The two leave Wellbridge to return to Talbothays to pay a visit to the Cricks. At Talbothays, Tess learns that Marian and Retty have left Talbothays, and she fears they will come to no good. After Tess and Angel leave, Mrs. Crick remarks how unnatural the two look, as if they were in a dream. Angel tells Tess that he has no anger, and he will let her know where he is going as soon as he himself knows. He tells her that until he comes to her she should not come to him, and that she should write if she is ill or if she wants anything.

Hardy explores the depths to which Angel has been wounded by Tess's revelation in this chapter, in which Angel, while sleepwalking, reveals the great psychological torment that he feels. He so fervently believes that his wife is dead that he carries her to a coffin and lays her there. This is a departure from previous chapters in which Hardy has portrayed Angel as coldly observing his principles without any display of affection for his wife. Here the unconscious Angel shows that he still loves the previous conception he had of Tess, yet cannot reconcile it with this new information about her. His anguish is so great that it possesses him while asleep. However, that Angel cannot realize what he has done while sleepwalking demonstrates that he is unaware of the deep emotional vein of his torment; rather, he focuses on the intellectual disappointment. If Hardy allows Angel greater sympathy in this chapter, he also shows the degree to which Tess will sacrifice herself for her husband. Tess remains completely submissive to her sleepwalking husband as he carries her across the river and to the cemetery. She remains open to the possibility that he may murder her or cause their mutual death, but remains still rather than disturb Angel. Tess therefore makes manifest her promise to Angel in previous chapters by leaving her life in his hands. The final separation of Tess and Angel that ends this chapter leaves some degree of room for consideration. Angel remains calm, as always, yet realizes that it is he who must change before he can accept Tess again. He therefore places the burden of acceptance on himself rather than on Tess, while still allowing for her sustenance. Angel takes grudging steps toward admitting his own fallibility; his struggle to sacrifice his principles for greater ones and Tess's reaction to her new fate will provide a great deal of the narrative drive of the rest of the novel

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/20.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Lord Jim/section_19_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 20

chapter 20

{"name": "Chapter 20", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim29.asp", "summary": "Marlow goes to meet Stein in the evening. They first talk about Stein's hobby, and he tells Marlow about how he came to capture his prize butterfly specimen that is proudly displayed. One day, while living at one of his outposts, he was ambushed. He succeeded in killing three soldiers and scaring the others away. As he looked at one of the dead men, a butterfly flew over the face of the corpse. It was a rare butterfly, one that Stein had searched for his whole life. He managed to capture it with his hat. At that moment, he felt his life was perfection. He had conquered his enemies, had captured his perfect butterfly, and had a beautiful wife and daughter waiting for him. That butterfly is the one he so proudly displays in his glass case. Marlow then tells Stein all about Jim. Stein listens patiently and remarks that the young man is obviously a romantic. Marlow asks how he can be cured. Stein responds that a romantic is never cured; instead, he must learn to live with his romanticism. Stein, who seems to understand Jim and his problems, says his best advice to a romantic is \"to the destructive element submit yourself.\" To Stein, reality is only a dream that should be held at a distance, for in the end it does not matter. He adds that Jim's problem is that he takes matters \"too much to heart.\" Stein wants time to thinks about how he can help Jim. He convinces Marlow that he should spend the night. In the morning Stein promises to find a practical solution. He leads Marlow to his room and bids him goodnight.", "analysis": "Notes More detail is given about Stein in this chapter. He had lost his wife and daughter within three days of each other. When the loss became unbearable, he left the country for awhile. Then he became very involved in his hobby of catching and collecting beetles and butterflies, many of which are displayed in glass cases in his home. He tells Marlow that a butterfly is a masterpiece of nature, unlike man. He also tells of catching his perfect butterfly specimen. The story shows that Stein is a total romantic. It is clear that Stein has learned from his past experiences and knows how to handle people. He identifies with the story of Jim, for, like him, he has had bad experiences and lost opportunities. He also understands romantics, like Jim, since he is one himself. He knows that Jim must learn to live with his romanticism and not take matters too seriously. It is important to note that this chapter serves as the transition between the first and second parts of the novel. Jim's new life is about to begin, with the help of Stein."}

'Late in the evening I entered his study, after traversing an imposing but empty dining-room very dimly lit. The house was silent. I was preceded by an elderly grim Javanese servant in a sort of livery of white jacket and yellow sarong, who, after throwing the door open, exclaimed low, "O master!" and stepping aside, vanished in a mysterious way as though he had been a ghost only momentarily embodied for that particular service. Stein turned round with the chair, and in the same movement his spectacles seemed to get pushed up on his forehead. He welcomed me in his quiet and humorous voice. Only one corner of the vast room, the corner in which stood his writing-desk, was strongly lighted by a shaded reading-lamp, and the rest of the spacious apartment melted into shapeless gloom like a cavern. Narrow shelves filled with dark boxes of uniform shape and colour ran round the walls, not from floor to ceiling, but in a sombre belt about four feet broad. Catacombs of beetles. Wooden tablets were hung above at irregular intervals. The light reached one of them, and the word Coleoptera written in gold letters glittered mysteriously upon a vast dimness. The glass cases containing the collection of butterflies were ranged in three long rows upon slender-legged little tables. One of these cases had been removed from its place and stood on the desk, which was bestrewn with oblong slips of paper blackened with minute handwriting. '"So you see me--so," he said. His hand hovered over the case where a butterfly in solitary grandeur spread out dark bronze wings, seven inches or more across, with exquisite white veinings and a gorgeous border of yellow spots. "Only one specimen like this they have in _your_ London, and then--no more. To my small native town this my collection I shall bequeath. Something of me. The best." 'He bent forward in the chair and gazed intently, his chin over the front of the case. I stood at his back. "Marvellous," he whispered, and seemed to forget my presence. His history was curious. He had been born in Bavaria, and when a youth of twenty-two had taken an active part in the revolutionary movement of 1848. Heavily compromised, he managed to make his escape, and at first found a refuge with a poor republican watchmaker in Trieste. From there he made his way to Tripoli with a stock of cheap watches to hawk about,--not a very great opening truly, but it turned out lucky enough, because it was there he came upon a Dutch traveller--a rather famous man, I believe, but I don't remember his name. It was that naturalist who, engaging him as a sort of assistant, took him to the East. They travelled in the Archipelago together and separately, collecting insects and birds, for four years or more. Then the naturalist went home, and Stein, having no home to go to, remained with an old trader he had come across in his journeys in the interior of Celebes--if Celebes may be said to have an interior. This old Scotsman, the only white man allowed to reside in the country at the time, was a privileged friend of the chief ruler of Wajo States, who was a woman. I often heard Stein relate how that chap, who was slightly paralysed on one side, had introduced him to the native court a short time before another stroke carried him off. He was a heavy man with a patriarchal white beard, and of imposing stature. He came into the council-hall where all the rajahs, pangerans, and headmen were assembled, with the queen, a fat wrinkled woman (very free in her speech, Stein said), reclining on a high couch under a canopy. He dragged his leg, thumping with his stick, and grasped Stein's arm, leading him right up to the couch. "Look, queen, and you rajahs, this is my son," he proclaimed in a stentorian voice. "I have traded with your fathers, and when I die he shall trade with you and your sons." 'By means of this simple formality Stein inherited the Scotsman's privileged position and all his stock-in-trade, together with a fortified house on the banks of the only navigable river in the country. Shortly afterwards the old queen, who was so free in her speech, died, and the country became disturbed by various pretenders to the throne. Stein joined the party of a younger son, the one of whom thirty years later he never spoke otherwise but as "my poor Mohammed Bonso." They both became the heroes of innumerable exploits; they had wonderful adventures, and once stood a siege in the Scotsman's house for a month, with only a score of followers against a whole army. I believe the natives talk of that war to this day. Meantime, it seems, Stein never failed to annex on his own account every butterfly or beetle he could lay hands on. After some eight years of war, negotiations, false truces, sudden outbreaks, reconciliation, treachery, and so on, and just as peace seemed at last permanently established, his "poor Mohammed Bonso" was assassinated at the gate of his own royal residence while dismounting in the highest spirits on his return from a successful deer-hunt. This event rendered Stein's position extremely insecure, but he would have stayed perhaps had it not been that a short time afterwards he lost Mohammed's sister ("my dear wife the princess," he used to say solemnly), by whom he had had a daughter--mother and child both dying within three days of each other from some infectious fever. He left the country, which this cruel loss had made unbearable to him. Thus ended the first and adventurous part of his existence. What followed was so different that, but for the reality of sorrow which remained with him, this strange part must have resembled a dream. He had a little money; he started life afresh, and in the course of years acquired a considerable fortune. At first he had travelled a good deal amongst the islands, but age had stolen upon him, and of late he seldom left his spacious house three miles out of town, with an extensive garden, and surrounded by stables, offices, and bamboo cottages for his servants and dependants, of whom he had many. He drove in his buggy every morning to town, where he had an office with white and Chinese clerks. He owned a small fleet of schooners and native craft, and dealt in island produce on a large scale. For the rest he lived solitary, but not misanthropic, with his books and his collection, classing and arranging specimens, corresponding with entomologists in Europe, writing up a descriptive catalogue of his treasures. Such was the history of the man whom I had come to consult upon Jim's case without any definite hope. Simply to hear what he would have to say would have been a relief. I was very anxious, but I respected the intense, almost passionate, absorption with which he looked at a butterfly, as though on the bronze sheen of these frail wings, in the white tracings, in the gorgeous markings, he could see other things, an image of something as perishable and defying destruction as these delicate and lifeless tissues displaying a splendour unmarred by death. '"Marvellous!" he repeated, looking up at me. "Look! The beauty--but that is nothing--look at the accuracy, the harmony. And so fragile! And so strong! And so exact! This is Nature--the balance of colossal forces. Every star is so--and every blade of grass stands so--and the mighty Kosmos ib perfect equilibrium produces--this. This wonder; this masterpiece of Nature--the great artist." '"Never heard an entomologist go on like this," I observed cheerfully. "Masterpiece! And what of man?" '"Man is amazing, but he is not a masterpiece," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the glass case. "Perhaps the artist was a little mad. Eh? What do you think? Sometimes it seems to me that man is come where he is not wanted, where there is no place for him; for if not, why should he want all the place? Why should he run about here and there making a great noise about himself, talking about the stars, disturbing the blades of grass? . . ." '"Catching butterflies," I chimed in. 'He smiled, threw himself back in his chair, and stretched his legs. "Sit down," he said. "I captured this rare specimen myself one very fine morning. And I had a very big emotion. You don't know what it is for a collector to capture such a rare specimen. You can't know." 'I smiled at my ease in a rocking-chair. His eyes seemed to look far beyond the wall at which they stared; and he narrated how, one night, a messenger arrived from his "poor Mohammed," requiring his presence at the "residenz"--as he called it--which was distant some nine or ten miles by a bridle-path over a cultivated plain, with patches of forest here and there. Early in the morning he started from his fortified house, after embracing his little Emma, and leaving the "princess," his wife, in command. He described how she came with him as far as the gate, walking with one hand on the neck of his horse; she had on a white jacket, gold pins in her hair, and a brown leather belt over her left shoulder with a revolver in it. "She talked as women will talk," he said, "telling me to be careful, and to try to get back before dark, and what a great wickedness it was for me to go alone. We were at war, and the country was not safe; my men were putting up bullet-proof shutters to the house and loading their rifles, and she begged me to have no fear for her. She could defend the house against anybody till I returned. And I laughed with pleasure a little. I liked to see her so brave and young and strong. I too was young then. At the gate she caught hold of my hand and gave it one squeeze and fell back. I made my horse stand still outside till I heard the bars of the gate put up behind me. There was a great enemy of mine, a great noble--and a great rascal too--roaming with a band in the neighbourhood. I cantered for four or five miles; there had been rain in the night, but the musts had gone up, up--and the face of the earth was clean; it lay smiling to me, so fresh and innocent--like a little child. Suddenly somebody fires a volley--twenty shots at least it seemed to me. I hear bullets sing in my ear, and my hat jumps to the back of my head. It was a little intrigue, you understand. They got my poor Mohammed to send for me and then laid that ambush. I see it all in a minute, and I think--This wants a little management. My pony snort, jump, and stand, and I fall slowly forward with my head on his mane. He begins to walk, and with one eye I could see over his neck a faint cloud of smoke hanging in front of a clump of bamboos to my left. I think--Aha! my friends, why you not wait long enough before you shoot? This is not yet gelungen. Oh no! I get hold of my revolver with my right hand--quiet--quiet. After all, there were only seven of these rascals. They get up from the grass and start running with their sarongs tucked up, waving spears above their heads, and yelling to each other to look out and catch the horse, because I was dead. I let them come as close as the door here, and then bang, bang, bang--take aim each time too. One more shot I fire at a man's back, but I miss. Too far already. And then I sit alone on my horse with the clean earth smiling at me, and there are the bodies of three men lying on the ground. One was curled up like a dog, another on his back had an arm over his eyes as if to keep off the sun, and the third man he draws up his leg very slowly and makes it with one kick straight again. I watch him very carefully from my horse, but there is no more--bleibt ganz ruhig--keep still, so. And as I looked at his face for some sign of life I observed something like a faint shadow pass over his forehead. It was the shadow of this butterfly. Look at the form of the wing. This species fly high with a strong flight. I raised my eyes and I saw him fluttering away. I think--Can it be possible? And then I lost him. I dismounted and went on very slow, leading my horse and holding my revolver with one hand and my eyes darting up and down and right and left, everywhere! At last I saw him sitting on a small heap of dirt ten feet away. At once my heart began to beat quick. I let go my horse, keep my revolver in one hand, and with the other snatch my soft felt hat off my head. One step. Steady. Another step. Flop! I got him! When I got up I shook like a leaf with excitement, and when I opened these beautiful wings and made sure what a rare and so extraordinary perfect specimen I had, my head went round and my legs became so weak with emotion that I had to sit on the ground. I had greatly desired to possess myself of a specimen of that species when collecting for the professor. I took long journeys and underwent great privations; I had dreamed of him in my sleep, and here suddenly I had him in my fingers--for myself! In the words of the poet" (he pronounced it "boet")-- "'So halt' ich's endlich denn in meinen Handen, Und nenn' es in gewissem Sinne mein.'" He gave to the last word the emphasis of a suddenly lowered voice, and withdrew his eyes slowly from my face. He began to charge a long-stemmed pipe busily and in silence, then, pausing with his thumb on the orifice of the bowl, looked again at me significantly. '"Yes, my good friend. On that day I had nothing to desire; I had greatly annoyed my principal enemy; I was young, strong; I had friendship; I had the love" (he said "lof") "of woman, a child I had, to make my heart very full--and even what I had once dreamed in my sleep had come into my hand too!" 'He struck a match, which flared violently. His thoughtful placid face twitched once. '"Friend, wife, child," he said slowly, gazing at the small flame--"phoo!" The match was blown out. He sighed and turned again to the glass case. The frail and beautiful wings quivered faintly, as if his breath had for an instant called back to life that gorgeous object of his dreams. '"The work," he began suddenly, pointing to the scattered slips, and in his usual gentle and cheery tone, "is making great progress. I have been this rare specimen describing. . . . Na! And what is your good news?" '"To tell you the truth, Stein," I said with an effort that surprised me, "I came here to describe a specimen. . . ." '"Butterfly?" he asked, with an unbelieving and humorous eagerness. '"Nothing so perfect," I answered, feeling suddenly dispirited with all sorts of doubts. "A man!" '"Ach so!" he murmured, and his smiling countenance, turned to me, became grave. Then after looking at me for a while he said slowly, "Well--I am a man too." 'Here you have him as he was; he knew how to be so generously encouraging as to make a scrupulous man hesitate on the brink of confidence; but if I did hesitate it was not for long. 'He heard me out, sitting with crossed legs. Sometimes his head would disappear completely in a great eruption of smoke, and a sympathetic growl would come out from the cloud. When I finished he uncrossed his legs, laid down his pipe, leaned forward towards me earnestly with his elbows on the arms of his chair, the tips of his fingers together. '"I understand very well. He is romantic." 'He had diagnosed the case for me, and at first I was quite startled to find how simple it was; and indeed our conference resembled so much a medical consultation--Stein, of learned aspect, sitting in an arm-chair before his desk; I, anxious, in another, facing him, but a little to one side--that it seemed natural to ask-- '"What's good for it?" 'He lifted up a long forefinger. '"There is only one remedy! One thing alone can us from being ourselves cure!" The finger came down on the desk with a smart rap. The case which he had made to look so simple before became if possible still simpler--and altogether hopeless. There was a pause. "Yes," said I, "strictly speaking, the question is not how to get cured, but how to live." 'He approved with his head, a little sadly as it seemed. "Ja! ja! In general, adapting the words of your great poet: That is the question. . . ." He went on nodding sympathetically. . . . "How to be! Ach! How to be." 'He stood up with the tips of his fingers resting on the desk. '"We want in so many different ways to be," he began again. "This magnificent butterfly finds a little heap of dirt and sits still on it; but man he will never on his heap of mud keep still. He want to be so, and again he want to be so. . . ." He moved his hand up, then down. . . . "He wants to be a saint, and he wants to be a devil--and every time he shuts his eyes he sees himself as a very fine fellow--so fine as he can never be. . . . In a dream. . . ." 'He lowered the glass lid, the automatic lock clicked sharply, and taking up the case in both hands he bore it religiously away to its place, passing out of the bright circle of the lamp into the ring of fainter light--into shapeless dusk at last. It had an odd effect--as if these few steps had carried him out of this concrete and perplexed world. His tall form, as though robbed of its substance, hovered noiselessly over invisible things with stooping and indefinite movements; his voice, heard in that remoteness where he could be glimpsed mysteriously busy with immaterial cares, was no longer incisive, seemed to roll voluminous and grave--mellowed by distance. '"And because you not always can keep your eyes shut there comes the real trouble--the heart pain--the world pain. I tell you, my friend, it is not good for you to find you cannot make your dream come true, for the reason that you not strong enough are, or not clever enough. . . . Ja! . . . And all the time you are such a fine fellow too! Wie? Was? Gott im Himmel! How can that be? Ha! ha! ha!" 'The shadow prowling amongst the graves of butterflies laughed boisterously. '"Yes! Very funny this terrible thing is. A man that is born falls into a dream like a man who falls into the sea. If he tries to climb out into the air as inexperienced people endeavour to do, he drowns--nicht wahr? . . . No! I tell you! The way is to the destructive element submit yourself, and with the exertions of your hands and feet in the water make the deep, deep sea keep you up. So if you ask me--how to be?" 'His voice leaped up extraordinarily strong, as though away there in the dusk he had been inspired by some whisper of knowledge. "I will tell you! For that too there is only one way." 'With a hasty swish-swish of his slippers he loomed up in the ring of faint light, and suddenly appeared in the bright circle of the lamp. His extended hand aimed at my breast like a pistol; his deepset eyes seemed to pierce through me, but his twitching lips uttered no word, and the austere exaltation of a certitude seen in the dusk vanished from his face. The hand that had been pointing at my breast fell, and by-and-by, coming a step nearer, he laid it gently on my shoulder. There were things, he said mournfully, that perhaps could never be told, only he had lived so much alone that sometimes he forgot--he forgot. The light had destroyed the assurance which had inspired him in the distant shadows. He sat down and, with both elbows on the desk, rubbed his forehead. "And yet it is true--it is true. In the destructive element immerse." . . . He spoke in a subdued tone, without looking at me, one hand on each side of his face. "That was the way. To follow the dream, and again to follow the dream--and so--ewig--usque ad finem. . . ." The whisper of his conviction seemed to open before me a vast and uncertain expanse, as of a crepuscular horizon on a plain at dawn--or was it, perchance, at the coming of the night? One had not the courage to decide; but it was a charming and deceptive light, throwing the impalpable poesy of its dimness over pitfalls--over graves. His life had begun in sacrifice, in enthusiasm for generous ideas; he had travelled very far, on various ways, on strange paths, and whatever he followed it had been without faltering, and therefore without shame and without regret. In so far he was right. That was the way, no doubt. Yet for all that, the great plain on which men wander amongst graves and pitfalls remained very desolate under the impalpable poesy of its crepuscular light, overshadowed in the centre, circled with a bright edge as if surrounded by an abyss full of flames. When at last I broke the silence it was to express the opinion that no one could be more romantic than himself. 'He shook his head slowly, and afterwards looked at me with a patient and inquiring glance. It was a shame, he said. There we were sitting and talking like two boys, instead of putting our heads together to find something practical--a practical remedy--for the evil--for the great evil--he repeated, with a humorous and indulgent smile. For all that, our talk did not grow more practical. We avoided pronouncing Jim's name as though we had tried to keep flesh and blood out of our discussion, or he were nothing but an erring spirit, a suffering and nameless shade. "Na!" said Stein, rising. "To-night you sleep here, and in the morning we shall do something practical--practical. . . ." He lit a two-branched candlestick and led the way. We passed through empty dark rooms, escorted by gleams from the lights Stein carried. They glided along the waxed floors, sweeping here and there over the polished surface of a table, leaped upon a fragmentary curve of a piece of furniture, or flashed perpendicularly in and out of distant mirrors, while the forms of two men and the flicker of two flames could be seen for a moment stealing silently across the depths of a crystalline void. He walked slowly a pace in advance with stooping courtesy; there was a profound, as it were a listening, quietude on his face; the long flaxen locks mixed with white threads were scattered thinly upon his slightly bowed neck. '"He is romantic--romantic," he repeated. "And that is very bad--very bad. . . . Very good, too," he added. "But _is he_?" I queried. '"Gewiss," he said, and stood still holding up the candelabrum, but without looking at me. "Evident! What is it that by inward pain makes him know himself? What is it that for you and me makes him--exist?" 'At that moment it was difficult to believe in Jim's existence--starting from a country parsonage, blurred by crowds of men as by clouds of dust, silenced by the clashing claims of life and death in a material world--but his imperishable reality came to me with a convincing, with an irresistible force! I saw it vividly, as though in our progress through the lofty silent rooms amongst fleeting gleams of light and the sudden revelations of human figures stealing with flickering flames within unfathomable and pellucid depths, we had approached nearer to absolute Truth, which, like Beauty itself, floats elusive, obscure, half submerged, in the silent still waters of mystery. "Perhaps he is," I admitted with a slight laugh, whose unexpectedly loud reverberation made me lower my voice directly; "but I am sure you are." With his head dropping on his breast and the light held high he began to walk again. "Well--I exist, too," he said. 'He preceded me. My eyes followed his movements, but what I did see was not the head of the firm, the welcome guest at afternoon receptions, the correspondent of learned societies, the entertainer of stray naturalists; I saw only the reality of his destiny, which he had known how to follow with unfaltering footsteps, that life begun in humble surroundings, rich in generous enthusiasms, in friendship, love, war--in all the exalted elements of romance. At the door of my room he faced me. "Yes," I said, as though carrying on a discussion, "and amongst other things you dreamed foolishly of a certain butterfly; but when one fine morning your dream came in your way you did not let the splendid opportunity escape. Did you? Whereas he . . ." Stein lifted his hand. "And do you know how many opportunities I let escape; how many dreams I had lost that had come in my way?" He shook his head regretfully. "It seems to me that some would have been very fine--if I had made them come true. Do you know how many? Perhaps I myself don't know." "Whether his were fine or not," I said, "he knows of one which he certainly did not catch." "Everybody knows of one or two like that," said Stein; "and that is the trouble--the great trouble. . . ." 'He shook hands on the threshold, peered into my room under his raised arm. "Sleep well. And to-morrow we must do something practical--practical. . . ." 'Though his own room was beyond mine I saw him return the way he came. He was going back to his butterflies.'

Chapter 20

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim29.asp

Marlow goes to meet Stein in the evening. They first talk about Stein's hobby, and he tells Marlow about how he came to capture his prize butterfly specimen that is proudly displayed. One day, while living at one of his outposts, he was ambushed. He succeeded in killing three soldiers and scaring the others away. As he looked at one of the dead men, a butterfly flew over the face of the corpse. It was a rare butterfly, one that Stein had searched for his whole life. He managed to capture it with his hat. At that moment, he felt his life was perfection. He had conquered his enemies, had captured his perfect butterfly, and had a beautiful wife and daughter waiting for him. That butterfly is the one he so proudly displays in his glass case. Marlow then tells Stein all about Jim. Stein listens patiently and remarks that the young man is obviously a romantic. Marlow asks how he can be cured. Stein responds that a romantic is never cured; instead, he must learn to live with his romanticism. Stein, who seems to understand Jim and his problems, says his best advice to a romantic is "to the destructive element submit yourself." To Stein, reality is only a dream that should be held at a distance, for in the end it does not matter. He adds that Jim's problem is that he takes matters "too much to heart." Stein wants time to thinks about how he can help Jim. He convinces Marlow that he should spend the night. In the morning Stein promises to find a practical solution. He leads Marlow to his room and bids him goodnight.

Notes More detail is given about Stein in this chapter. He had lost his wife and daughter within three days of each other. When the loss became unbearable, he left the country for awhile. Then he became very involved in his hobby of catching and collecting beetles and butterflies, many of which are displayed in glass cases in his home. He tells Marlow that a butterfly is a masterpiece of nature, unlike man. He also tells of catching his perfect butterfly specimen. The story shows that Stein is a total romantic. It is clear that Stein has learned from his past experiences and knows how to handle people. He identifies with the story of Jim, for, like him, he has had bad experiences and lost opportunities. He also understands romantics, like Jim, since he is one himself. He knows that Jim must learn to live with his romanticism and not take matters too seriously. It is important to note that this chapter serves as the transition between the first and second parts of the novel. Jim's new life is about to begin, with the help of Stein.

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all_chapterized_books/2166-chapters/chapters_7_to_8.txt

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King Solomon's Mines.chapters 7-8

chapters 7-8

{"name": "Chapters 7 and 8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200804024551/https://www.gradesaver.com/king-solomons-mines/study-guide/summary-chapters-7-and-8", "summary": "The men come to their senses outside the cave of death. Sir Henry states his intention to go back inside to determine if they have just been frightened by the remains of his lost brother. The others accompany him. They discover that the corpse is not George's, but instead that of the old Dom, Jose da Silvestra, who journeyed here three hundred years ago. They are amazed by the cave's preservation of his body, but ascribe it to the extreme cold and lack of sunlight so far back in the cavern. They find the bone he used to draw the ancient map, as well as the \"ink\" he used: blood drawn from a self-inflicted wound in his left arm. Before they leave, Sir Henry places the frozen body of Ventvogel next to Jose da Silvestra and takes the dead Dom's crucifix from his frozen hands. The men travel about half a mile and come to the edge of a plateau. When the morning mists clear, they are able to see a herd of what are apparently antelopes grazing in the distance. Forced to choose between guns which are either more accurate or more deadly, Quatermain chooses the deadlier weapons, counting on the three men firing to take down at least one of the animals. The men fire and see one of the animals in its death throes while the others flee. They are unable to determine which shot killed the creature, but Quatermain believes Captain Good secretly gave himself credit for it as a follow-up to his amazing feat of shooting the giraffe earlier in their expedition. The men butcher the dead animals, but have no means of starting a fire so they must eat the meat raw. Despite the primitive preparations, they find the meal satisfying and restorative. Upon closer inspection, Quatermain determines that the animal is some donkey-sized species of antelope which he has never seen before. Their hunger satisfied, the men take in the scene around them. Where they previously traveled in desert wastes or snowy bleakness, they now find themselves surrounded by a flowing stream on one side, grassy veldt on another, and forests in the third direction. Consulting the map, they see an indicator for \"Solomon's Road,\" and so follow the direction to see if they can find it. Soon they find the remains of the man-made road, dressed stones and all, but are bewildered by the fact that it appears to begin at their location. Captain Good postulates that the road at one time extended much further through the mountains, but that the sands of the desert have covered it over time. The men follow the road and find stones upon which are engraved scenes of chariot-borne men in combat or leading slaves into captivity. While they recognize their route as the \"Solomon's Road\" of the map, Sir Henry declares that the images are of Egyptians who were there long before Solomon. Once they reach the lower part of the mountain, the men come to a wood of silvery-leafed trees. They use the wood to build a fire and cook the meat they have stored. The nearby stream lulls the men into restfulness. Even Quatermain takes time to close his eyes for a while. When he rouses himself, Quatermain looks about for Captain Good. He finds the man wearing only his flannel shirt and boots, attempting to shave himself with a safety razor and animal fat. When he is halfway through shaving his face, something bright flashes near him. Now alert, the men see a group of men remarkably similar in skin color to Umbopa approaching with spears at the ready. The men ready their firearms, but the strangers advance. From this, Quatermain deduces that the men are unfamiliar with guns and so orders the rest of the party to lower their weapons. The strangers draw near and ask who the party is and where they come from, since the three white men are a strange sight to them. They proceed to tell the hunters that their lives are forfeit for having trespassed upon the land of the Kukuanas. Captain Good chooses this moment to continue his nervous habit of removing his false teeth with his tongue. The Kukuanas see this and are amazed at the sight. Good subtly removes them entirely from his mouth, giving the aggressors a toothless smile to prove that they are gone. He then puts them back in and smiles, convincing them that he can withdraw and grow his teeth at will. The Kukuanas are frightened by this strange man who grows hair on only one side of his face , has a shining eye , walks about only in a shirt to show off his white legs, and can remove and regrow his teeth. Quatermain seizes upon this bewilderment to claim that the three white men are indeed spirits from a distant star, and that Umbopa is their servant. The Kukuanas leader decides that the men are spirits and must be feared and obeyed, but he still has reservations. The Kakuanas speak a dialect of Zulu much older than the one currently employed by Quatermain and Umbopa, so he senses a problem in their knowledge. Quatermain changes the stakes by getting his \"talking stick\" and killing an antelope from far away. Claiming that he can kill with only a sound, he challenges any of the Kakuanas to try their skepticism against his firepower. They of course decline. The old man introduces himself as Infadoos and the young man who threw his knife at Good as Scragga. Scragga is the king's son, and Infadoos is his uncle. Their king is \"Twala the One-eyed, the Black, the Terrible.\" Quatermain demands that they be taken to Twala. The party begins to set out, but Infadoos and the other Kakuanas are mystified by Captain Good's attempt to put his trousers on. They cannot conceive of his covering his \"beautiful white legs\" and the rest of the party agrees: Captain Good must play the part of strange spirit by keeping his pants off and his face half-shaven for the remainder of their trip. Good is frustrated by this, but Quatermain is barely able to withhold his laughter. They two groups set off together. As the party travels along the road, Quatermain asks Infadoos about its origins. Infadoos admits that neither he nor his people know who built this roadway originally; all he knows is that the king keeps it from becoming overgrown with weeds. When asked who carved the sculptures in the walls the men saw previously, Infadoos must again plead ignorance. When Quatermain asks Infadoos about the arrival of the Kukuanas to this land, Infadoos is more well-informed. He claims his people came to this area \"ten thousand moons ago\" but could travel no further because of the great ring of mountains. Here they prepare for combat until such time as war erupts. When asked who they could fight, being isolated as they are, Infadoos explains that there is an open area to the north from which another people sometimes descend upon the Kukuanas, although the Kukuanas have always been successful in defending themselves. But the last war against the outer tribe was fought long ago, so Quatermain wonders if the warriors do not become weary of training without actually finding combat. Infadoos explains that there was a recent conflict--a civil war. Infadoos' father, Kafa, had twin sons by another wife. These twins were Twala and his slightly elder brother, Imotu. Despite the Kukuanas custom of killing the weaker twin, the wise woman Gagool hid Twala from the rest of the tribe until he was fully grown. Imotu was made king upon Kafa's death, but when Imotu became ill Gagool and Twala made their move: Gagool presented Twala to the tribe as their \"hidden\" king, indicating a serpentine birthmark around his waist that indicates his royal heritage. Imotu hears the people crying out for their new king and exits his tent to investigate, only to be treacherously stabbed by his brother Twala. Imotu's wife and child flee and are never heard from again. Quatermain asks about this child, whose name is Ignosi , and if he would be the rightful king Infadoos believes he would be, were he to possess that special mark of kingship, the snake image around his waist. Quatermain then discovers that Umbopa has been taking a keen interest in this story, but does not delve into why this should be. The men reach an outlying Kukuana kraal and take in the sights. The land is more lush and verdant than the Transvaal, and the people are amazing to behold. The men all seem to be at least forty years old and tall--the shortest is about six feet tall, and many are several inches taller. The women are dark-skinned like the men, but possess more European features than their counterparts among the Zulus. An ox is killed and a feast begun in honor of these supernatural guests. While the food is good, Quatermain fears that the Kukuanas are losing their sense of awe over the white travelers from the stars as they see the men walk, talk, eat, and sleep like normal human beings. While maintaining outward serenity, the men hold in check an inner fear of betrayal at the hands of the Kukuanas. At night, the four men agree to keep at least one man on watch, while the others sleep.", "analysis": "It is in this chapter that the \"Lost World\" motif of Haggard's tale is introduced. It comes subtly, first hinted at by the unknown species of antelope the men are able to hunt for food. That an experienced hunter such as Quatermain can confess, \"I had never seen one like it before, the species was new to me\" introduces a detail of the unknown for the reader to assimilate prior to the more otherworldly elements about to be presented. First among the more alien details is the discovery of Solomon's Road. Moving from the uninhabited desert to the only slightly populated mountains, the men find themselves suddenly traveling along a path of dressed stones, \"with arches pierced at the bottom for a water-way, over which the road went sublimely on\" . The find \"quaint sculptures mostly of mailed figures driving in chariots,\" which leads Sir Henry to declare the lost roadworks to predate even King Solomon: \"the Egyiptioans have been here before Solomon's people ever set a foot on it\" . The mystery of their destination is thus further deepened by the antiquity of this now-departed civilization. Finally, Haggard plunges his readers firmly into the \"Lost World\" with the arrival of the Kukuanas, hunters who have no experience with white men or their ways. Thus, Good's false teeth, monocle, and white legs lead them to conclude the men are spirits. Again the spirit of the age shows itself in the exploitative stance Quatermain takes with the Kukuanas: \"We come from another world, though we are men such as ye; we come...from the biggest star that shines at night\" . The assumed ignorance and gullibility of the Africans is contrasted with European ingenuity in this encounter, and nowhere is it cast in more stark relief than when Quatermain uses a European rifle to kill an antelope buck from afar. The Kukuanas burst into a \"groan of terror\" and are thoroughly convinced of the white men's \"magic.\" Only Scragga, son of the king, is not frightened by the display, although he refuses to place himself in the same spot as the buck to test his position. The reluctance of Scragga to accept Qutermain's alleged divinity foreshadows his father's own refusal to be cowed by them later. Another foreshadowing occurs earlier, when Quatermain notes the similarities between Umbopa's appearance and that of the newly-arrived Kukuanas. Clearly the reader is meant to make the connection: Umbopa's confidence in the travelers' success stems from his own belief that there must be a way to reach Kukuanaland, for his presence in the \"outer world\" proves that such a route exists. What role he has to play in this Lost Civilization is yet to be detailed, but later readers can easily see the \"Lost Throne\" motif being set up through the frequent indications of Umbopa's dignity and princely bearing. When Haggard first published his novel, however, the very genre of adventure novels was in its infancy; many critics argue that this motif was first utilized in the nineteenth century by Haggard himself. The Lost Throne motif becomes clearer with Umbopa's interest in Infadoos' account of recent Kukuana history. The \"inferior\" twin hidden by the aged crone, the usurpation of the throne by the lesser brother's murder of the rightful king and the rightful heir's subsequent flight to safety all echo the legends of old . Infadoos even provides the sign by which the rightful king can be recognized: the serpent mark around his waist. Clearly, we are meant to see Umbopa's interest as indicative of his connection to the legend of this lost prince. In this chapter Haggard also offers another sample of the contradictory European attitude toward Africans. Although the Kukuanas are a fictional people, Haggard based their activities and appearance somewhat on the Zulu people. Quatermain's earlier frustration with non-whites claiming equality with their European betters here gives way to awe as he describes the Kukuana men: \"not a one of them was under six feet in height, whilst many were six feet three or four...A Kukuana warrior can throw with great accuracy at a distance of fifty yards, and it is their custom on charging to hurl a volley of them at the enemy as they come to close quarters\" . Clearly there is one area--that of physical prowess--where Quatermain's European mores will allow him to see the positive attributes of the African man. Quatermain continues his admiration of the people, noting that their village is well-constructed and aesthetically pleasing, while the Kukuana women are \"for a native race, exceedingly handsome. They are tall and graceful, and their figures are wonderfully fine\" . Even here Haggard cannot keep the patronizing \"for a native race\" words out of Quatermain's description, and in fact he goes on to have Quatermain say the women were \"as well-bred in their way as the habituees of a fashionable drawing-room, and in this respect differ from Zulu women, and their cousins the Masai\" . These terms of qualified admiration hint at the greater European attitude of the nineteenth century toward the African peoples as little more than children, who surprise their \"betters\" when they seem more civilized than most others of their kind."}

Outside the cavern we halted, feeling rather foolish. "I am going back," said Sir Henry. "Why?" asked Good. "Because it has struck me that--what we saw--may be my brother." This was a new idea, and we re-entered the place to put it to the proof. After the bright light outside, our eyes, weak as they were with staring at the snow, could not pierce the gloom of the cave for a while. Presently, however, they grew accustomed to the semi-darkness, and we advanced towards the dead man. Sir Henry knelt down and peered into his face. "Thank God," he said, with a sigh of relief, "it is _not_ my brother." Then I drew near and looked. The body was that of a tall man in middle life with aquiline features, grizzled hair, and a long black moustache. The skin was perfectly yellow, and stretched tightly over the bones. Its clothing, with the exception of what seemed to be the remains of a woollen pair of hose, had been removed, leaving the skeleton-like frame naked. Round the neck of the corpse, which was frozen perfectly stiff, hung a yellow ivory crucifix. "Who on earth can it be?" said I. "Can't you guess?" asked Good. I shook my head. "Why, the old Dom, Jose da Silvestra, of course--who else?" "Impossible," I gasped; "he died three hundred years ago." "And what is there to prevent him from lasting for three thousand years in this atmosphere, I should like to know?" asked Good. "If only the temperature is sufficiently low, flesh and blood will keep fresh as New Zealand mutton for ever, and Heaven knows it is cold enough here. The sun never gets in here; no animal comes here to tear or destroy. No doubt his slave, of whom he speaks on the writing, took off his clothes and left him. He could not have buried him alone. Look!" he went on, stooping down to pick up a queerly-shaped bone scraped at the end into a sharp point, "here is the 'cleft bone' that Silvestra used to draw the map with." We gazed for a moment astonished, forgetting our own miseries in this extraordinary and, as it seemed to us, semi-miraculous sight. "Ay," said Sir Henry, "and this is where he got his ink from," and he pointed to a small wound on the Dom's left arm. "Did ever man see such a thing before?" There was no longer any doubt about the matter, which for my own part I confess perfectly appalled me. There he sat, the dead man, whose directions, written some ten generations ago, had led us to this spot. Here in my own hand was the rude pen with which he had written them, and about his neck hung the crucifix that his dying lips had kissed. Gazing at him, my imagination could reconstruct the last scene of the drama, the traveller dying of cold and starvation, yet striving to convey to the world the great secret which he had discovered:--the awful loneliness of his death, of which the evidence sat before us. It even seemed to me that I could trace in his strongly-marked features a likeness to those of my poor friend Silvestre his descendant, who had died twenty years before in my arms, but perhaps that was fancy. At any rate, there he sat, a sad memento of the fate that so often overtakes those who would penetrate into the unknown; and there doubtless he will still sit, crowned with the dread majesty of death, for centuries yet unborn, to startle the eyes of wanderers like ourselves, if ever any such should come again to invade his loneliness. The thing overpowered us, already almost perished as we were with cold and hunger. "Let us go," said Sir Henry in a low voice; "stay, we will give him a companion," and lifting up the dead body of the Hottentot Ventvoegel, he placed it near to that of the old Dom. Then he stooped, and with a jerk broke the rotten string of the crucifix which hung round da Silvestra's neck, for his fingers were too cold to attempt to unfasten it. I believe that he has it still. I took the bone pen, and it is before me as I write--sometimes I use it to sign my name. Then leaving these two, the proud white man of a past age, and the poor Hottentot, to keep their eternal vigil in the midst of the eternal snows, we crept out of the cave into the welcome sunshine and resumed our path, wondering in our hearts how many hours it would be before we were even as they are. When we had walked about half a mile we came to the edge of the plateau, for the nipple of the mountain does not rise out of its exact centre, though from the desert side it had seemed to do so. What lay below us we could not see, for the landscape was wreathed in billows of morning fog. Presently, however, the higher layers of mist cleared a little, and revealed, at the end of a long slope of snow, a patch of green grass, some five hundred yards beneath us, through which a stream was running. Nor was this all. By the stream, basking in the bright sun, stood and lay a group of from ten to fifteen _large antelopes_--at that distance we could not see of what species. The sight filled us with an unreasoning joy. If only we could get it, there was food in plenty. But the question was how to do so. The beasts were fully six hundred yards off, a very long shot, and one not to be depended on when our lives hung on the results. Rapidly we discussed the advisability of trying to stalk the game, but in the end dismissed it reluctantly. To begin with, the wind was not favourable, and further, we must certainly be perceived, however careful we were, against the blinding background of snow, which we should be obliged to traverse. "Well, we must have a try from where we are," said Sir Henry. "Which shall it be, Quatermain, the repeating rifles or the expresses?" Here again was a question. The Winchester repeaters--of which we had two, Umbopa carrying poor Ventvoegel's as well as his own--were sighted up to a thousand yards, whereas the expresses were only sighted to three hundred and fifty, beyond which distance shooting with them was more or less guess-work. On the other hand, if they did hit, the express bullets, being "expanding," were much more likely to bring the game down. It was a knotty point, but I made up my mind that we must risk it and use the expresses. "Let each of us take the buck opposite to him. Aim well at the point of the shoulder and high up," said I; "and Umbopa, do you give the word, so that we may all fire together." Then came a pause, each of us aiming his level best, as indeed a man is likely to do when he knows that life itself depends upon the shot. "Fire," said Umbopa in Zulu, and at almost the same instant the three rifles rang out loudly; three clouds of smoke hung for a moment before us, and a hundred echoes went flying over the silent snow. Presently the smoke cleared, and revealed--oh, joy!--a great buck lying on its back and kicking furiously in its death agony. We gave a yell of triumph--we were saved--we should not starve. Weak as we were, we rushed down the intervening slope of snow, and in ten minutes from the time of shooting, that animal's heart and liver were lying before us. But now a new difficulty arose, we had no fuel, and therefore could make no fire to cook them. We gazed at each other in dismay. "Starving men should not be fanciful," said Good; "we must eat raw meat." There was no other way out of the dilemma, and our gnawing hunger made the proposition less distasteful than it would otherwise have been. So we took the heart and liver and buried them for a few minutes in a patch of snow to cool them. Then we washed them in the ice-cold water of the stream, and lastly ate them greedily. It sounds horrible enough, but honestly, I never tasted anything so good as that raw meat. In a quarter of an hour we were changed men. Our life and vigour came back to us, our feeble pulses grew strong again, and the blood went coursing through our veins. But mindful of the results of over-feeding on starved stomachs, we were careful not to eat too much, stopping whilst we were still hungry. "Thank Heaven!" said Sir Henry; "that brute has saved our lives. What is it, Quatermain?" I rose and went to look at the antelope, for I was not certain. It was about the size of a donkey, with large curved horns. I had never seen one like it before; the species was new to me. It was brown in colour, with faint red stripes, and grew a thick coat. I afterwards discovered that the natives of that wonderful country call these bucks "_inco_." They are very rare, and only found at a great altitude where no other game will live. This animal was fairly hit high up in the shoulder, though whose bullet brought it down we could not, of course, discover. I believe that Good, mindful of his marvellous shot at the giraffe, secretly set it down to his own prowess, and we did not contradict him. We had been so busy satisfying our hunger that hitherto we had not found time to look about us. But now, having set Umbopa to cut off as much of the best meat as we were likely to be able to carry, we began to inspect our surroundings. The mist had cleared away, for it was eight o'clock, and the sun had sucked it up, so we were able to take in all the country before us at a glance. I know not how to describe the glorious panorama which unfolded itself to our gaze. I have never seen anything like it before, nor shall, I suppose, again. Behind and over us towered Sheba's snowy Breasts, and below, some five thousand feet beneath where we stood, lay league on league of the most lovely champaign country. Here were dense patches of lofty forest, there a great river wound its silvery way. To the left stretched a vast expanse of rich, undulating veld or grass land, whereon we could just make out countless herds of game or cattle, at that distance we could not tell which. This expanse appeared to be ringed in by a wall of distant mountains. To the right the country was more or less mountainous; that is, solitary hills stood up from its level, with stretches of cultivated land between, amongst which we could see groups of dome-shaped huts. The landscape lay before us as a map, wherein rivers flashed like silver snakes, and Alp-like peaks crowned with wildly twisted snow wreaths rose in grandeur, whilst over all was the glad sunlight and the breath of Nature's happy life. Two curious things struck us as we gazed. First, that the country before us must lie at least three thousand feet higher than the desert we had crossed, and secondly, that all the rivers flowed from south to north. As we had painful reason to know, there was no water upon the southern side of the vast range on which we stood, but on the northern face were many streams, most of which appeared to unite with the great river we could see winding away farther than our eyes could follow. We sat down for a while and gazed in silence at this wonderful view. Presently Sir Henry spoke. "Isn't there something on the map about Solomon's Great Road?" he said. I nodded, for I was still gazing out over the far country. "Well, look; there it is!" and he pointed a little to our right. Good and I looked accordingly, and there, winding away towards the plain, was what appeared to be a wide turnpike road. We had not seen it at first because, on reaching the plain, it turned behind some broken country. We did not say anything, at least, not much; we were beginning to lose the sense of wonder. Somehow it did not seem particularly unnatural that we should find a sort of Roman road in this strange land. We accepted the fact, that was all. "Well," said Good, "it must be quite near us if we cut off to the right. Hadn't we better be making a start?" This was sound advice, and so soon as we had washed our faces and hands in the stream we acted on it. For a mile or more we made our way over boulders and across patches of snow, till suddenly, on reaching the top of the little rise, we found the road at our feet. It was a splendid road cut out of the solid rock, at least fifty feet wide, and apparently well kept; though the odd thing was that it seemed to begin there. We walked down and stood on it, but one single hundred paces behind us, in the direction of Sheba's Breasts, it vanished, the entire surface of the mountain being strewn with boulders interspersed with patches of snow. "What do you make of this, Quatermain?" asked Sir Henry. I shook my head, I could make nothing of the thing. "I have it!" said Good; "the road no doubt ran right over the range and across the desert on the other side, but the sand there has covered it up, and above us it has been obliterated by some volcanic eruption of molten lava." This seemed a good suggestion; at any rate, we accepted it, and proceeded down the mountain. It proved a very different business travelling along down hill on that magnificent pathway with full stomachs from what it was travelling uphill over the snow quite starved and almost frozen. Indeed, had it not been for melancholy recollections of poor Ventvoegel's sad fate, and of that grim cave where he kept company with the old Dom, we should have felt positively cheerful, notwithstanding the sense of unknown dangers before us. Every mile we walked the atmosphere grew softer and balmier, and the country before us shone with a yet more luminous beauty. As for the road itself, I never saw such an engineering work, though Sir Henry said that the great road over the St. Gothard in Switzerland is very similar. No difficulty had been too great for the Old World engineer who laid it out. At one place we came to a ravine three hundred feet broad and at least a hundred feet deep. This vast gulf was actually filled in with huge blocks of dressed stone, having arches pierced through them at the bottom for a waterway, over which the road went on sublimely. At another place it was cut in zigzags out of the side of a precipice five hundred feet deep, and in a third it tunnelled through the base of an intervening ridge, a space of thirty yards or more. Here we noticed that the sides of the tunnel were covered with quaint sculptures, mostly of mailed figures driving in chariots. One, which was exceedingly beautiful, represented a whole battle scene with a convoy of captives being marched off in the distance. "Well," said Sir Henry, after inspecting this ancient work of art, "it is very well to call this Solomon's Road, but my humble opinion is that the Egyptians had been here before Solomon's people ever set a foot on it. If this isn't Egyptian or Phoenician handiwork, I must say that it is very like it." By midday we had advanced sufficiently down the mountain to search the region where wood was to be met with. First we came to scattered bushes which grew more and more frequent, till at last we found the road winding through a vast grove of silver trees similar to those which are to be seen on the slopes of Table Mountain at Cape Town. I had never before met with them in all my wanderings, except at the Cape, and their appearance here astonished me greatly. "Ah!" said Good, surveying these shining-leaved trees with evident enthusiasm, "here is lots of wood, let us stop and cook some dinner; I have about digested that raw heart." Nobody objected to this, so leaving the road we made our way to a stream which was babbling away not far off, and soon had a goodly fire of dry boughs blazing. Cutting off some substantial hunks from the flesh of the _inco_ which we had brought with us, we proceeded to toast them on the end of sharp sticks, as one sees the Kafirs do, and ate them with relish. After filling ourselves, we lit our pipes and gave ourselves up to enjoyment that, compared with the hardships we had recently undergone, seemed almost heavenly. The brook, of which the banks were clothed with dense masses of a gigantic species of maidenhair fern interspersed with feathery tufts of wild asparagus, sung merrily at our side, the soft air murmured through the leaves of the silver trees, doves cooed around, and bright-winged birds flashed like living gems from bough to bough. It was a Paradise. The magic of the place combined with an overwhelming sense of dangers left behind, and of the promised land reached at last, seemed to charm us into silence. Sir Henry and Umbopa sat conversing in a mixture of broken English and Kitchen Zulu in a low voice, but earnestly enough, and I lay, with my eyes half shut, upon that fragrant bed of fern and watched them. Presently I missed Good, and I looked to see what had become of him. Soon I observed him sitting by the bank of the stream, in which he had been bathing. He had nothing on but his flannel shirt, and his natural habits of extreme neatness having reasserted themselves, he was actively employed in making a most elaborate toilet. He had washed his gutta-percha collar, had thoroughly shaken out his trousers, coat and waistcoat, and was now folding them up neatly till he was ready to put them on, shaking his head sadly as he scanned the numerous rents and tears in them, which naturally had resulted from our frightful journey. Then he took his boots, scrubbed them with a handful of fern, and finally rubbed them over with a piece of fat, which he had carefully saved from the _inco_ meat, till they looked, comparatively speaking, respectable. Having inspected them judiciously through his eye-glass, he put the boots on and began a fresh operation. From a little bag that he carried he produced a pocket-comb in which was fixed a tiny looking-glass, and in this he surveyed himself. Apparently he was not satisfied, for he proceeded to do his hair with great care. Then came a pause whilst he again contemplated the effect; still it was not satisfactory. He felt his chin, on which the accumulated scrub of a ten days' beard was flourishing. "Surely," thought I, "he is not going to try to shave." But so it was. Taking the piece of fat with which he had greased his boots, Good washed it thoroughly in the stream. Then diving again into the bag he brought out a little pocket razor with a guard to it, such as are bought by people who are afraid of cutting themselves, or by those about to undertake a sea voyage. Then he rubbed his face and chin vigorously with the fat and began. Evidently it proved a painful process, for he groaned very much over it, and I was convulsed with inward laughter as I watched him struggling with that stubbly beard. It seemed so very odd that a man should take the trouble to shave himself with a piece of fat in such a place and in our circumstances. At last he succeeded in getting the hair off the right side of his face and chin, when suddenly I, who was watching, became conscious of a flash of light that passed just by his head. Good sprang up with a profane exclamation (if it had not been a safety razor he would certainly have cut his throat), and so did I, without the exclamation, and this was what I saw. Standing not more than twenty paces from where I was, and ten from Good, were a group of men. They were very tall and copper-coloured, and some of them wore great plumes of black feathers and short cloaks of leopard skins; this was all I noticed at the moment. In front of them stood a youth of about seventeen, his hand still raised and his body bent forward in the attitude of a Grecian statue of a spear-thrower. Evidently the flash of light had been caused by a weapon which he had hurled. As I looked an old soldier-like man stepped forward out of the group, and catching the youth by the arm said something to him. Then they advanced upon us. Sir Henry, Good, and Umbopa by this time had seized their rifles and lifted them threateningly. The party of natives still came on. It struck me that they could not know what rifles were, or they would not have treated them with such contempt. "Put down your guns!" I halloed to the others, seeing that our only chance of safety lay in conciliation. They obeyed, and walking to the front I addressed the elderly man who had checked the youth. "Greeting," I said in Zulu, not knowing what language to use. To my surprise I was understood. "Greeting," answered the old man, not, indeed, in the same tongue, but in a dialect so closely allied to it that neither Umbopa nor myself had any difficulty in understanding him. Indeed, as we afterwards found out, the language spoken by this people is an old-fashioned form of the Zulu tongue, bearing about the same relationship to it that the English of Chaucer does to the English of the nineteenth century. "Whence come you?" he went on, "who are you? and why are the faces of three of you white, and the face of the fourth as the face of our mother's sons?" and he pointed to Umbopa. I looked at Umbopa as he said it, and it flashed across me that he was right. The face of Umbopa was like the faces of the men before me, and so was his great form like their forms. But I had not time to reflect on this coincidence. "We are strangers, and come in peace," I answered, speaking very slowly, so that he might understand me, "and this man is our servant." "You lie," he answered; "no strangers can cross the mountains where all things perish. But what do your lies matter?--if ye are strangers then ye must die, for no strangers may live in the land of the Kukuanas. It is the king's law. Prepare then to die, O strangers!" I was slightly staggered at this, more especially as I saw the hands of some of the men steal down to their sides, where hung on each what looked to me like a large and heavy knife. "What does that beggar say?" asked Good. "He says we are going to be killed," I answered grimly. "Oh, Lord!" groaned Good; and, as was his way when perplexed, he put his hand to his false teeth, dragging the top set down and allowing them to fly back to his jaw with a snap. It was a most fortunate move, for next second the dignified crowd of Kukuanas uttered a simultaneous yell of horror, and bolted back some yards. "What's up?" said I. "It's his teeth," whispered Sir Henry excitedly. "He moved them. Take them out, Good, take them out!" He obeyed, slipping the set into the sleeve of his flannel shirt. In another second curiosity had overcome fear, and the men advanced slowly. Apparently they had now forgotten their amiable intention of killing us. "How is it, O strangers," asked the old man solemnly, "that this fat man (pointing to Good, who was clad in nothing but boots and a flannel shirt, and had only half finished his shaving), whose body is clothed, and whose legs are bare, who grows hair on one side of his sickly face and not on the other, and who wears one shining and transparent eye--how is it, I ask, that he has teeth which move of themselves, coming away from the jaws and returning of their own will?" "Open your mouth," I said to Good, who promptly curled up his lips and grinned at the old gentleman like an angry dog, revealing to his astonished gaze two thin red lines of gum as utterly innocent of ivories as a new-born elephant. The audience gasped. "Where are his teeth?" they shouted; "with our eyes we saw them." Turning his head slowly and with a gesture of ineffable contempt, Good swept his hand across his mouth. Then he grinned again, and lo, there were two rows of lovely teeth. Now the young man who had flung the knife threw himself down on the grass and gave vent to a prolonged howl of terror; and as for the old gentleman, his knees knocked together with fear. "I see that ye are spirits," he said falteringly; "did ever man born of woman have hair on one side of his face and not on the other, or a round and transparent eye, or teeth which moved and melted away and grew again? Pardon us, O my lords." Here was luck indeed, and, needless to say, I jumped at the chance. "It is granted," I said with an imperial smile. "Nay, ye shall know the truth. We come from another world, though we are men such as ye; we come," I went on, "from the biggest star that shines at night." "Oh! oh!" groaned the chorus of astonished aborigines. "Yes," I went on, "we do, indeed"; and again I smiled benignly, as I uttered that amazing lie. "We come to stay with you a little while, and to bless you by our sojourn. Ye will see, O friends, that I have prepared myself for this visit by the learning of your language." "It is so, it is so," said the chorus. "Only, my lord," put in the old gentleman, "thou hast learnt it very badly." I cast an indignant glance at him, and he quailed. "Now friends," I continued, "ye might think that after so long a journey we should find it in our hearts to avenge such a reception, mayhap to strike cold in death the imperious hand that--that, in short--threw a knife at the head of him whose teeth come and go." "Spare him, my lords," said the old man in supplication; "he is the king's son, and I am his uncle. If anything befalls him his blood will be required at my hands." "Yes, that is certainly so," put in the young man with great emphasis. "Ye may perhaps doubt our power to avenge," I went on, heedless of this by-play. "Stay, I will show you. Here, thou dog and slave (addressing Umbopa in a savage tone), give me the magic tube that speaks"; and I tipped a wink towards my express rifle. Umbopa rose to the occasion, and with something as nearly resembling a grin as I have ever seen on his dignified face he handed me the gun. "It is here, O Lord of Lords," he said with a deep obeisance. Now just before I had asked for the rifle I had perceived a little _klipspringer_ antelope standing on a mass of rock about seventy yards away, and determined to risk the shot. "Ye see that buck," I said, pointing the animal out to the party before me. "Tell me, is it possible for man born of woman to kill it from here with a noise?" "It is not possible, my lord," answered the old man. "Yet shall I kill it," I said quietly. The old man smiled. "That my lord cannot do," he answered. I raised the rifle and covered the buck. It was a small animal, and one which a man might well be excused for missing, but I knew that it would not do to miss. I drew a deep breath, and slowly pressed on the trigger. The buck stood still as a stone. "Bang! thud!" The antelope sprang into the air and fell on the rock dead as a door nail. A groan of simultaneous terror burst from the group before us. "If you want meat," I remarked coolly, "go fetch that buck." The old man made a sign, and one of his followers departed, and presently returned bearing the _klipspringer_. I noticed with satisfaction that I had hit it fairly behind the shoulder. They gathered round the poor creature's body, gazing at the bullet-hole in consternation. "Ye see," I said, "I do not speak empty words." There was no answer. "If ye yet doubt our power," I went on, "let one of you go stand upon that rock that I may make him as this buck." None of them seemed at all inclined to take the hint, till at last the king's son spoke. "It is well said. Do thou, my uncle, go stand upon the rock. It is but a buck that the magic has killed. Surely it cannot kill a man." The old gentleman did not take the suggestion in good part. Indeed, he seemed hurt. "No! no!" he ejaculated hastily, "my old eyes have seen enough. These are wizards, indeed. Let us bring them to the king. Yet if any should wish a further proof, let _him_ stand upon the rock, that the magic tube may speak with him." There was a most general and hasty expression of dissent. "Let not good magic be wasted on our poor bodies," said one; "we are satisfied. All the witchcraft of our people cannot show the like of this." "It is so," remarked the old gentleman, in a tone of intense relief; "without any doubt it is so. Listen, children of the Stars, children of the shining Eye and the movable Teeth, who roar out in thunder, and slay from afar. I am Infadoos, son of Kafa, once king of the Kukuana people. This youth is Scragga." "He nearly scragged me," murmured Good. "Scragga, son of Twala, the great king--Twala, husband of a thousand wives, chief and lord paramount of the Kukuanas, keeper of the great Road, terror of his enemies, student of the Black Arts, leader of a hundred thousand warriors, Twala the One-eyed, the Black, the Terrible." "So," said I superciliously, "lead us then to Twala. We do not talk with low people and underlings." "It is well, my lords, we will lead you; but the way is long. We are hunting three days' journey from the place of the king. But let my lords have patience, and we will lead them." "So be it," I said carelessly; "all time is before us, for we do not die. We are ready, lead on. But Infadoos, and thou Scragga, beware! Play us no monkey tricks, set for us no foxes' snares, for before your brains of mud have thought of them we shall know and avenge. The light of the transparent eye of him with the bare legs and the half-haired face shall destroy you, and go through your land; his vanishing teeth shall affix themselves fast in you and eat you up, you and your wives and children; the magic tubes shall argue with you loudly, and make you as sieves. Beware!" This magnificent address did not fail of its effect; indeed, it might almost have been spared, so deeply were our friends already impressed with our powers. The old man made a deep obeisance, and murmured the words, "_Koom Koom_," which I afterwards discovered was their royal salute, corresponding to the _Bayete_ of the Zulus, and turning, addressed his followers. These at once proceeded to lay hold of all our goods and chattels, in order to bear them for us, excepting only the guns, which they would on no account touch. They even seized Good's clothes, that, as the reader may remember, were neatly folded up beside him. He saw and made a dive for them, and a loud altercation ensued. "Let not my lord of the transparent Eye and the melting Teeth touch them," said the old man. "Surely his slave shall carry the things." "But I want to put 'em on!" roared Good, in nervous English. Umbopa translated. "Nay, my lord," answered Infadoos, "would my lord cover up his beautiful white legs (although he is so dark Good has a singularly white skin) from the eyes of his servants? Have we offended my lord that he should do such a thing?" Here I nearly exploded with laughing; and meanwhile one of the men started on with the garments. "Damn it!" roared Good, "that black villain has got my trousers." "Look here, Good," said Sir Henry; "you have appeared in this country in a certain character, and you must live up to it. It will never do for you to put on trousers again. Henceforth you must exist in a flannel shirt, a pair of boots, and an eye-glass." "Yes," I said, "and with whiskers on one side of your face and not on the other. If you change any of these things the people will think that we are impostors. I am very sorry for you, but, seriously, you must. If once they begin to suspect us our lives will not be worth a brass farthing." "Do you really think so?" said Good gloomily. "I do, indeed. Your 'beautiful white legs' and your eye-glass are now _the_ features of our party, and as Sir Henry says, you must live up to them. Be thankful that you have got your boots on, and that the air is warm." Good sighed, and said no more, but it took him a fortnight to become accustomed to his new and scant attire. All that afternoon we travelled along the magnificent roadway, which trended steadily in a north-westerly direction. Infadoos and Scragga walked with us, but their followers marched about one hundred paces ahead. "Infadoos," I said at length, "who made this road?" "It was made, my lord, of old time, none know how or when, not even the wise woman Gagool, who has lived for generations. We are not old enough to remember its making. None can fashion such roads now, but the king suffers no grass to grow upon it." "And whose are the writings on the wall of the caves through which we have passed on the road?" I asked, referring to the Egyptian-like sculptures that we had seen. "My lord, the hands that made the road wrote the wonderful writings. We know not who wrote them." "When did the Kukuana people come into this country?" "My lord, the race came down here like the breath of a storm ten thousand thousand moons ago, from the great lands which lie there beyond," and he pointed to the north. "They could travel no further because of the high mountains which ring in the land, so say the old voices of our fathers that have descended to us the children, and so says Gagool, the wise woman, the smeller out of witches," and again he pointed to the snow-clad peaks. "The country, too, was good, so they settled here and grew strong and powerful, and now our numbers are like the sea sand, and when Twala the king calls up his regiments their plumes cover the plain so far as the eye of man can reach." "And if the land is walled in with mountains, who is there for the regiments to fight with?" "Nay, my lord, the country is open there towards the north, and now and again warriors sweep down upon us in clouds from a land we know not, and we slay them. It is the third part of the life of a man since there was a war. Many thousands died in it, but we destroyed those who came to eat us up. So since then there has been no war." "Your warriors must grow weary of resting on their spears, Infadoos." "My lord, there was one war, just after we destroyed the people that came down upon us, but it was a civil war; dog ate dog." "How was that?" "My lord the king, my half-brother, had a brother born at the same birth, and of the same woman. It is not our custom, my lord, to suffer twins to live; the weaker must always die. But the mother of the king hid away the feebler child, which was born the last, for her heart yearned over it, and that child is Twala the king. I am his younger brother, born of another wife." "Well?" "My lord, Kafa, our father, died when we came to manhood, and my brother Imotu was made king in his place, and for a space reigned and had a son by his favourite wife. When the babe was three years old, just after the great war, during which no man could sow or reap, a famine came upon the land, and the people murmured because of the famine, and looked round like a starved lion for something to rend. Then it was that Gagool, the wise and terrible woman, who does not die, made a proclamation to the people, saying, 'The king Imotu is no king.' And at the time Imotu was sick with a wound, and lay in his kraal not able to move. "Then Gagool went into a hut and led out Twala, my half-brother, and twin brother to the king, whom she had hidden among the caves and rocks since he was born, and stripping the '_moocha_' (waist-cloth) off his loins, showed the people of the Kukuanas the mark of the sacred snake coiled round his middle, wherewith the eldest son of the king is marked at birth, and cried out loud, 'Behold your king whom I have saved for you even to this day!' "Now the people being mad with hunger, and altogether bereft of reason and the knowledge of truth, cried out--'_The king! The king!_' but I knew that it was not so, for Imotu my brother was the elder of the twins, and our lawful king. Then just as the tumult was at its height Imotu the king, though he was very sick, crawled from his hut holding his wife by the hand, and followed by his little son Ignosi--that is, by interpretation, the Lightning. "'What is this noise?' he asked. 'Why cry ye _The king! The king!_' "Then Twala, his twin brother, born of the same woman, and in the same hour, ran to him, and taking him by the hair, stabbed him through the heart with his knife. And the people being fickle, and ever ready to worship the rising sun, clapped their hands and cried, '_Twala is king!_ Now we know that Twala is king!'" "And what became of Imotu's wife and her son Ignosi? Did Twala kill them too?" "Nay, my lord. When she saw that her lord was dead the queen seized the child with a cry and ran away. Two days afterward she came to a kraal very hungry, and none would give her milk or food, now that her lord the king was dead, for all men hate the unfortunate. But at nightfall a little child, a girl, crept out and brought her corn to eat, and she blessed the child, and went on towards the mountains with her boy before the sun rose again, and there she must have perished, for none have seen her since, nor the child Ignosi." "Then if this child Ignosi had lived he would be the true king of the Kukuana people?" "That is so, my lord; the sacred snake is round his middle. If he lives he is king; but, alas! he is long dead." "See, my lord," and Infadoos pointed to a vast collection of huts surrounded by a fence, which was in its turn encircled by a great ditch, that lay on the plain beneath us. "That is the kraal where the wife of Imotu was last seen with the child Ignosi. It is there that we shall sleep to-night, if, indeed," he added doubtfully, "my lords sleep at all upon this earth." "When we are among the Kukuanas, my good friend Infadoos, we do as the Kukuanas do," I said majestically, and turned round quickly to address Good, who was tramping along sullenly behind, his mind fully occupied with unsatisfactory attempts to prevent his flannel shirt from flapping in the evening breeze. To my astonishment I butted into Umbopa, who was walking along immediately behind me, and very evidently had been listening with the greatest interest to my conversation with Infadoos. The expression on his face was most curious, and gave me the idea of a man who was struggling with partial success to bring something long ago forgotten back into his mind. All this while we had been pressing on at a good rate towards the undulating plain beneath us. The mountains we had crossed now loomed high above our heads, and Sheba's Breasts were veiled modestly in diaphanous wreaths of mist. As we went the country grew more and more lovely. The vegetation was luxuriant, without being tropical; the sun was bright and warm, but not burning; and a gracious breeze blew softly along the odorous slopes of the mountains. Indeed, this new land was little less than an earthly paradise; in beauty, in natural wealth, and in climate I have never seen its like. The Transvaal is a fine country, but it is nothing to Kukuanaland. So soon as we started Infadoos had despatched a runner to warn the people of the kraal, which, by the way, was in his military command, of our arrival. This man had departed at an extraordinary speed, which Infadoos informed me he would keep up all the way, as running was an exercise much practised among his people. The result of this message now became apparent. When we arrived within two miles of the kraal we could see that company after company of men were issuing from its gates and marching towards us. Sir Henry laid his hand upon my arm, and remarked that it looked as though we were going to meet with a warm reception. Something in his tone attracted Infadoos' attention. "Let not my lords be afraid," he said hastily, "for in my breast there dwells no guile. This regiment is one under my command, and comes out by my orders to greet you." I nodded easily, though I was not quite easy in my mind. About half a mile from the gates of this kraal is a long stretch of rising ground sloping gently upwards from the road, and here the companies formed. It was a splendid sight to see them, each company about three hundred strong, charging swiftly up the rise, with flashing spears and waving plumes, to take their appointed place. By the time we reached the slope twelve such companies, or in all three thousand six hundred men, had passed out and taken up their positions along the road. Presently we came to the first company, and were able to gaze in astonishment on the most magnificent set of warriors that I have ever seen. They were all men of mature age, mostly veterans of about forty, and not one of them was under six feet in height, whilst many stood six feet three or four. They wore upon their heads heavy black plumes of Sakaboola feathers, like those which adorned our guides. About their waists and beneath the right knees were bound circlets of white ox tails, while in their left hands they carried round shields measuring about twenty inches across. These shields are very curious. The framework is made of an iron plate beaten out thin, over which is stretched milk-white ox-hide. The weapons that each man bore were simple, but most effective, consisting of a short and very heavy two-edged spear with a wooden shaft, the blade being about six inches across at the widest part. These spears are not used for throwing but like the Zulu "_bangwan_," or stabbing assegai, are for close quarters only, when the wound inflicted by them is terrible. In addition to his _bangwan_ every man carried three large and heavy knives, each knife weighing about two pounds. One knife was fixed in the ox-tail girdle, and the other two at the back of the round shield. These knives, which are called "_tollas_" by the Kukuanas, take the place of the throwing assegai of the Zulus. The Kukuana warriors can cast them with great accuracy to a distance of fifty yards, and it is their custom on charging to hurl a volley of them at the enemy as they come to close quarters. Each company remained still as a collection of bronze statues till we were opposite to it, when at a signal given by its commanding officer, who, distinguished by a leopard skin cloak, stood some paces in front, every spear was raised into the air, and from three hundred throats sprang forth with a sudden roar the royal salute of "_Koom_." Then, so soon as we had passed, the company formed up behind us and followed us towards the kraal, till at last the whole regiment of the "Greys"--so called from their white shields--the crack corps of the Kukuana people, was marching in our rear with a tread that shook the ground. At length, branching off from Solomon's Great Road, we came to the wide fosse surrounding the kraal, which is at least a mile round, and fenced with a strong palisade of piles formed of the trunks of trees. At the gateway this fosse is spanned by a primitive drawbridge, which was let down by the guard to allow us to pass in. The kraal is exceedingly well laid out. Through the centre runs a wide pathway intersected at right angles by other pathways so arranged as to cut the huts into square blocks, each block being the quarters of a company. The huts are dome-shaped, and built, like those of the Zulus, of a framework of wattle, beautifully thatched with grass; but, unlike the Zulu huts, they have doorways through which men could walk. Also they are much larger, and surrounded by a verandah about six feet wide, beautifully paved with powdered lime trodden hard. All along each side of this wide pathway that pierces the kraal were ranged hundreds of women, brought out by curiosity to look at us. These women, for a native race, are exceedingly handsome. They are tall and graceful, and their figures are wonderfully fine. The hair, though short, is rather curly than woolly, the features are frequently aquiline, and the lips are not unpleasantly thick, as is the case among most African races. But what struck us most was their exceedingly quiet and dignified air. They were as well-bred in their way as the _habituees_ of a fashionable drawing-room, and in this respect they differ from Zulu women and their cousins the Masai who inhabit the district beyond Zanzibar. Their curiosity had brought them out to see us, but they allowed no rude expressions of astonishment or savage criticism to pass their lips as we trudged wearily in front of them. Not even when old Infadoos with a surreptitious motion of the hand pointed out the crowning wonder of poor Good's "beautiful white legs," did they suffer the feeling of intense admiration which evidently mastered their minds to find expression. They fixed their dark eyes upon this new and snowy loveliness, for, as I think I have said, Good's skin is exceedingly white, and that was all. But it was quite enough for Good, who is modest by nature. When we reached the centre of the kraal, Infadoos halted at the door of a large hut, which was surrounded at a distance by a circle of smaller ones. "Enter, Sons of the Stars," he said, in a magniloquent voice, "and deign to rest awhile in our humble habitations. A little food shall be brought to you, so that ye may have no need to draw your belts tight from hunger; some honey and some milk, and an ox or two, and a few sheep; not much, my lords, but still a little food." "It is good," said I. "Infadoos; we are weary with travelling through realms of air; now let us rest." Accordingly we entered the hut, which we found amply prepared for our comfort. Couches of tanned skins were spread for us to lie on, and water was placed for us to wash in. Presently we heard a shouting outside, and stepping to the door, saw a line of damsels bearing milk and roasted mealies, and honey in a pot. Behind these were some youths driving a fat young ox. We received the gifts, and then one of the young men drew the knife from his girdle and dexterously cut the ox's throat. In ten minutes it was dead, skinned, and jointed. The best of the meat was then cut off for us, and the rest, in the name of our party, I presented to the warriors round us, who took it and distributed the "white lords' gift." Umbopa set to work, with the assistance of an extremely prepossessing young woman, to boil our portion in a large earthenware pot over a fire which was built outside the hut, and when it was nearly ready we sent a message to Infadoos, and asked him and Scragga, the king's son, to join us. Presently they came, and sitting down upon little stools, of which there were several about the hut, for the Kukuanas do not in general squat upon their haunches like the Zulus, they helped us to get through our dinner. The old gentleman was most affable and polite, but it struck me that the young one regarded us with doubt. Together with the rest of the party, he had been overawed by our white appearance and by our magic properties; but it seemed to me that, on discovering that we ate, drank, and slept like other mortals, his awe was beginning to wear off, and to be replaced by a sullen suspicion--which made me feel rather uncomfortable. In the course of our meal Sir Henry suggested to me that it might be well to try to discover if our hosts knew anything of his brother's fate, or if they had ever seen or heard of him; but, on the whole, I thought that it would be wiser to say nothing of the matter at this time. It was difficult to explain a relative lost from "the Stars." After supper we produced our pipes and lit them; a proceeding which filled Infadoos and Scragga with astonishment. The Kukuanas were evidently unacquainted with the divine delights of tobacco-smoke. The herb is grown among them extensively; but, like the Zulus, they use it for snuff only, and quite failed to identify it in its new form. Presently I asked Infadoos when we were to proceed on our journey, and was delighted to learn that preparations had been made for us to leave on the following morning, messengers having already departed to inform Twala the king of our coming. It appeared that Twala was at his principal place, known as Loo, making ready for the great annual feast which was to be held in the first week of June. At this gathering all the regiments, with the exception of certain detachments left behind for garrison purposes, are brought up and paraded before the king; and the great annual witch-hunt, of which more by-and-by, is held. We were to start at dawn; and Infadoos, who was to accompany us, expected that we should reach Loo on the night of the second day, unless we were detained by accident or by swollen rivers. When they had given us this information our visitors bade us good-night; and, having arranged to watch turn and turn about, three of us flung ourselves down and slept the sweet sleep of the weary, whilst the fourth sat up on the look-out for possible treachery.

Chapters 7 and 8

https://web.archive.org/web/20200804024551/https://www.gradesaver.com/king-solomons-mines/study-guide/summary-chapters-7-and-8

The men come to their senses outside the cave of death. Sir Henry states his intention to go back inside to determine if they have just been frightened by the remains of his lost brother. The others accompany him. They discover that the corpse is not George's, but instead that of the old Dom, Jose da Silvestra, who journeyed here three hundred years ago. They are amazed by the cave's preservation of his body, but ascribe it to the extreme cold and lack of sunlight so far back in the cavern. They find the bone he used to draw the ancient map, as well as the "ink" he used: blood drawn from a self-inflicted wound in his left arm. Before they leave, Sir Henry places the frozen body of Ventvogel next to Jose da Silvestra and takes the dead Dom's crucifix from his frozen hands. The men travel about half a mile and come to the edge of a plateau. When the morning mists clear, they are able to see a herd of what are apparently antelopes grazing in the distance. Forced to choose between guns which are either more accurate or more deadly, Quatermain chooses the deadlier weapons, counting on the three men firing to take down at least one of the animals. The men fire and see one of the animals in its death throes while the others flee. They are unable to determine which shot killed the creature, but Quatermain believes Captain Good secretly gave himself credit for it as a follow-up to his amazing feat of shooting the giraffe earlier in their expedition. The men butcher the dead animals, but have no means of starting a fire so they must eat the meat raw. Despite the primitive preparations, they find the meal satisfying and restorative. Upon closer inspection, Quatermain determines that the animal is some donkey-sized species of antelope which he has never seen before. Their hunger satisfied, the men take in the scene around them. Where they previously traveled in desert wastes or snowy bleakness, they now find themselves surrounded by a flowing stream on one side, grassy veldt on another, and forests in the third direction. Consulting the map, they see an indicator for "Solomon's Road," and so follow the direction to see if they can find it. Soon they find the remains of the man-made road, dressed stones and all, but are bewildered by the fact that it appears to begin at their location. Captain Good postulates that the road at one time extended much further through the mountains, but that the sands of the desert have covered it over time. The men follow the road and find stones upon which are engraved scenes of chariot-borne men in combat or leading slaves into captivity. While they recognize their route as the "Solomon's Road" of the map, Sir Henry declares that the images are of Egyptians who were there long before Solomon. Once they reach the lower part of the mountain, the men come to a wood of silvery-leafed trees. They use the wood to build a fire and cook the meat they have stored. The nearby stream lulls the men into restfulness. Even Quatermain takes time to close his eyes for a while. When he rouses himself, Quatermain looks about for Captain Good. He finds the man wearing only his flannel shirt and boots, attempting to shave himself with a safety razor and animal fat. When he is halfway through shaving his face, something bright flashes near him. Now alert, the men see a group of men remarkably similar in skin color to Umbopa approaching with spears at the ready. The men ready their firearms, but the strangers advance. From this, Quatermain deduces that the men are unfamiliar with guns and so orders the rest of the party to lower their weapons. The strangers draw near and ask who the party is and where they come from, since the three white men are a strange sight to them. They proceed to tell the hunters that their lives are forfeit for having trespassed upon the land of the Kukuanas. Captain Good chooses this moment to continue his nervous habit of removing his false teeth with his tongue. The Kukuanas see this and are amazed at the sight. Good subtly removes them entirely from his mouth, giving the aggressors a toothless smile to prove that they are gone. He then puts them back in and smiles, convincing them that he can withdraw and grow his teeth at will. The Kukuanas are frightened by this strange man who grows hair on only one side of his face , has a shining eye , walks about only in a shirt to show off his white legs, and can remove and regrow his teeth. Quatermain seizes upon this bewilderment to claim that the three white men are indeed spirits from a distant star, and that Umbopa is their servant. The Kukuanas leader decides that the men are spirits and must be feared and obeyed, but he still has reservations. The Kakuanas speak a dialect of Zulu much older than the one currently employed by Quatermain and Umbopa, so he senses a problem in their knowledge. Quatermain changes the stakes by getting his "talking stick" and killing an antelope from far away. Claiming that he can kill with only a sound, he challenges any of the Kakuanas to try their skepticism against his firepower. They of course decline. The old man introduces himself as Infadoos and the young man who threw his knife at Good as Scragga. Scragga is the king's son, and Infadoos is his uncle. Their king is "Twala the One-eyed, the Black, the Terrible." Quatermain demands that they be taken to Twala. The party begins to set out, but Infadoos and the other Kakuanas are mystified by Captain Good's attempt to put his trousers on. They cannot conceive of his covering his "beautiful white legs" and the rest of the party agrees: Captain Good must play the part of strange spirit by keeping his pants off and his face half-shaven for the remainder of their trip. Good is frustrated by this, but Quatermain is barely able to withhold his laughter. They two groups set off together. As the party travels along the road, Quatermain asks Infadoos about its origins. Infadoos admits that neither he nor his people know who built this roadway originally; all he knows is that the king keeps it from becoming overgrown with weeds. When asked who carved the sculptures in the walls the men saw previously, Infadoos must again plead ignorance. When Quatermain asks Infadoos about the arrival of the Kukuanas to this land, Infadoos is more well-informed. He claims his people came to this area "ten thousand moons ago" but could travel no further because of the great ring of mountains. Here they prepare for combat until such time as war erupts. When asked who they could fight, being isolated as they are, Infadoos explains that there is an open area to the north from which another people sometimes descend upon the Kukuanas, although the Kukuanas have always been successful in defending themselves. But the last war against the outer tribe was fought long ago, so Quatermain wonders if the warriors do not become weary of training without actually finding combat. Infadoos explains that there was a recent conflict--a civil war. Infadoos' father, Kafa, had twin sons by another wife. These twins were Twala and his slightly elder brother, Imotu. Despite the Kukuanas custom of killing the weaker twin, the wise woman Gagool hid Twala from the rest of the tribe until he was fully grown. Imotu was made king upon Kafa's death, but when Imotu became ill Gagool and Twala made their move: Gagool presented Twala to the tribe as their "hidden" king, indicating a serpentine birthmark around his waist that indicates his royal heritage. Imotu hears the people crying out for their new king and exits his tent to investigate, only to be treacherously stabbed by his brother Twala. Imotu's wife and child flee and are never heard from again. Quatermain asks about this child, whose name is Ignosi , and if he would be the rightful king Infadoos believes he would be, were he to possess that special mark of kingship, the snake image around his waist. Quatermain then discovers that Umbopa has been taking a keen interest in this story, but does not delve into why this should be. The men reach an outlying Kukuana kraal and take in the sights. The land is more lush and verdant than the Transvaal, and the people are amazing to behold. The men all seem to be at least forty years old and tall--the shortest is about six feet tall, and many are several inches taller. The women are dark-skinned like the men, but possess more European features than their counterparts among the Zulus. An ox is killed and a feast begun in honor of these supernatural guests. While the food is good, Quatermain fears that the Kukuanas are losing their sense of awe over the white travelers from the stars as they see the men walk, talk, eat, and sleep like normal human beings. While maintaining outward serenity, the men hold in check an inner fear of betrayal at the hands of the Kukuanas. At night, the four men agree to keep at least one man on watch, while the others sleep.

It is in this chapter that the "Lost World" motif of Haggard's tale is introduced. It comes subtly, first hinted at by the unknown species of antelope the men are able to hunt for food. That an experienced hunter such as Quatermain can confess, "I had never seen one like it before, the species was new to me" introduces a detail of the unknown for the reader to assimilate prior to the more otherworldly elements about to be presented. First among the more alien details is the discovery of Solomon's Road. Moving from the uninhabited desert to the only slightly populated mountains, the men find themselves suddenly traveling along a path of dressed stones, "with arches pierced at the bottom for a water-way, over which the road went sublimely on" . The find "quaint sculptures mostly of mailed figures driving in chariots," which leads Sir Henry to declare the lost roadworks to predate even King Solomon: "the Egyiptioans have been here before Solomon's people ever set a foot on it" . The mystery of their destination is thus further deepened by the antiquity of this now-departed civilization. Finally, Haggard plunges his readers firmly into the "Lost World" with the arrival of the Kukuanas, hunters who have no experience with white men or their ways. Thus, Good's false teeth, monocle, and white legs lead them to conclude the men are spirits. Again the spirit of the age shows itself in the exploitative stance Quatermain takes with the Kukuanas: "We come from another world, though we are men such as ye; we come...from the biggest star that shines at night" . The assumed ignorance and gullibility of the Africans is contrasted with European ingenuity in this encounter, and nowhere is it cast in more stark relief than when Quatermain uses a European rifle to kill an antelope buck from afar. The Kukuanas burst into a "groan of terror" and are thoroughly convinced of the white men's "magic." Only Scragga, son of the king, is not frightened by the display, although he refuses to place himself in the same spot as the buck to test his position. The reluctance of Scragga to accept Qutermain's alleged divinity foreshadows his father's own refusal to be cowed by them later. Another foreshadowing occurs earlier, when Quatermain notes the similarities between Umbopa's appearance and that of the newly-arrived Kukuanas. Clearly the reader is meant to make the connection: Umbopa's confidence in the travelers' success stems from his own belief that there must be a way to reach Kukuanaland, for his presence in the "outer world" proves that such a route exists. What role he has to play in this Lost Civilization is yet to be detailed, but later readers can easily see the "Lost Throne" motif being set up through the frequent indications of Umbopa's dignity and princely bearing. When Haggard first published his novel, however, the very genre of adventure novels was in its infancy; many critics argue that this motif was first utilized in the nineteenth century by Haggard himself. The Lost Throne motif becomes clearer with Umbopa's interest in Infadoos' account of recent Kukuana history. The "inferior" twin hidden by the aged crone, the usurpation of the throne by the lesser brother's murder of the rightful king and the rightful heir's subsequent flight to safety all echo the legends of old . Infadoos even provides the sign by which the rightful king can be recognized: the serpent mark around his waist. Clearly, we are meant to see Umbopa's interest as indicative of his connection to the legend of this lost prince. In this chapter Haggard also offers another sample of the contradictory European attitude toward Africans. Although the Kukuanas are a fictional people, Haggard based their activities and appearance somewhat on the Zulu people. Quatermain's earlier frustration with non-whites claiming equality with their European betters here gives way to awe as he describes the Kukuana men: "not a one of them was under six feet in height, whilst many were six feet three or four...A Kukuana warrior can throw with great accuracy at a distance of fifty yards, and it is their custom on charging to hurl a volley of them at the enemy as they come to close quarters" . Clearly there is one area--that of physical prowess--where Quatermain's European mores will allow him to see the positive attributes of the African man. Quatermain continues his admiration of the people, noting that their village is well-constructed and aesthetically pleasing, while the Kukuana women are "for a native race, exceedingly handsome. They are tall and graceful, and their figures are wonderfully fine" . Even here Haggard cannot keep the patronizing "for a native race" words out of Quatermain's description, and in fact he goes on to have Quatermain say the women were "as well-bred in their way as the habituees of a fashionable drawing-room, and in this respect differ from Zulu women, and their cousins the Masai" . These terms of qualified admiration hint at the greater European attitude of the nineteenth century toward the African peoples as little more than children, who surprise their "betters" when they seem more civilized than most others of their kind.

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finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Prince/section_9_part_1.txt

The Prince.chapter xxiv

chapter xxiv

{"name": "Chapter XXIV", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210303115306/https://www.sparknotes.com/philosophy/prince/section10/", "summary": "Why the Princes of Italy Have Lost Their States Machiavelli suggests that any new prince who successfully follows the advice found in The Prince will enjoy the stability of a hereditary prince, since men are more aware of the present than of the past. A number of Italian princes have lost states through their own military faults. They fled when they should have fought, expecting their subjects to call them back. These princes failed because of their own incompetence and not as a result of a string of bad luck. They took too much comfort in prosperous times, never anticipating danger. When they were conquered, they hoped that the people would revolt and recall them; but it is always folly to depend upon others for security. A prince's best defense is his own valor", "analysis": ""}

The previous suggestions, carefully observed, will enable a new prince to appear well established, and render him at once more secure and fixed in the state than if he had been long seated there. For the actions of a new prince are more narrowly observed than those of an hereditary one, and when they are seen to be able they gain more men and bind far tighter than ancient blood; because men are attracted more by the present than by the past, and when they find the present good they enjoy it and seek no further; they will also make the utmost defence of a prince if he fails them not in other things. Thus it will be a double glory for him to have established a new principality, and adorned and strengthened it with good laws, good arms, good allies, and with a good example; so will it be a double disgrace to him who, born a prince, shall lose his state by want of wisdom. And if those seigniors are considered who have lost their states in Italy in our times, such as the King of Naples, the Duke of Milan, and others, there will be found in them, firstly, one common defect in regard to arms from the causes which have been discussed at length; in the next place, some one of them will be seen, either to have had the people hostile, or if he has had the people friendly, he has not known how to secure the nobles. In the absence of these defects states that have power enough to keep an army in the field cannot be lost. Philip of Macedon, not the father of Alexander the Great, but he who was conquered by Titus Quintius, had not much territory compared to the greatness of the Romans and of Greece who attacked him, yet being a warlike man who knew how to attract the people and secure the nobles, he sustained the war against his enemies for many years, and if in the end he lost the dominion of some cities, nevertheless he retained the kingdom. Therefore, do not let our princes accuse fortune for the loss of their principalities after so many years' possession, but rather their own sloth, because in quiet times they never thought there could be a change (it is a common defect in man not to make any provision in the calm against the tempest), and when afterwards the bad times came they thought of flight and not of defending themselves, and they hoped that the people, disgusted with the insolence of the conquerors, would recall them. This course, when others fail, may be good, but it is very bad to have neglected all other expedients for that, since you would never wish to fall because you trusted to be able to find someone later on to restore you. This again either does not happen, or, if it does, it will not be for your security, because that deliverance is of no avail which does not depend upon yourself; those only are reliable, certain, and durable that depend on yourself and your valour.

Chapter XXIV

https://web.archive.org/web/20210303115306/https://www.sparknotes.com/philosophy/prince/section10/

Why the Princes of Italy Have Lost Their States Machiavelli suggests that any new prince who successfully follows the advice found in The Prince will enjoy the stability of a hereditary prince, since men are more aware of the present than of the past. A number of Italian princes have lost states through their own military faults. They fled when they should have fought, expecting their subjects to call them back. These princes failed because of their own incompetence and not as a result of a string of bad luck. They took too much comfort in prosperous times, never anticipating danger. When they were conquered, they hoped that the people would revolt and recall them; but it is always folly to depend upon others for security. A prince's best defense is his own valor

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/08.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Sense and Sensibility/section_1_part_8.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter viii

chapter viii

{"name": "Chapter VIII", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter1-11", "summary": "Mrs. Jennings, whose main interest is matchmaking, decides that Colonel Brandon is in love with Marianne, and makes jokes to them both about the marriage she expects to occur. Marianne thinks the idea that the Colonel can be in love with her absurd, as he is so old. Marianne confesses to Mrs. Dashwood that she cannot understand why Edward has not visited Elinor in their new home at Barton Cottage. She also is baffled at the reserve of his behavior towards Elinor, and at Elinor's lack of sorrow at the loss of her admirer", "analysis": ""}

Mrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure. She had only two daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the world. In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as far as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance. She was remarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by insinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind of discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively to pronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne Dashwood. She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening of their being together, from his listening so attentively while she sang to them; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons' dining at the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again. It must be so. She was perfectly convinced of it. It would be an excellent match, for HE was rich, and SHE was handsome. Mrs. Jennings had been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married, ever since her connection with Sir John first brought him to her knowledge; and she was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl. The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for it supplied her with endless jokes against them both. At the park she laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne. To the former her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself, perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first incomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence, for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel's advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor. Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of wishing to throw ridicule on his age. "But at least, Mama, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation, though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be MY father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous! When is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not protect him?" "Infirmity!" said Elinor, "do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of his limbs!" "Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the commonest infirmity of declining life?" "My dearest child," said her mother, laughing, "at this rate you must be in continual terror of MY decay; and it must seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty." "Mama, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony." "Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have any thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon's being thirty-five any objection to his marrying HER." "A woman of seven and twenty," said Marianne, after pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other." "It would be impossible, I know," replied Elinor, "to convince you that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders." "But he talked of flannel waistcoats," said Marianne; "and with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble." "Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him half so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?" Soon after this, upon Elinor's leaving the room, "Mama," said Marianne, "I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot conceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. What else can detain him at Norland?" "Had you any idea of his coming so soon?" said Mrs. Dashwood. "I had none. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his coming to Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?" "I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must." "I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the room would be wanted for some time." "How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! But the whole of their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how composed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation the last evening of their being together! In Edward's farewell there was no distinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an affectionate brother to both. Twice did I leave them purposely together in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most unaccountably follow me out of the room. And Elinor, in quitting Norland and Edward, cried not as I did. Even now her self-command is invariable. When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to avoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?"

Chapter VIII

https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter1-11

Mrs. Jennings, whose main interest is matchmaking, decides that Colonel Brandon is in love with Marianne, and makes jokes to them both about the marriage she expects to occur. Marianne thinks the idea that the Colonel can be in love with her absurd, as he is so old. Marianne confesses to Mrs. Dashwood that she cannot understand why Edward has not visited Elinor in their new home at Barton Cottage. She also is baffled at the reserve of his behavior towards Elinor, and at Elinor's lack of sorrow at the loss of her admirer

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/23.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_22_part_0.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 23

chapter 23

{"name": "Phase III: \"The Rally,\" Chapter Twenty-Three", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-23", "summary": "It's now July, and they've had a lot of rain. One Sunday morning, Tess and the other milkmaids decide to walk to church. On their way, they find that part of the road is flooded. It's not very deep, and on a working day they would have marched on across in their work boots. But they're wearing fancy Sunday shoes, and don't want to mess them up. Luckily for them, Angel happens to be out walking . He offers to carry them each across. Of course the girls all agree. The first three are all blushing and excited as he lifts them up. After all, this might be the only time they get to be in his arms. He saves the best for last, and carries Tess across slowly so that he can whisper to her. She still tries to flatter her friends to make them seem better than she is. He almost kisses her, but doesn't want to take advantage of the situation. After he leaves them all, Tess's friends look despondent. She asks them what's up, and they say that they're miserable because Angel likes her the best. But still, they don't hold it against her. Especially when Tess cries out that they're all better than she is. That night, as they're getting ready for bed, she cries and says that she'd never marry him, or any man. They all convince themselves that Angel has no idea of marrying any of them. Izz is so depressed that she says she'll leave the dairy and go home. Later on, Izz mentions that there's some fine lady that Angel's family wants him to marry. Tess is shocked, and for the first time, feels some jealousy. But she no longer has any hope that he might intend to ask her to marry him.", "analysis": ""}

The hot weather of July had crept upon them unawares, and the atmosphere of the flat vale hung heavy as an opiate over the dairy-folk, the cows, and the trees. Hot steaming rains fell frequently, making the grass where the cows fed yet more rank, and hindering the late hay-making in the other meads. It was Sunday morning; the milking was done; the outdoor milkers had gone home. Tess and the other three were dressing themselves rapidly, the whole bevy having agreed to go together to Mellstock Church, which lay some three or four miles distant from the dairy-house. She had now been two months at Talbothays, and this was her first excursion. All the preceding afternoon and night heavy thunderstorms had hissed down upon the meads, and washed some of the hay into the river; but this morning the sun shone out all the more brilliantly for the deluge, and the air was balmy and clear. The crooked lane leading from their own parish to Mellstock ran along the lowest levels in a portion of its length, and when the girls reached the most depressed spot they found that the result of the rain had been to flood the lane over-shoe to a distance of some fifty yards. This would have been no serious hindrance on a week-day; they would have clicked through it in their high pattens and boots quite unconcerned; but on this day of vanity, this Sun's-day, when flesh went forth to coquet with flesh while hypocritically affecting business with spiritual things; on this occasion for wearing their white stockings and thin shoes, and their pink, white, and lilac gowns, on which every mud spot would be visible, the pool was an awkward impediment. They could hear the church-bell calling--as yet nearly a mile off. "Who would have expected such a rise in the river in summer-time!" said Marian, from the top of the roadside bank on which they had climbed, and were maintaining a precarious footing in the hope of creeping along its slope till they were past the pool. "We can't get there anyhow, without walking right through it, or else going round the Turnpike way; and that would make us so very late!" said Retty, pausing hopelessly. "And I do colour up so hot, walking into church late, and all the people staring round," said Marian, "that I hardly cool down again till we get into the That-it-may-please-Thees." While they stood clinging to the bank they heard a splashing round the bend of the road, and presently appeared Angel Clare, advancing along the lane towards them through the water. Four hearts gave a big throb simultaneously. His aspect was probably as un-Sabbatarian a one as a dogmatic parson's son often presented; his attire being his dairy clothes, long wading boots, a cabbage-leaf inside his hat to keep his head cool, with a thistle-spud to finish him off. "He's not going to church," said Marian. "No--I wish he was!" murmured Tess. Angel, in fact, rightly or wrongly (to adopt the safe phrase of evasive controversialists), preferred sermons in stones to sermons in churches and chapels on fine summer days. This morning, moreover, he had gone out to see if the damage to the hay by the flood was considerable or not. On his walk he observed the girls from a long distance, though they had been so occupied with their difficulties of passage as not to notice him. He knew that the water had risen at that spot, and that it would quite check their progress. So he had hastened on, with a dim idea of how he could help them--one of them in particular. The rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed quartet looked so charming in their light summer attire, clinging to the roadside bank like pigeons on a roof-slope, that he stopped a moment to regard them before coming close. Their gauzy skirts had brushed up from the grass innumerable flies and butterflies which, unable to escape, remained caged in the transparent tissue as in an aviary. Angel's eye at last fell upon Tess, the hindmost of the four; she, being full of suppressed laughter at their dilemma, could not help meeting his glance radiantly. He came beneath them in the water, which did not rise over his long boots; and stood looking at the entrapped flies and butterflies. "Are you trying to get to church?" he said to Marian, who was in front, including the next two in his remark, but avoiding Tess. "Yes, sir; and 'tis getting late; and my colour do come up so--" "I'll carry you through the pool--every Jill of you." The whole four flushed as if one heart beat through them. "I think you can't, sir," said Marian. "It is the only way for you to get past. Stand still. Nonsense--you are not too heavy! I'd carry you all four together. Now, Marian, attend," he continued, "and put your arms round my shoulders, so. Now! Hold on. That's well done." Marian had lowered herself upon his arm and shoulder as directed, and Angel strode off with her, his slim figure, as viewed from behind, looking like the mere stem to the great nosegay suggested by hers. They disappeared round the curve of the road, and only his sousing footsteps and the top ribbon of Marian's bonnet told where they were. In a few minutes he reappeared. Izz Huett was the next in order upon the bank. "Here he comes," she murmured, and they could hear that her lips were dry with emotion. "And I have to put my arms round his neck and look into his face as Marian did." "There's nothing in that," said Tess quickly. "There's a time for everything," continued Izz, unheeding. "A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; the first is now going to be mine." "Fie--it is Scripture, Izz!" "Yes," said Izz, "I've always a' ear at church for pretty verses." Angel Clare, to whom three-quarters of this performance was a commonplace act of kindness, now approached Izz. She quietly and dreamily lowered herself into his arms, and Angel methodically marched off with her. When he was heard returning for the third time Retty's throbbing heart could be almost seen to shake her. He went up to the red-haired girl, and while he was seizing her he glanced at Tess. His lips could not have pronounced more plainly, "It will soon be you and I." Her comprehension appeared in her face; she could not help it. There was an understanding between them. Poor little Retty, though by far the lightest weight, was the most troublesome of Clare's burdens. Marian had been like a sack of meal, a dead weight of plumpness under which he has literally staggered. Izz had ridden sensibly and calmly. Retty was a bunch of hysterics. However, he got through with the disquieted creature, deposited her, and returned. Tess could see over the hedge the distant three in a group, standing as he had placed them on the next rising ground. It was now her turn. She was embarrassed to discover that excitement at the proximity of Mr Clare's breath and eyes, which she had contemned in her companions, was intensified in herself; and as if fearful of betraying her secret, she paltered with him at the last moment. "I may be able to clim' along the bank perhaps--I can clim' better than they. You must be so tired, Mr Clare!" "No, no, Tess," said he quickly. And almost before she was aware, she was seated in his arms and resting against his shoulder. "Three Leahs to get one Rachel," he whispered. "They are better women than I," she replied, magnanimously sticking to her resolve. "Not to me," said Angel. He saw her grow warm at this; and they went some steps in silence. "I hope I am not too heavy?" she said timidly. "O no. You should lift Marian! Such a lump. You are like an undulating billow warmed by the sun. And all this fluff of muslin about you is the froth." "It is very pretty--if I seem like that to you." "Do you know that I have undergone three-quarters of this labour entirely for the sake of the fourth quarter?" "No." "I did not expect such an event to-day." "Nor I... The water came up so sudden." That the rise in the water was what she understood him to refer to, the state of breathing belied. Clare stood still and inclinced his face towards hers. "O Tessy!" he exclaimed. The girl's cheeks burned to the breeze, and she could not look into his eyes for her emotion. It reminded Angel that he was somewhat unfairly taking advantage of an accidental position; and he went no further with it. No definite words of love had crossed their lips as yet, and suspension at this point was desirable now. However, he walked slowly, to make the remainder of the distance as long as possible; but at last they came to the bend, and the rest of their progress was in full view of the other three. The dry land was reached, and he set her down. Her friends were looking with round thoughtful eyes at her and him, and she could see that they had been talking of her. He hastily bade them farewell, and splashed back along the stretch of submerged road. The four moved on together as before, till Marian broke the silence by saying-- "No--in all truth; we have no chance against her!" She looked joylessly at Tess. "What do you mean?" asked the latter. "He likes 'ee best--the very best! We could see it as he brought 'ee. He would have kissed 'ee, if you had encouraged him to do it, ever so little." "No, no," said she. The gaiety with which they had set out had somehow vanished; and yet there was no enmity or malice between them. They were generous young souls; they had been reared in the lonely country nooks where fatalism is a strong sentiment, and they did not blame her. Such supplanting was to be. Tess's heart ached. There was no concealing from herself the fact that she loved Angel Clare, perhaps all the more passionately from knowing that the others had also lost their hearts to him. There is contagion in this sentiment, especially among women. And yet that same hungry nature had fought against this, but too feebly, and the natural result had followed. "I will never stand in your way, nor in the way of either of you!" she declared to Retty that night in the bedroom (her tears running down). "I can't help this, my dear! I don't think marrying is in his mind at all; but if he were ever to ask me I should refuse him, as I should refuse any man." "Oh! would you? Why?" said wondering Retty. "It cannot be! But I will be plain. Putting myself quite on one side, I don't think he will choose either of you." "I have never expected it--thought of it!" moaned Retty. "But O! I wish I was dead!" The poor child, torn by a feeling which she hardly understood, turned to the other two girls who came upstairs just then. "We be friends with her again," she said to them. "She thinks no more of his choosing her than we do." So the reserve went off, and they were confiding and warm. "I don't seem to care what I do now," said Marian, whose mood was turned to its lowest bass. "I was going to marry a dairyman at Stickleford, who's asked me twice; but--my soul--I would put an end to myself rather'n be his wife now! Why don't ye speak, Izz?" "To confess, then," murmured Izz, "I made sure to-day that he was going to kiss me as he held me; and I lay still against his breast, hoping and hoping, and never moved at all. But he did not. I don't like biding here at Talbothays any longer! I shall go hwome." The air of the sleeping-chamber seemed to palpitate with the hopeless passion of the girls. They writhed feverishly under the oppressiveness of an emotion thrust on them by cruel Nature's law--an emotion which they had neither expected nor desired. The incident of the day had fanned the flame that was burning the inside of their hearts out, and the torture was almost more than they could endure. The differences which distinguished them as individuals were abstracted by this passion, and each was but portion of one organism called sex. There was so much frankness and so little jealousy because there was no hope. Each one was a girl of fair common sense, and she did not delude herself with any vain conceits, or deny her love, or give herself airs, in the idea of outshining the others. The full recognition of the futility of their infatuation, from a social point of view; its purposeless beginning; its self-bounded outlook; its lack of everything to justify its existence in the eye of civilization (while lacking nothing in the eye of Nature); the one fact that it did exist, ecstasizing them to a killing joy--all this imparted to them a resignation, a dignity, which a practical and sordid expectation of winning him as a husband would have destroyed. They tossed and turned on their little beds, and the cheese-wring dripped monotonously downstairs. "B' you awake, Tess?" whispered one, half-an-hour later. It was Izz Huett's voice. Tess replied in the affirmative, whereupon also Retty and Marian suddenly flung the bedclothes off them, and sighed-- "So be we!" "I wonder what she is like--the lady they say his family have looked out for him!" "I wonder," said Izz. "Some lady looked out for him?" gasped Tess, starting. "I have never heard o' that!" "O yes--'tis whispered; a young lady of his own rank, chosen by his family; a Doctor of Divinity's daughter near his father's parish of Emminster; he don't much care for her, they say. But he is sure to marry her." They had heard so very little of this; yet it was enough to build up wretched dolorous dreams upon, there in the shade of the night. They pictured all the details of his being won round to consent, of the wedding preparations, of the bride's happiness, of her dress and veil, of her blissful home with him, when oblivion would have fallen upon themselves as far as he and their love were concerned. Thus they talked, and ached, and wept till sleep charmed their sorrow away. After this disclosure Tess nourished no further foolish thought that there lurked any grave and deliberate import in Clare's attentions to her. It was a passing summer love of her face, for love's own temporary sake--nothing more. And the thorny crown of this sad conception was that she whom he really did prefer in a cursory way to the rest, she who knew herself to be more impassioned in nature, cleverer, more beautiful than they, was in the eyes of propriety far less worthy of him than the homelier ones whom he ignored.

Phase III: "The Rally," Chapter Twenty-Three

https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-23

It's now July, and they've had a lot of rain. One Sunday morning, Tess and the other milkmaids decide to walk to church. On their way, they find that part of the road is flooded. It's not very deep, and on a working day they would have marched on across in their work boots. But they're wearing fancy Sunday shoes, and don't want to mess them up. Luckily for them, Angel happens to be out walking . He offers to carry them each across. Of course the girls all agree. The first three are all blushing and excited as he lifts them up. After all, this might be the only time they get to be in his arms. He saves the best for last, and carries Tess across slowly so that he can whisper to her. She still tries to flatter her friends to make them seem better than she is. He almost kisses her, but doesn't want to take advantage of the situation. After he leaves them all, Tess's friends look despondent. She asks them what's up, and they say that they're miserable because Angel likes her the best. But still, they don't hold it against her. Especially when Tess cries out that they're all better than she is. That night, as they're getting ready for bed, she cries and says that she'd never marry him, or any man. They all convince themselves that Angel has no idea of marrying any of them. Izz is so depressed that she says she'll leave the dairy and go home. Later on, Izz mentions that there's some fine lady that Angel's family wants him to marry. Tess is shocked, and for the first time, feels some jealousy. But she no longer has any hope that he might intend to ask her to marry him.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/44747-chapters/41.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Red and the Black/section_40_part_0.txt

The Red and the Black.part 2.chapter 11

part 2, chapter 11

{"name": "Part 2, Chapter 11", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-11", "summary": "The narrator tells us that if Julien were more observant, he'd realize just how crushing Mathilde can be to anyone who annoys her. She receives a lot of love letters from young men and is basically a heartbreaker. One day, Mathilde realizes that she's totally in love with Julien. She's never known the feeling before, and it feels great.", "analysis": ""}

CHAPTER XLI A YOUNG GIRL'S DOMINION I admire her beauty but I fear her intellect.--_Merimee_. If Julien had employed the time which he spent in exaggerating Matilde's beauty or in working himself up into a rage against that family haughtiness which she was forgetting for his sake in examining what was going on in the salon, he would have understood the secret of her dominion over all that surrounded her. When anyone displeased mademoiselle de La Mole she managed to punish the offender by a jest which was so guarded, so well chosen, so polite and so neatly timed, that the more the victim thought about it, the sorer grew the wound. She gradually became positively terrible to wounded vanity. As she attached no value to many things which the rest of her family very seriously wanted, she always struck them as self-possessed. The salons of the aristocracy are nice enough to brag about when you leave them, but that is all; mere politeness alone only counts for something in its own right during the first few days. Julien experienced this after the first fascination and the first astonishment had passed off. "Politeness," he said to himself "is nothing but the absence of that bad temper which would be occasioned by bad manners." Mathilde was frequently bored; perhaps she would have been bored anywhere. She then found a real distraction and real pleasure in sharpening an epigram. It was perhaps in order to have more amusing victims than her great relations, the academician and the five or six other men of inferior class who paid her court, that she had given encouragement to the marquis de Croisenois, the comte Caylus and two or three other young men of the highest rank. They simply represented new subjects for epigrams. We will admit with reluctance, for we are fond of Mathilde, that she had received many letters from several of them and had sometimes answered them. We hasten to add that this person constitutes an exception to the manners of the century. Lack of prudence is not generally the fault with which the pupils of the noble convent of the Sacred Heart can be reproached. One day the marquis de Croisenois returned to Mathilde a fairly compromising letter which she had written the previous night. He thought that he was thereby advancing his cause a great deal by taking this highly prudent step. But the very imprudence of her correspondence was the very element in it Mathilde liked. Her pleasure was to stake her fate. She did not speak to him again for six weeks. She amused herself with the letters of these young men, but in her view they were all like each other. It was invariably a case of the most profound, the most melancholy, passion. "They all represent the same perfect man, ready to leave for Palestine," she exclaimed to her cousin. "Can you conceive of anything more insipid? So these are the letters I am going to receive all my life! There can only be a change every twenty years according to the kind of vogue which happens to be fashionable. They must have had more colour in them in the days of the Empire. In those days all these young society men had seen or accomplished feats which really had an element of greatness. The Duke of N---- my uncle was at Wagram." "What brains do you need to deal a sabre blow? And when they have had the luck to do that they talk of it so often!" said mademoiselle de Sainte-Heredite, Mathilde's cousin. "Well, those tales give me pleasure. Being in a real battle, a battle of Napoleon, where six thousand soldiers were killed, why, that's proof of courage. Exposing one's self to danger elevates the soul and saves it from the boredom in which my poor admirers seem to be sunk; and that boredom is contagious. Which of them ever thought of doing anything extraordinary? They are trying to win my hand, a pretty business to be sure! I am rich and my father will procure advancement for his son-in-law. Well! I hope he'll manage to find someone who is a little bit amusing." Mathilde's keen, sharp and picturesque view of life spoilt her language as one sees. An expression of hers would often constitute a blemish in the eyes of her polished friends. If she had been less fashionable they would almost have owned that her manner of speaking was, from the standpoint of feminine delicacy, to some extent unduly coloured. She, on her side, was very unjust towards the handsome cavaliers who fill the Bois de Boulogne. She envisaged the future not with terror, that would have been a vivid emotion, but with a disgust which was very rare at her age. What could she desire? Fortune, good birth, wit, beauty, according to what the world said, and according to what she believed, all these things had been lavished upon her by the hands of chance. So this was the state of mind of the most envied heiress of the faubourg Saint-Germain when she began to find pleasure in walking with Julien. She was astonished at his pride; she admired the ability of the little bourgeois. "He will manage to get made a bishop like the abbe Mouray," she said to herself. Soon the sincere and unaffected opposition with which our hero received several of her ideas filled her mind; she continued to think about it, she told her friend the slightest details of the conversation, but thought that she would never succeed in fully rendering all their meaning. An idea suddenly flashed across her; "I have the happiness of loving," she said to herself one day with an incredible ecstasy of joy. "I am in love, I am in love, it is clear! Where can a young, witty and beautiful girl of my own age find sensations if not in love? It is no good. I shall never feel any love for Croisenois, Caylus, and _tutti quanti_. They are unimpeachable, perhaps too unimpeachable; any way they bore me." She rehearsed in her mind all the descriptions of passion which she had read in _Manon Lescaut_, the _Nouvelle Heloise_, the _Letters of a Portuguese Nun_, etc., etc. It was only a question of course of the grand passion; light love was unworthy of a girl of her age and birth. She vouchsafed the name of love to that heroic sentiment which was met with in France in the time of Henri III. and Bassompierre. That love did not basely yield to obstacles, but, far from it, inspired great deeds. "How unfortunate for me that there is not a real court like that of Catherine de' Medici or of Louis XIII. I feel equal to the boldest and greatest actions. What would I not make of a king who was a man of spirit like Louis XIII. if he were sighing at my feet! I would take him to the Vendee, as the Baron de Tolly is so fond of saying, and from that base he would re-conquer his kingdom; then no more about a charter--and Julien would help me. What does he lack? name and fortune. He will make a name, he will win a fortune. "Croisenois lacks nothing, and he will never be anything else all his life but a duke who is half 'ultra' and half Liberal, an undecided being who never goes to extremes and consequently always plays second fiddle. "What great action is not an extreme at the moment when it is undertaken? It is only after accomplishment that it seems possible to commonplace individuals. Yes, it is love with all its miracles which is going to reign over my heart; I feel as much from the fire which is thrilling me. Heaven owed me this boon. It will not then have lavished in vain all its bounties on one single person. My happiness will be worthy of me. Each day will no longer be the cold replica of the day before. There is grandeur and audacity in the very fact of daring to love a man, placed so far beneath me by his social position. Let us see what happens, will he continue to deserve me? I will abandon him at the first sign of weakness which I detect. A girl of my birth and of that mediaeval temperament which they are good enough to ascribe to me (she was quoting from her father) must not behave like a fool. "But should I not be behaving like a fool if I were to love the marquis de Croisenois? I should simply have a new edition over again of that happiness enjoyed by my girl cousins which I so utterly despise. I already know everything the poor marquis would say to me and every answer I should make. What's the good of a love which makes one yawn? One might as well be in a nunnery. I shall have a celebration of the signing of a contract just like my younger cousin when the grandparents all break down, provided of course that they are not annoyed by some condition introduced into the contract at the eleventh hour by the notary on the other side."

Part 2, Chapter 11

https://web.archive.org/web/20200920104425/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/red-and-the-black/summary/part-2-chapter-11

The narrator tells us that if Julien were more observant, he'd realize just how crushing Mathilde can be to anyone who annoys her. She receives a lot of love letters from young men and is basically a heartbreaker. One day, Mathilde realizes that she's totally in love with Julien. She's never known the feeling before, and it feels great.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/19.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Far From the Madding Crowd/section_18_part_0.txt

Far From the Madding Crowd.chapter 19

chapter 19

{"name": "Chapter 19", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-19", "summary": "Eventually, Boldwood calls upon Bathsheba at her home. She's not there, though. By this point, we're told that Boldwood is used to being in love and isn't afraid of it anymore. Huh. That was quick. He goes off to seek Bathsheba at the pool used for washing sheep. Once again, Oak is there with her, along with the rest of her farmhands. When he gets a chance to speak to her alone he comes out with it and asks her to marry him. Yup, that's how they went about it back in the old days. Bathsheba politely refuses, which just opens up the floodgates of Boldwood's passion. The guy practically drops to his knees to tell her how much he loves her. The sad thing is that Bathsheba ultimately knows it's her fault for making him feel this way because of the Valentine she sent him as a joke. Bathsheba tries to give him the whole, \"It's not you; it's me\" routine, but Boldwood isn't satisfied. In a last ditch effort Boldwood reminds her how rich he is. But it's still not enough. Bathsheba doesn't love him. Reminder: Oak wasn't rich enough for Bathsheba, and Boldwood isn't lovable enough. Bathsheba wants both love and money. Finally, she tells him that she won't refuse him outright, even though she'll probably never marry him. She thinks this is the nice thing to do, but it's probably way worse for him in the long run. With that, Boldwood walks away, telling Bathsheba that he'll wait forever if he needs to. But one day, he believes she'll be ready to marry him. All in all, a super-uncomfortable chapter.", "analysis": ""}

THE SHEEP-WASHING--THE OFFER Boldwood did eventually call upon her. She was not at home. "Of course not," he murmured. In contemplating Bathsheba as a woman, he had forgotten the accidents of her position as an agriculturist--that being as much of a farmer, and as extensive a farmer, as himself, her probable whereabouts was out-of-doors at this time of the year. This, and the other oversights Boldwood was guilty of, were natural to the mood, and still more natural to the circumstances. The great aids to idealization in love were present here: occasional observation of her from a distance, and the absence of social intercourse with her--visual familiarity, oral strangeness. The smaller human elements were kept out of sight; the pettinesses that enter so largely into all earthly living and doing were disguised by the accident of lover and loved-one not being on visiting terms; and there was hardly awakened a thought in Boldwood that sorry household realities appertained to her, or that she, like all others, had moments of commonplace, when to be least plainly seen was to be most prettily remembered. Thus a mild sort of apotheosis took place in his fancy, whilst she still lived and breathed within his own horizon, a troubled creature like himself. It was the end of May when the farmer determined to be no longer repulsed by trivialities or distracted by suspense. He had by this time grown used to being in love; the passion now startled him less even when it tortured him more, and he felt himself adequate to the situation. On inquiring for her at her house they had told him she was at the sheep-washing, and he went off to seek her there. The sheep-washing pool was a perfectly circular basin of brickwork in the meadows, full of the clearest water. To birds on the wing its glassy surface, reflecting the light sky, must have been visible for miles around as a glistening Cyclops' eye in a green face. The grass about the margin at this season was a sight to remember long--in a minor sort of way. Its activity in sucking the moisture from the rich damp sod was almost a process observable by the eye. The outskirts of this level water-meadow were diversified by rounded and hollow pastures, where just now every flower that was not a buttercup was a daisy. The river slid along noiselessly as a shade, the swelling reeds and sedge forming a flexible palisade upon its moist brink. To the north of the mead were trees, the leaves of which were new, soft, and moist, not yet having stiffened and darkened under summer sun and drought, their colour being yellow beside a green--green beside a yellow. From the recesses of this knot of foliage the loud notes of three cuckoos were resounding through the still air. Boldwood went meditating down the slopes with his eyes on his boots, which the yellow pollen from the buttercups had bronzed in artistic gradations. A tributary of the main stream flowed through the basin of the pool by an inlet and outlet at opposite points of its diameter. Shepherd Oak, Jan Coggan, Moon, Poorgrass, Cain Ball, and several others were assembled here, all dripping wet to the very roots of their hair, and Bathsheba was standing by in a new riding-habit--the most elegant she had ever worn--the reins of her horse being looped over her arm. Flagons of cider were rolling about upon the green. The meek sheep were pushed into the pool by Coggan and Matthew Moon, who stood by the lower hatch, immersed to their waists; then Gabriel, who stood on the brink, thrust them under as they swam along, with an instrument like a crutch, formed for the purpose, and also for assisting the exhausted animals when the wool became saturated and they began to sink. They were let out against the stream, and through the upper opening, all impurities flowing away below. Cainy Ball and Joseph, who performed this latter operation, were if possible wetter than the rest; they resembled dolphins under a fountain, every protuberance and angle of their clothes dribbling forth a small rill. Boldwood came close and bade her good morning, with such constraint that she could not but think he had stepped across to the washing for its own sake, hoping not to find her there; more, she fancied his brow severe and his eye slighting. Bathsheba immediately contrived to withdraw, and glided along by the river till she was a stone's throw off. She heard footsteps brushing the grass, and had a consciousness that love was encircling her like a perfume. Instead of turning or waiting, Bathsheba went further among the high sedges, but Boldwood seemed determined, and pressed on till they were completely past the bend of the river. Here, without being seen, they could hear the splashing and shouts of the washers above. "Miss Everdene!" said the farmer. She trembled, turned, and said "Good morning." His tone was so utterly removed from all she had expected as a beginning. It was lowness and quiet accentuated: an emphasis of deep meanings, their form, at the same time, being scarcely expressed. Silence has sometimes a remarkable power of showing itself as the disembodied soul of feeling wandering without its carcase, and it is then more impressive than speech. In the same way, to say a little is often to tell more than to say a great deal. Boldwood told everything in that word. As the consciousness expands on learning that what was fancied to be the rumble of wheels is the reverberation of thunder, so did Bathsheba's at her intuitive conviction. "I feel--almost too much--to think," he said, with a solemn simplicity. "I have come to speak to you without preface. My life is not my own since I have beheld you clearly, Miss Everdene--I come to make you an offer of marriage." Bathsheba tried to preserve an absolutely neutral countenance, and all the motion she made was that of closing lips which had previously been a little parted. "I am now forty-one years old," he went on. "I may have been called a confirmed bachelor, and I was a confirmed bachelor. I had never any views of myself as a husband in my earlier days, nor have I made any calculation on the subject since I have been older. But we all change, and my change, in this matter, came with seeing you. I have felt lately, more and more, that my present way of living is bad in every respect. Beyond all things, I want you as my wife." "I feel, Mr. Boldwood, that though I respect you much, I do not feel--what would justify me to--in accepting your offer," she stammered. This giving back of dignity for dignity seemed to open the sluices of feeling that Boldwood had as yet kept closed. "My life is a burden without you," he exclaimed, in a low voice. "I want you--I want you to let me say I love you again and again!" Bathsheba answered nothing, and the horse upon her arm seemed so impressed that instead of cropping the herbage she looked up. "I think and hope you care enough for me to listen to what I have to tell!" Bathsheba's momentary impulse at hearing this was to ask why he thought that, till she remembered that, far from being a conceited assumption on Boldwood's part, it was but the natural conclusion of serious reflection based on deceptive premises of her own offering. "I wish I could say courteous flatteries to you," the farmer continued in an easier tone, "and put my rugged feeling into a graceful shape: but I have neither power nor patience to learn such things. I want you for my wife--so wildly that no other feeling can abide in me; but I should not have spoken out had I not been led to hope." "The valentine again! O that valentine!" she said to herself, but not a word to him. "If you can love me say so, Miss Everdene. If not--don't say no!" "Mr. Boldwood, it is painful to have to say I am surprised, so that I don't know how to answer you with propriety and respect--but am only just able to speak out my feeling--I mean my meaning; that I am afraid I can't marry you, much as I respect you. You are too dignified for me to suit you, sir." "But, Miss Everdene!" "I--I didn't--I know I ought never to have dreamt of sending that valentine--forgive me, sir--it was a wanton thing which no woman with any self-respect should have done. If you will only pardon my thoughtlessness, I promise never to--" "No, no, no. Don't say thoughtlessness! Make me think it was something more--that it was a sort of prophetic instinct--the beginning of a feeling that you would like me. You torture me to say it was done in thoughtlessness--I never thought of it in that light, and I can't endure it. Ah! I wish I knew how to win you! but that I can't do--I can only ask if I have already got you. If I have not, and it is not true that you have come unwittingly to me as I have to you, I can say no more." "I have not fallen in love with you, Mr. Boldwood--certainly I must say that." She allowed a very small smile to creep for the first time over her serious face in saying this, and the white row of upper teeth, and keenly-cut lips already noticed, suggested an idea of heartlessness, which was immediately contradicted by the pleasant eyes. "But you will just think--in kindness and condescension think--if you cannot bear with me as a husband! I fear I am too old for you, but believe me I will take more care of you than would many a man of your own age. I will protect and cherish you with all my strength--I will indeed! You shall have no cares--be worried by no household affairs, and live quite at ease, Miss Everdene. The dairy superintendence shall be done by a man--I can afford it well--you shall never have so much as to look out of doors at haymaking time, or to think of weather in the harvest. I rather cling to the chaise, because it is the same my poor father and mother drove, but if you don't like it I will sell it, and you shall have a pony-carriage of your own. I cannot say how far above every other idea and object on earth you seem to me--nobody knows--God only knows--how much you are to me!" Bathsheba's heart was young, and it swelled with sympathy for the deep-natured man who spoke so simply. "Don't say it! don't! I cannot bear you to feel so much, and me to feel nothing. And I am afraid they will notice us, Mr. Boldwood. Will you let the matter rest now? I cannot think collectedly. I did not know you were going to say this to me. Oh, I am wicked to have made you suffer so!" She was frightened as well as agitated at his vehemence. "Say then, that you don't absolutely refuse. Do not quite refuse?" "I can do nothing. I cannot answer." "I may speak to you again on the subject?" "Yes." "I may think of you?" "Yes, I suppose you may think of me." "And hope to obtain you?" "No--do not hope! Let us go on." "I will call upon you again to-morrow." "No--please not. Give me time." "Yes--I will give you any time," he said earnestly and gratefully. "I am happier now." "No--I beg you! Don't be happier if happiness only comes from my agreeing. Be neutral, Mr. Boldwood! I must think." "I will wait," he said. And then she turned away. Boldwood dropped his gaze to the ground, and stood long like a man who did not know where he was. Realities then returned upon him like the pain of a wound received in an excitement which eclipses it, and he, too, then went on.

Chapter 19

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-19

Eventually, Boldwood calls upon Bathsheba at her home. She's not there, though. By this point, we're told that Boldwood is used to being in love and isn't afraid of it anymore. Huh. That was quick. He goes off to seek Bathsheba at the pool used for washing sheep. Once again, Oak is there with her, along with the rest of her farmhands. When he gets a chance to speak to her alone he comes out with it and asks her to marry him. Yup, that's how they went about it back in the old days. Bathsheba politely refuses, which just opens up the floodgates of Boldwood's passion. The guy practically drops to his knees to tell her how much he loves her. The sad thing is that Bathsheba ultimately knows it's her fault for making him feel this way because of the Valentine she sent him as a joke. Bathsheba tries to give him the whole, "It's not you; it's me" routine, but Boldwood isn't satisfied. In a last ditch effort Boldwood reminds her how rich he is. But it's still not enough. Bathsheba doesn't love him. Reminder: Oak wasn't rich enough for Bathsheba, and Boldwood isn't lovable enough. Bathsheba wants both love and money. Finally, she tells him that she won't refuse him outright, even though she'll probably never marry him. She thinks this is the nice thing to do, but it's probably way worse for him in the long run. With that, Boldwood walks away, telling Bathsheba that he'll wait forever if he needs to. But one day, he believes she'll be ready to marry him. All in all, a super-uncomfortable chapter.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/09.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_1_part_9.txt

Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapter ix

chapter ix

{"name": "Chapter IX", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase1-chapter1-11", "summary": "Early the next morning Tess meets her new mistress, Mrs. d'Urberville, and discovers that the old woman is blind. Very attached to birds of all kinds, she has Tess place two chickens in her lap. Then she tells Tess that part of her job will be to whistle to her bullfinches. Tess, who has taken liberties describing her degree of expertise in the matter of fowls, says she will practice. However, despite her best efforts, Tess finds she cannot whistle until Alec, who is completely smitten, helps her", "analysis": ""}

The community of fowls to which Tess had been appointed as supervisor, purveyor, nurse, surgeon, and friend made its headquarters in an old thatched cottage standing in an enclosure that had once been a garden, but was now a trampled and sanded square. The house was overrun with ivy, its chimney being enlarged by the boughs of the parasite to the aspect of a ruined tower. The lower rooms were entirely given over to the birds, who walked about them with a proprietary air, as though the place had been built by themselves, and not by certain dusty copyholders who now lay east and west in the churchyard. The descendants of these bygone owners felt it almost as a slight to their family when the house which had so much of their affection, had cost so much of their forefathers' money, and had been in their possession for several generations before the d'Urbervilles came and built here, was indifferently turned into a fowl-house by Mrs Stoke-d'Urberville as soon as the property fell into hand according to law. "'Twas good enough for Christians in grandfather's time," they said. The rooms wherein dozens of infants had wailed at their nursing now resounded with the tapping of nascent chicks. Distracted hens in coops occupied spots where formerly stood chairs supporting sedate agriculturists. The chimney-corner and once-blazing hearth was now filled with inverted beehives, in which the hens laid their eggs; while out of doors the plots that each succeeding householder had carefully shaped with his spade were torn by the cocks in wildest fashion. The garden in which the cottage stood was surrounded by a wall, and could only be entered through a door. When Tess had occupied herself about an hour the next morning in altering and improving the arrangements, according to her skilled ideas as the daughter of a professed poulterer, the door in the wall opened and a servant in white cap and apron entered. She had come from the manor-house. "Mrs d'Urberville wants the fowls as usual," she said; but perceiving that Tess did not quite understand, she explained, "Mis'ess is a old lady, and blind." "Blind!" said Tess. Almost before her misgiving at the news could find time to shape itself she took, under her companion's direction, two of the most beautiful of the Hamburghs in her arms, and followed the maid-servant, who had likewise taken two, to the adjacent mansion, which, though ornate and imposing, showed traces everywhere on this side that some occupant of its chambers could bend to the love of dumb creatures--feathers floating within view of the front, and hen-coops standing on the grass. In a sitting-room on the ground-floor, ensconced in an armchair with her back to the light, was the owner and mistress of the estate, a white-haired woman of not more than sixty, or even less, wearing a large cap. She had the mobile face frequent in those whose sight has decayed by stages, has been laboriously striven after, and reluctantly let go, rather than the stagnant mien apparent in persons long sightless or born blind. Tess walked up to this lady with her feathered charges--one sitting on each arm. "Ah, you are the young woman come to look after my birds?" said Mrs d'Urberville, recognizing a new footstep. "I hope you will be kind to them. My bailiff tells me you are quite the proper person. Well, where are they? Ah, this is Strut! But he is hardly so lively to-day, is he? He is alarmed at being handled by a stranger, I suppose. And Phena too--yes, they are a little frightened--aren't you, dears? But they will soon get used to you." While the old lady had been speaking Tess and the other maid, in obedience to her gestures, had placed the fowls severally in her lap, and she had felt them over from head to tail, examining their beaks, their combs, the manes of the cocks, their wings, and their claws. Her touch enabled her to recognize them in a moment, and to discover if a single feather were crippled or draggled. She handled their crops, and knew what they had eaten, and if too little or too much; her face enacting a vivid pantomime of the criticisms passing in her mind. The birds that the two girls had brought in were duly returned to the yard, and the process was repeated till all the pet cocks and hens had been submitted to the old woman--Hamburghs, Bantams, Cochins, Brahmas, Dorkings, and such other sorts as were in fashion just then--her perception of each visitor being seldom at fault as she received the bird upon her knees. It reminded Tess of a Confirmation, in which Mrs d'Urberville was the bishop, the fowls the young people presented, and herself and the maid-servant the parson and curate of the parish bringing them up. At the end of the ceremony Mrs d'Urberville abruptly asked Tess, wrinkling and twitching her face into undulations, "Can you whistle?" "Whistle, Ma'am?" "Yes, whistle tunes." Tess could whistle like most other country-girls, though the accomplishment was one which she did not care to profess in genteel company. However, she blandly admitted that such was the fact. "Then you will have to practise it every day. I had a lad who did it very well, but he has left. I want you to whistle to my bullfinches; as I cannot see them, I like to hear them, and we teach 'em airs that way. Tell her where the cages are, Elizabeth. You must begin to-morrow, or they will go back in their piping. They have been neglected these several days." "Mr d'Urberville whistled to 'em this morning, ma'am," said Elizabeth. "He! Pooh!" The old lady's face creased into furrows of repugnance, and she made no further reply. Thus the reception of Tess by her fancied kinswoman terminated, and the birds were taken back to their quarters. The girl's surprise at Mrs d'Urberville's manner was not great; for since seeing the size of the house she had expected no more. But she was far from being aware that the old lady had never heard a word of the so-called kinship. She gathered that no great affection flowed between the blind woman and her son. But in that, too, she was mistaken. Mrs d'Urberville was not the first mother compelled to love her offspring resentfully, and to be bitterly fond. In spite of the unpleasant initiation of the day before, Tess inclined to the freedom and novelty of her new position in the morning when the sun shone, now that she was once installed there; and she was curious to test her powers in the unexpected direction asked of her, so as to ascertain her chance of retaining her post. As soon as she was alone within the walled garden she sat herself down on a coop, and seriously screwed up her mouth for the long-neglected practice. She found her former ability to have degenerated to the production of a hollow rush of wind through the lips, and no clear note at all. She remained fruitlessly blowing and blowing, wondering how she could have so grown out of the art which had come by nature, till she became aware of a movement among the ivy-boughs which cloaked the garden-wall no less then the cottage. Looking that way she beheld a form springing from the coping to the plot. It was Alec d'Urberville, whom she had not set eyes on since he had conducted her the day before to the door of the gardener's cottage where she had lodgings. "Upon my honour!" cried he, "there was never before such a beautiful thing in Nature or Art as you look, 'Cousin' Tess ('Cousin' had a faint ring of mockery). I have been watching you from over the wall--sitting like IM-patience on a monument, and pouting up that pretty red mouth to whistling shape, and whooing and whooing, and privately swearing, and never being able to produce a note. Why, you are quite cross because you can't do it." "I may be cross, but I didn't swear." "Ah! I understand why you are trying--those bullies! My mother wants you to carry on their musical education. How selfish of her! As if attending to these curst cocks and hens here were not enough work for any girl. I would flatly refuse, if I were you." "But she wants me particularly to do it, and to be ready by to-morrow morning." "Does she? Well then--I'll give you a lesson or two." "Oh no, you won't!" said Tess, withdrawing towards the door. "Nonsense; I don't want to touch you. See--I'll stand on this side of the wire-netting, and you can keep on the other; so you may feel quite safe. Now, look here; you screw up your lips too harshly. There 'tis--so." He suited the action to the word, and whistled a line of "Take, O take those lips away." But the allusion was lost upon Tess. "Now try," said d'Urberville. She attempted to look reserved; her face put on a sculptural severity. But he persisted in his demand, and at last, to get rid of him, she did put up her lips as directed for producing a clear note; laughing distressfully, however, and then blushing with vexation that she had laughed. He encouraged her with "Try again!" Tess was quite serious, painfully serious by this time; and she tried--ultimately and unexpectedly emitting a real round sound. The momentary pleasure of success got the better of her; her eyes enlarged, and she involuntarily smiled in his face. "That's it! Now I have started you--you'll go on beautifully. There--I said I would not come near you; and, in spite of such temptation as never before fell to mortal man, I'll keep my word... Tess, do you think my mother a queer old soul?" "I don't know much of her yet, sir." "You'll find her so; she must be, to make you learn to whistle to her bullfinches. I am rather out of her books just now, but you will be quite in favour if you treat her live-stock well. Good morning. If you meet with any difficulties and want help here, don't go to the bailiff, come to me." It was in the economy of this _regime_ that Tess Durbeyfield had undertaken to fill a place. Her first day's experiences were fairly typical of those which followed through many succeeding days. A familiarity with Alec d'Urberville's presence--which that young man carefully cultivated in her by playful dialogue, and by jestingly calling her his cousin when they were alone--removed much of her original shyness of him, without, however, implanting any feeling which could engender shyness of a new and tenderer kind. But she was more pliable under his hands than a mere companionship would have made her, owing to her unavoidable dependence upon his mother, and, through that lady's comparative helplessness, upon him. She soon found that whistling to the bullfinches in Mrs d'Urberville's room was no such onerous business when she had regained the art, for she had caught from her musical mother numerous airs that suited those songsters admirably. A far more satisfactory time than when she practised in the garden was this whistling by the cages each morning. Unrestrained by the young man's presence she threw up her mouth, put her lips near the bars, and piped away in easeful grace to the attentive listeners. Mrs d'Urberville slept in a large four-post bedstead hung with heavy damask curtains, and the bullfinches occupied the same apartment, where they flitted about freely at certain hours, and made little white spots on the furniture and upholstery. Once while Tess was at the window where the cages were ranged, giving her lesson as usual, she thought she heard a rustling behind the bed. The old lady was not present, and turning round the girl had an impression that the toes of a pair of boots were visible below the fringe of the curtains. Thereupon her whistling became so disjointed that the listener, if such there were, must have discovered her suspicion of his presence. She searched the curtains every morning after that, but never found anybody within them. Alec d'Urberville had evidently thought better of his freak to terrify her by an ambush of that kind.

Chapter IX

https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase1-chapter1-11

Early the next morning Tess meets her new mistress, Mrs. d'Urberville, and discovers that the old woman is blind. Very attached to birds of all kinds, she has Tess place two chickens in her lap. Then she tells Tess that part of her job will be to whistle to her bullfinches. Tess, who has taken liberties describing her degree of expertise in the matter of fowls, says she will practice. However, despite her best efforts, Tess finds she cannot whistle until Alec, who is completely smitten, helps her

cliffnotes

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/47.txt

finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Far from the Madding Crowd/section_46_part_0.txt

Far from the Madding Crowd.chapter 47

chapter 47

{"name": "Chapter 47", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-47", "summary": "\"Troy wandered along towards the south. A composite feeling, made up of disgust with the, to him, humdrum tediousness of a farmer's life, gloomy images of her who lay in the churchyard, remorse, and a general averseness to his wife's society, impelled him to seek a home in any place on earth save Weatherbury.\" Climbing a hill, he saw the sea. There was a small pool enclosed by the cliffs, and Troy was drawn to it for refreshment. He undressed and swam out between two projecting spires of rock, not knowing of a strong current there. He was carried out to sea and at that moment remembered hearing of danger in this area. He tried to direct his strokes toward shore but failed because of fatigue. Then a ship's boat appeared. Troy's vigor revived, and he hailed it and was rescued. The sailors were part of a brig's crew, coming ashore for sand. They lent him clothes and took him to their vessel.", "analysis": "Seeking solitude seems appropriate for Troy at this time. That a boat should appear at the moment when he is drowning is the author's manipulation of the plot, but the action moves so swiftly that the reader is not inclined to pause and meditate on the amount of coincidence Hardy utilizes."}

ADVENTURES BY THE SHORE Troy wandered along towards the south. A composite feeling, made up of disgust with the, to him, humdrum tediousness of a farmer's life, gloomy images of her who lay in the churchyard, remorse, and a general averseness to his wife's society, impelled him to seek a home in any place on earth save Weatherbury. The sad accessories of Fanny's end confronted him as vivid pictures which threatened to be indelible, and made life in Bathsheba's house intolerable. At three in the afternoon he found himself at the foot of a slope more than a mile in length, which ran to the ridge of a range of hills lying parallel with the shore, and forming a monotonous barrier between the basin of cultivated country inland and the wilder scenery of the coast. Up the hill stretched a road nearly straight and perfectly white, the two sides approaching each other in a gradual taper till they met the sky at the top about two miles off. Throughout the length of this narrow and irksome inclined plane not a sign of life was visible on this garish afternoon. Troy toiled up the road with a languor and depression greater than any he had experienced for many a day and year before. The air was warm and muggy, and the top seemed to recede as he approached. At last he reached the summit, and a wide and novel prospect burst upon him with an effect almost like that of the Pacific upon Balboa's gaze. The broad steely sea, marked only by faint lines, which had a semblance of being etched thereon to a degree not deep enough to disturb its general evenness, stretched the whole width of his front and round to the right, where, near the town and port of Budmouth, the sun bristled down upon it, and banished all colour, to substitute in its place a clear oily polish. Nothing moved in sky, land, or sea, except a frill of milkwhite foam along the nearer angles of the shore, shreds of which licked the contiguous stones like tongues. He descended and came to a small basin of sea enclosed by the cliffs. Troy's nature freshened within him; he thought he would rest and bathe here before going farther. He undressed and plunged in. Inside the cove the water was uninteresting to a swimmer, being smooth as a pond, and to get a little of the ocean swell, Troy presently swam between the two projecting spurs of rock which formed the pillars of Hercules to this miniature Mediterranean. Unfortunately for Troy a current unknown to him existed outside, which, unimportant to craft of any burden, was awkward for a swimmer who might be taken in it unawares. Troy found himself carried to the left and then round in a swoop out to sea. He now recollected the place and its sinister character. Many bathers had there prayed for a dry death from time to time, and, like Gonzalo also, had been unanswered; and Troy began to deem it possible that he might be added to their number. Not a boat of any kind was at present within sight, but far in the distance Budmouth lay upon the sea, as it were quietly regarding his efforts, and beside the town the harbour showed its position by a dim meshwork of ropes and spars. After well-nigh exhausting himself in attempts to get back to the mouth of the cove, in his weakness swimming several inches deeper than was his wont, keeping up his breathing entirely by his nostrils, turning upon his back a dozen times over, swimming _en papillon_, and so on, Troy resolved as a last resource to tread water at a slight incline, and so endeavour to reach the shore at any point, merely giving himself a gentle impetus inwards whilst carried on in the general direction of the tide. This, necessarily a slow process, he found to be not altogether so difficult, and though there was no choice of a landing-place--the objects on shore passing by him in a sad and slow procession--he perceptibly approached the extremity of a spit of land yet further to the right, now well defined against the sunny portion of the horizon. While the swimmer's eyes were fixed upon the spit as his only means of salvation on this side of the Unknown, a moving object broke the outline of the extremity, and immediately a ship's boat appeared manned with several sailor lads, her bows towards the sea. All Troy's vigour spasmodically revived to prolong the struggle yet a little further. Swimming with his right arm, he held up his left to hail them, splashing upon the waves, and shouting with all his might. From the position of the setting sun his white form was distinctly visible upon the now deep-hued bosom of the sea to the east of the boat, and the men saw him at once. Backing their oars and putting the boat about, they pulled towards him with a will, and in five or six minutes from the time of his first halloo, two of the sailors hauled him in over the stern. They formed part of a brig's crew, and had come ashore for sand. Lending him what little clothing they could spare among them as a slight protection against the rapidly cooling air, they agreed to land him in the morning; and without further delay, for it was growing late, they made again towards the roadstead where their vessel lay. And now night drooped slowly upon the wide watery levels in front; and at no great distance from them, where the shoreline curved round, and formed a long riband of shade upon the horizon, a series of points of yellow light began to start into existence, denoting the spot to be the site of Budmouth, where the lamps were being lighted along the parade. The cluck of their oars was the only sound of any distinctness upon the sea, and as they laboured amid the thickening shades the lamp-lights grew larger, each appearing to send a flaming sword deep down into the waves before it, until there arose, among other dim shapes of the kind, the form of the vessel for which they were bound.

Chapter 47

https://web.archive.org/web/20201101052914/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/f/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary-and-analysis/chapter-47

"Troy wandered along towards the south. A composite feeling, made up of disgust with the, to him, humdrum tediousness of a farmer's life, gloomy images of her who lay in the churchyard, remorse, and a general averseness to his wife's society, impelled him to seek a home in any place on earth save Weatherbury." Climbing a hill, he saw the sea. There was a small pool enclosed by the cliffs, and Troy was drawn to it for refreshment. He undressed and swam out between two projecting spires of rock, not knowing of a strong current there. He was carried out to sea and at that moment remembered hearing of danger in this area. He tried to direct his strokes toward shore but failed because of fatigue. Then a ship's boat appeared. Troy's vigor revived, and he hailed it and was rescued. The sailors were part of a brig's crew, coming ashore for sand. They lent him clothes and took him to their vessel.

Seeking solitude seems appropriate for Troy at this time. That a boat should appear at the moment when he is drowning is the author's manipulation of the plot, but the action moves so swiftly that the reader is not inclined to pause and meditate on the amount of coincidence Hardy utilizes.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/1.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_0_part_2.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 1.chapter 1

book 1, chapter 1

{"name": "book 1, Chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section1/", "summary": "Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov Alexei Fyodorovich Karamazov, usually called Alyosha, is the third son of a brutish landowner named Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, who is still famous for his dark and violent death. The narrator tells the story of Fyodor Pavlovich's life. As a young man, he is known as a loutish buffoon. He owns a very small amount of land and earns a reputation for sponging off other people. Nevertheless, he somehow manages to marry a rich, beautiful, intelligent girl named Adelaida Ivanovna Miusova, who convinces herself that eloping with a bold and sarcastic man like Fyodor Pavlovich is a romantic thing to do. After they are married, Adelaida Ivanovna realizes that she feels nothing but contempt for Fyodor Pavlovich, and when their son, Dmitri, is three, she runs away with a poor seminary student, leaving Fyodor Pavlovich with the boy. Fyodor Pavlovich begins traveling around the province, tearfully complaining about his wife's desertion. In Adelaida Ivanovna's absence, however, Fyodor Pavlovich turns his house into a harem and spends much of his time indulging in drunken orgies financed by the fortune he has filched from Adelaida Ivanovna. When Fyodor Pavlovich hears that Adelaida Ivanovna has died from starvation or disease in a Petersburg garret, he runs down the street drunkenly celebrating his freedom. There is another version of this story, however, which says that Fyodor Pavlovich instead weeps like a child. The narrator says both versions of the story may be true: Fyodor Pavlovich may have simultaneously rejoiced and mourned his wife's death, for even wicked people like Fyodor Pavlovich are generally more naive and simple than one is inclined to suspect", "analysis": ""}

PART I Book I. The History Of A Family Chapter I. Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov was the third son of Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov, a land owner well known in our district in his own day, and still remembered among us owing to his gloomy and tragic death, which happened thirteen years ago, and which I shall describe in its proper place. For the present I will only say that this "landowner"--for so we used to call him, although he hardly spent a day of his life on his own estate--was a strange type, yet one pretty frequently to be met with, a type abject and vicious and at the same time senseless. But he was one of those senseless persons who are very well capable of looking after their worldly affairs, and, apparently, after nothing else. Fyodor Pavlovitch, for instance, began with next to nothing; his estate was of the smallest; he ran to dine at other men's tables, and fastened on them as a toady, yet at his death it appeared that he had a hundred thousand roubles in hard cash. At the same time, he was all his life one of the most senseless, fantastical fellows in the whole district. I repeat, it was not stupidity--the majority of these fantastical fellows are shrewd and intelligent enough--but just senselessness, and a peculiar national form of it. He was married twice, and had three sons, the eldest, Dmitri, by his first wife, and two, Ivan and Alexey, by his second. Fyodor Pavlovitch's first wife, Adelaida Ivanovna, belonged to a fairly rich and distinguished noble family, also landowners in our district, the Miuesovs. How it came to pass that an heiress, who was also a beauty, and moreover one of those vigorous, intelligent girls, so common in this generation, but sometimes also to be found in the last, could have married such a worthless, puny weakling, as we all called him, I won't attempt to explain. I knew a young lady of the last "romantic" generation who after some years of an enigmatic passion for a gentleman, whom she might quite easily have married at any moment, invented insuperable obstacles to their union, and ended by throwing herself one stormy night into a rather deep and rapid river from a high bank, almost a precipice, and so perished, entirely to satisfy her own caprice, and to be like Shakespeare's Ophelia. Indeed, if this precipice, a chosen and favorite spot of hers, had been less picturesque, if there had been a prosaic flat bank in its place, most likely the suicide would never have taken place. This is a fact, and probably there have been not a few similar instances in the last two or three generations. Adelaida Ivanovna Miuesov's action was similarly, no doubt, an echo of other people's ideas, and was due to the irritation caused by lack of mental freedom. She wanted, perhaps, to show her feminine independence, to override class distinctions and the despotism of her family. And a pliable imagination persuaded her, we must suppose, for a brief moment, that Fyodor Pavlovitch, in spite of his parasitic position, was one of the bold and ironical spirits of that progressive epoch, though he was, in fact, an ill-natured buffoon and nothing more. What gave the marriage piquancy was that it was preceded by an elopement, and this greatly captivated Adelaida Ivanovna's fancy. Fyodor Pavlovitch's position at the time made him specially eager for any such enterprise, for he was passionately anxious to make a career in one way or another. To attach himself to a good family and obtain a dowry was an alluring prospect. As for mutual love it did not exist apparently, either in the bride or in him, in spite of Adelaida Ivanovna's beauty. This was, perhaps, a unique case of the kind in the life of Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was always of a voluptuous temper, and ready to run after any petticoat on the slightest encouragement. She seems to have been the only woman who made no particular appeal to his senses. Immediately after the elopement Adelaida Ivanovna discerned in a flash that she had no feeling for her husband but contempt. The marriage accordingly showed itself in its true colors with extraordinary rapidity. Although the family accepted the event pretty quickly and apportioned the runaway bride her dowry, the husband and wife began to lead a most disorderly life, and there were everlasting scenes between them. It was said that the young wife showed incomparably more generosity and dignity than Fyodor Pavlovitch, who, as is now known, got hold of all her money up to twenty-five thousand roubles as soon as she received it, so that those thousands were lost to her for ever. The little village and the rather fine town house which formed part of her dowry he did his utmost for a long time to transfer to his name, by means of some deed of conveyance. He would probably have succeeded, merely from her moral fatigue and desire to get rid of him, and from the contempt and loathing he aroused by his persistent and shameless importunity. But, fortunately, Adelaida Ivanovna's family intervened and circumvented his greediness. It is known for a fact that frequent fights took place between the husband and wife, but rumor had it that Fyodor Pavlovitch did not beat his wife but was beaten by her, for she was a hot-tempered, bold, dark-browed, impatient woman, possessed of remarkable physical strength. Finally, she left the house and ran away from Fyodor Pavlovitch with a destitute divinity student, leaving Mitya, a child of three years old, in her husband's hands. Immediately Fyodor Pavlovitch introduced a regular harem into the house, and abandoned himself to orgies of drunkenness. In the intervals he used to drive all over the province, complaining tearfully to each and all of Adelaida Ivanovna's having left him, going into details too disgraceful for a husband to mention in regard to his own married life. What seemed to gratify him and flatter his self-love most was to play the ridiculous part of the injured husband, and to parade his woes with embellishments. "One would think that you'd got a promotion, Fyodor Pavlovitch, you seem so pleased in spite of your sorrow," scoffers said to him. Many even added that he was glad of a new comic part in which to play the buffoon, and that it was simply to make it funnier that he pretended to be unaware of his ludicrous position. But, who knows, it may have been simplicity. At last he succeeded in getting on the track of his runaway wife. The poor woman turned out to be in Petersburg, where she had gone with her divinity student, and where she had thrown herself into a life of complete emancipation. Fyodor Pavlovitch at once began bustling about, making preparations to go to Petersburg, with what object he could not himself have said. He would perhaps have really gone; but having determined to do so he felt at once entitled to fortify himself for the journey by another bout of reckless drinking. And just at that time his wife's family received the news of her death in Petersburg. She had died quite suddenly in a garret, according to one story, of typhus, or as another version had it, of starvation. Fyodor Pavlovitch was drunk when he heard of his wife's death, and the story is that he ran out into the street and began shouting with joy, raising his hands to Heaven: "Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace," but others say he wept without restraint like a little child, so much so that people were sorry for him, in spite of the repulsion he inspired. It is quite possible that both versions were true, that he rejoiced at his release, and at the same time wept for her who released him. As a general rule, people, even the wicked, are much more naive and simple-hearted than we suppose. And we ourselves are, too.

book 1, Chapter 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section1/

Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov Alexei Fyodorovich Karamazov, usually called Alyosha, is the third son of a brutish landowner named Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, who is still famous for his dark and violent death. The narrator tells the story of Fyodor Pavlovich's life. As a young man, he is known as a loutish buffoon. He owns a very small amount of land and earns a reputation for sponging off other people. Nevertheless, he somehow manages to marry a rich, beautiful, intelligent girl named Adelaida Ivanovna Miusova, who convinces herself that eloping with a bold and sarcastic man like Fyodor Pavlovich is a romantic thing to do. After they are married, Adelaida Ivanovna realizes that she feels nothing but contempt for Fyodor Pavlovich, and when their son, Dmitri, is three, she runs away with a poor seminary student, leaving Fyodor Pavlovich with the boy. Fyodor Pavlovich begins traveling around the province, tearfully complaining about his wife's desertion. In Adelaida Ivanovna's absence, however, Fyodor Pavlovich turns his house into a harem and spends much of his time indulging in drunken orgies financed by the fortune he has filched from Adelaida Ivanovna. When Fyodor Pavlovich hears that Adelaida Ivanovna has died from starvation or disease in a Petersburg garret, he runs down the street drunkenly celebrating his freedom. There is another version of this story, however, which says that Fyodor Pavlovich instead weeps like a child. The narrator says both versions of the story may be true: Fyodor Pavlovich may have simultaneously rejoiced and mourned his wife's death, for even wicked people like Fyodor Pavlovich are generally more naive and simple than one is inclined to suspect

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Sense and Sensibility/section_2_part_5.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter xvi

chapter xvi

{"name": "Chapter XVI", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter12-22", "summary": "Marianne feeds her sorrow at Willoughby's departure. She is unwilling to eat properly, plays on the piano songs that they had sung together, and reads books they had read together. Willoughby does not write, though Mrs. Dashwood tries to find plausible excuses why he should not. Elinor suggests that Mrs. Dashwood ask Marianne directly if she is engaged, as Marianne has always been closest to her mother, but Mrs. Dashwood refuses on the grounds that such a question would cause Marianne distress. One day, Elinor and Marianne are out walking when they see a man on horseback riding towards them. Marianne is certain that it is Willoughby, but it turns out to be Edward Ferrars. Marianne greets Edward warmly, but is disappointed in the apparent coolness between him and Elinor. Marianne's consternation is reinforced when he reveals that unknown to them, Edward has been in Devon for two weeks, visiting friends near Plymouth. Elinor is annoyed at Edward's reserve, but masters her feelings and treats him politely", "analysis": ""}

Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby. She would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next morning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than when she lay down in it. But the feelings which made such composure a disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it. She was awake the whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it. She got up with a headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment; giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all attempt at consolation from either. Her sensibility was potent enough! When breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about the village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment and crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning. The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling. She played over every favourite song that she had been used to play to Willoughby, every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out for her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be gained; and this nourishment of grief was every day applied. She spent whole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing and crying; her voice often totally suspended by her tears. In books too, as well as in music, she courted the misery which a contrast between the past and present was certain of giving. She read nothing but what they had been used to read together. Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these employments, to which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and silent meditations, still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever. No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by Marianne. Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy. But Mrs. Dashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at least satisfied herself. "Remember, Elinor," said she, "how very often Sir John fetches our letters himself from the post, and carries them to it. We have already agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it could not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through Sir John's hands." Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a motive sufficient for their silence. But there was one method so direct, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real state of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she could not help suggesting it to her mother. "Why do you not ask Marianne at once," said she, "whether she is or she is not engaged to Willoughby? From you, her mother, and so kind, so indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence. It would be the natural result of your affection for her. She used to be all unreserve, and to you more especially." "I would not ask such a question for the world. Supposing it possible that they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry inflict! At any rate it would be most ungenerous. I should never deserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one. I know Marianne's heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall not be the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances make the revealment of it eligible. I would not attempt to force the confidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty would prevent the denial which her wishes might direct." Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic delicacy. It was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned before Marianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, were not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour;--but one evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of Shakespeare, exclaimed, "We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went away before we could get through it. We will put it by, that when he comes again...But it may be months, perhaps, before THAT happens." "Months!" cried Marianne, with strong surprise. "No--nor many weeks." Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Elinor pleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of confidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions. One morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne was prevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of wandering away by herself. Hitherto she had carefully avoided every companion in her rambles. If her sisters intended to walk on the downs, she directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of the valley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be found when the others set off. But at length she was secured by the exertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion. They walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence, for Marianne's MIND could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied with gaining one point, would not then attempt more. Beyond the entrance of the valley, where the country, though still rich, was less wild and more open, a long stretch of the road which they had travelled on first coming to Barton, lay before them; and on reaching that point, they stopped to look around them, and examine a prospect which formed the distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot which they had never happened to reach in any of their walks before. Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated one; it was a man on horseback riding towards them. In a few minutes they could distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment afterwards Marianne rapturously exclaimed, "It is he; it is indeed;--I know it is!"--and was hastening to meet him, when Elinor cried out, "Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken. It is not Willoughby. The person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air." "He has, he has," cried Marianne, "I am sure he has. His air, his coat, his horse. I knew how soon he would come." She walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne from particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being Willoughby, quickened her pace and kept up with her. They were soon within thirty yards of the gentleman. Marianne looked again; her heart sunk within her; and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back, when the voices of both her sisters were raised to detain her; a third, almost as well known as Willoughby's, joined them in begging her to stop, and she turned round with surprise to see and welcome Edward Ferrars. He was the only person in the world who could at that moment be forgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one who could have gained a smile from her; but she dispersed her tears to smile on HIM, and in her sister's happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment. He dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with them to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them. He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by Marianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him than even Elinor herself. To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between Edward and her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness which she had often observed at Norland in their mutual behaviour. On Edward's side, more particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a lover ought to look and say on such an occasion. He was confused, seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked neither rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by questions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection. Marianne saw and listened with increasing surprise. She began almost to feel a dislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a contrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect. After a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and enquiries of meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London. No, he had been in Devonshire a fortnight. "A fortnight!" she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the same county with Elinor without seeing her before. He looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying with some friends near Plymouth. "Have you been lately in Sussex?" said Elinor. "I was at Norland about a month ago." "And how does dear, dear Norland look?" cried Marianne. "Dear, dear Norland," said Elinor, "probably looks much as it always does at this time of the year. The woods and walks thickly covered with dead leaves." "Oh," cried Marianne, "with what transporting sensation have I formerly seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven in showers about me by the wind! What feelings have they, the season, the air altogether inspired! Now there is no one to regard them. They are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as possible from the sight." "It is not every one," said Elinor, "who has your passion for dead leaves." "No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But SOMETIMES they are."--As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a few moments;--but rousing herself again, "Now, Edward," said she, calling his attention to the prospect, "here is Barton valley. Look up to it, and be tranquil if you can. Look at those hills! Did you ever see their equals? To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and plantations. You may see the end of the house. And there, beneath that farthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage." "It is a beautiful country," he replied; "but these bottoms must be dirty in winter." "How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?" "Because," replied he, smiling, "among the rest of the objects before me, I see a very dirty lane." "How strange!" said Marianne to herself as she walked on. "Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here? Are the Middletons pleasant people?" "No, not all," answered Marianne; "we could not be more unfortunately situated." "Marianne," cried her sister, "how can you say so? How can you be so unjust? They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards us have behaved in the friendliest manner. Have you forgot, Marianne, how many pleasant days we have owed to them?" "No," said Marianne, in a low voice, "nor how many painful moments." Elinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their visitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by talking of their present residence, its conveniences, &c. extorting from him occasional questions and remarks. His coldness and reserve mortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to regulate her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present, she avoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated him as she thought he ought to be treated from the family connection.

Chapter XVI

https://web.archive.org/web/20201020004256/https://www.novelguide.com/sense-and-sensibility/summaries/volume1-chapter12-22

Marianne feeds her sorrow at Willoughby's departure. She is unwilling to eat properly, plays on the piano songs that they had sung together, and reads books they had read together. Willoughby does not write, though Mrs. Dashwood tries to find plausible excuses why he should not. Elinor suggests that Mrs. Dashwood ask Marianne directly if she is engaged, as Marianne has always been closest to her mother, but Mrs. Dashwood refuses on the grounds that such a question would cause Marianne distress. One day, Elinor and Marianne are out walking when they see a man on horseback riding towards them. Marianne is certain that it is Willoughby, but it turns out to be Edward Ferrars. Marianne greets Edward warmly, but is disappointed in the apparent coolness between him and Elinor. Marianne's consternation is reinforced when he reveals that unknown to them, Edward has been in Devon for two weeks, visiting friends near Plymouth. Elinor is annoyed at Edward's reserve, but masters her feelings and treats him politely

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/02.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_0_part_2.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 2

chapter 2

{"name": "CHAPTER 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD11.asp", "summary": "In the village of Marlott, preparations are being made for the May- Day Dance, which is about to begin. Every girl in this dance is to wear a white dress and carry a peeled willow wand in her right hand and a bunch of white flowers in her left hand. John's daughter, Tess, is a participant in the dance. Angel Clare, who comes to the dance as he passes through the village with his two brothers, regrets that he has not chosen Tess, who is quite pretty, as his dancing partner. He also notices that she is watching him.", "analysis": "Notes In this chapter, Hardy depicts the simple pleasure of country life at the May-Day Dance. All of the young ladies have dressed in white and carry willow wands and white flowers, a picture of purity. But there seems to be a longing for something more. They want to appear more elegant than their poor working class background permits. Each of the girls is also attracted to Angel Clare, who is obviously of a higher class and whose manners are much better than those of the Marlott boys. When Angel dances with one of the girls, all of the others envy her, including Tess. In fact, she experiences her first pangs of heartache due to Angel. This simple heartache foreshadows the true heartbreak that Tess will feel later when Angel deserts her"}

The village of Marlott lay amid the north-eastern undulations of the beautiful Vale of Blakemore, or Blackmoor, aforesaid, an engirdled and secluded region, for the most part untrodden as yet by tourist or landscape-painter, though within a four hours' journey from London. It is a vale whose acquaintance is best made by viewing it from the summits of the hills that surround it--except perhaps during the droughts of summer. An unguided ramble into its recesses in bad weather is apt to engender dissatisfaction with its narrow, tortuous, and miry ways. This fertile and sheltered tract of country, in which the fields are never brown and the springs never dry, is bounded on the south by the bold chalk ridge that embraces the prominences of Hambledon Hill, Bulbarrow, Nettlecombe-Tout, Dogbury, High Stoy, and Bubb Down. The traveller from the coast, who, after plodding northward for a score of miles over calcareous downs and corn-lands, suddenly reaches the verge of one of these escarpments, is surprised and delighted to behold, extended like a map beneath him, a country differing absolutely from that which he has passed through. Behind him the hills are open, the sun blazes down upon fields so large as to give an unenclosed character to the landscape, the lanes are white, the hedges low and plashed, the atmosphere colourless. Here, in the valley, the world seems to be constructed upon a smaller and more delicate scale; the fields are mere paddocks, so reduced that from this height their hedgerows appear a network of dark green threads overspreading the paler green of the grass. The atmosphere beneath is languorous, and is so tinged with azure that what artists call the middle distance partakes also of that hue, while the horizon beyond is of the deepest ultramarine. Arable lands are few and limited; with but slight exceptions the prospect is a broad rich mass of grass and trees, mantling minor hills and dales within the major. Such is the Vale of Blackmoor. The district is of historic, no less than of topographical interest. The Vale was known in former times as the Forest of White Hart, from a curious legend of King Henry III's reign, in which the killing by a certain Thomas de la Lynd of a beautiful white hart which the king had run down and spared, was made the occasion of a heavy fine. In those days, and till comparatively recent times, the country was densely wooded. Even now, traces of its earlier condition are to be found in the old oak copses and irregular belts of timber that yet survive upon its slopes, and the hollow-trunked trees that shade so many of its pastures. The forests have departed, but some old customs of their shades remain. Many, however, linger only in a metamorphosed or disguised form. The May-Day dance, for instance, was to be discerned on the afternoon under notice, in the guise of the club revel, or "club-walking," as it was there called. It was an interesting event to the younger inhabitants of Marlott, though its real interest was not observed by the participators in the ceremony. Its singularity lay less in the retention of a custom of walking in procession and dancing on each anniversary than in the members being solely women. In men's clubs such celebrations were, though expiring, less uncommon; but either the natural shyness of the softer sex, or a sarcastic attitude on the part of male relatives, had denuded such women's clubs as remained (if any other did) or this their glory and consummation. The club of Marlott alone lived to uphold the local Cerealia. It had walked for hundreds of years, if not as benefit-club, as votive sisterhood of some sort; and it walked still. The banded ones were all dressed in white gowns--a gay survival from Old Style days, when cheerfulness and May-time were synonyms--days before the habit of taking long views had reduced emotions to a monotonous average. Their first exhibition of themselves was in a processional march of two and two round the parish. Ideal and real clashed slightly as the sun lit up their figures against the green hedges and creeper-laced house-fronts; for, though the whole troop wore white garments, no two whites were alike among them. Some approached pure blanching; some had a bluish pallor; some worn by the older characters (which had possibly lain by folded for many a year) inclined to a cadaverous tint, and to a Georgian style. In addition to the distinction of a white frock, every woman and girl carried in her right hand a peeled willow wand, and in her left a bunch of white flowers. The peeling of the former, and the selection of the latter, had been an operation of personal care. There were a few middle-aged and even elderly women in the train, their silver-wiry hair and wrinkled faces, scourged by time and trouble, having almost a grotesque, certainly a pathetic, appearance in such a jaunty situation. In a true view, perhaps, there was more to be gathered and told of each anxious and experienced one, to whom the years were drawing nigh when she should say, "I have no pleasure in them," than of her juvenile comrades. But let the elder be passed over here for those under whose bodices the life throbbed quick and warm. The young girls formed, indeed, the majority of the band, and their heads of luxuriant hair reflected in the sunshine every tone of gold, and black, and brown. Some had beautiful eyes, others a beautiful nose, others a beautiful mouth and figure: few, if any, had all. A difficulty of arranging their lips in this crude exposure to public scrutiny, an inability to balance their heads, and to dissociate self-consciousness from their features, was apparent in them, and showed that they were genuine country girls, unaccustomed to many eyes. And as each and all of them were warmed without by the sun, so each had a private little sun for her soul to bask in; some dream, some affection, some hobby, at least some remote and distant hope which, though perhaps starving to nothing, still lived on, as hopes will. They were all cheerful, and many of them merry. They came round by The Pure Drop Inn, and were turning out of the high road to pass through a wicket-gate into the meadows, when one of the women said-- "The Load-a-Lord! Why, Tess Durbeyfield, if there isn't thy father riding hwome in a carriage!" A young member of the band turned her head at the exclamation. She was a fine and handsome girl--not handsomer than some others, possibly--but her mobile peony mouth and large innocent eyes added eloquence to colour and shape. She wore a red ribbon in her hair, and was the only one of the white company who could boast of such a pronounced adornment. As she looked round Durbeyfield was seen moving along the road in a chaise belonging to The Pure Drop, driven by a frizzle-headed brawny damsel with her gown-sleeves rolled above her elbows. This was the cheerful servant of that establishment, who, in her part of factotum, turned groom and ostler at times. Durbeyfield, leaning back, and with his eyes closed luxuriously, was waving his hand above his head, and singing in a slow recitative-- "I've-got-a-gr't-family-vault-at-Kingsbere--and knighted-forefathers-in-lead-coffins-there!" The clubbists tittered, except the girl called Tess--in whom a slow heat seemed to rise at the sense that her father was making himself foolish in their eyes. "He's tired, that's all," she said hastily, "and he has got a lift home, because our own horse has to rest to-day." "Bless thy simplicity, Tess," said her companions. "He's got his market-nitch. Haw-haw!" "Look here; I won't walk another inch with you, if you say any jokes about him!" Tess cried, and the colour upon her cheeks spread over her face and neck. In a moment her eyes grew moist, and her glance drooped to the ground. Perceiving that they had really pained her they said no more, and order again prevailed. Tess's pride would not allow her to turn her head again, to learn what her father's meaning was, if he had any; and thus she moved on with the whole body to the enclosure where there was to be dancing on the green. By the time the spot was reached she has recovered her equanimity, and tapped her neighbour with her wand and talked as usual. Tess Durbeyfield at this time of her life was a mere vessel of emotion untinctured by experience. The dialect was on her tongue to some extent, despite the village school: the characteristic intonation of that dialect for this district being the voicing approximately rendered by the syllable UR, probably as rich an utterance as any to be found in human speech. The pouted-up deep red mouth to which this syllable was native had hardly as yet settled into its definite shape, and her lower lip had a way of thrusting the middle of her top one upward, when they closed together after a word. Phases of her childhood lurked in her aspect still. As she walked along to-day, for all her bouncing handsome womanliness, you could sometimes see her twelfth year in her cheeks, or her ninth sparkling from her eyes; and even her fifth would flit over the curves of her mouth now and then. Yet few knew, and still fewer considered this. A small minority, mainly strangers, would look long at her in casually passing by, and grow momentarily fascinated by her freshness, and wonder if they would ever see her again: but to almost everybody she was a fine and picturesque country girl, and no more. Nothing was seen or heard further of Durbeyfield in his triumphal chariot under the conduct of the ostleress, and the club having entered the allotted space, dancing began. As there were no men in the company, the girls danced at first with each other, but when the hour for the close of labour drew on, the masculine inhabitants of the village, together with other idlers and pedestrians, gathered round the spot, and appeared inclined to negotiate for a partner. Among these on-lookers were three young men of a superior class, carrying small knapsacks strapped to their shoulders, and stout sticks in their hands. Their general likeness to each other, and their consecutive ages, would almost have suggested that they might be, what in fact they were, brothers. The eldest wore the white tie, high waistcoat, and thin-brimmed hat of the regulation curate; the second was the normal undergraduate; the appearance of the third and youngest would hardly have been sufficient to characterize him; there was an uncribbed, uncabined aspect in his eyes and attire, implying that he had hardly as yet found the entrance to his professional groove. That he was a desultory tentative student of something and everything might only have been predicted of him. These three brethren told casual acquaintance that they were spending their Whitsun holidays in a walking tour through the Vale of Blackmoor, their course being south-westerly from the town of Shaston on the north-east. They leant over the gate by the highway, and inquired as to the meaning of the dance and the white-frocked maids. The two elder of the brothers were plainly not intending to linger more than a moment, but the spectacle of a bevy of girls dancing without male partners seemed to amuse the third, and make him in no hurry to move on. He unstrapped his knapsack, put it, with his stick, on the hedge-bank, and opened the gate. "What are you going to do, Angel?" asked the eldest. "I am inclined to go and have a fling with them. Why not all of us--just for a minute or two--it will not detain us long?" "No--no; nonsense!" said the first. "Dancing in public with a troop of country hoydens--suppose we should be seen! Come along, or it will be dark before we get to Stourcastle, and there's no place we can sleep at nearer than that; besides, we must get through another chapter of _A Counterblast to Agnosticism_ before we turn in, now I have taken the trouble to bring the book." "All right--I'll overtake you and Cuthbert in five minutes; don't stop; I give my word that I will, Felix." The two elder reluctantly left him and walked on, taking their brother's knapsack to relieve him in following, and the youngest entered the field. "This is a thousand pities," he said gallantly, to two or three of the girls nearest him, as soon as there was a pause in the dance. "Where are your partners, my dears?" "They've not left off work yet," answered one of the boldest. "They'll be here by and by. Till then, will you be one, sir?" "Certainly. But what's one among so many!" "Better than none. 'Tis melancholy work facing and footing it to one of your own sort, and no clipsing and colling at all. Now, pick and choose." "'Ssh--don't be so for'ard!" said a shyer girl. The young man, thus invited, glanced them over, and attempted some discrimination; but, as the group were all so new to him, he could not very well exercise it. He took almost the first that came to hand, which was not the speaker, as she had expected; nor did it happen to be Tess Durbeyfield. Pedigree, ancestral skeletons, monumental record, the d'Urberville lineaments, did not help Tess in her life's battle as yet, even to the extent of attracting to her a dancing-partner over the heads of the commonest peasantry. So much for Norman blood unaided by Victorian lucre. The name of the eclipsing girl, whatever it was, has not been handed down; but she was envied by all as the first who enjoyed the luxury of a masculine partner that evening. Yet such was the force of example that the village young men, who had not hastened to enter the gate while no intruder was in the way, now dropped in quickly, and soon the couples became leavened with rustic youth to a marked extent, till at length the plainest woman in the club was no longer compelled to foot it on the masculine side of the figure. The church clock struck, when suddenly the student said that he must leave--he had been forgetting himself--he had to join his companions. As he fell out of the dance his eyes lighted on Tess Durbeyfield, whose own large orbs wore, to tell the truth, the faintest aspect of reproach that he had not chosen her. He, too, was sorry then that, owing to her backwardness, he had not observed her; and with that in his mind he left the pasture. On account of his long delay he started in a flying-run down the lane westward, and had soon passed the hollow and mounted the next rise. He had not yet overtaken his brothers, but he paused to get breath, and looked back. He could see the white figures of the girls in the green enclosure whirling about as they had whirled when he was among them. They seemed to have quite forgotten him already. All of them, except, perhaps, one. This white shape stood apart by the hedge alone. From her position he knew it to be the pretty maiden with whom he had not danced. Trifling as the matter was, he yet instinctively felt that she was hurt by his oversight. He wished that he had asked her; he wished that he had inquired her name. She was so modest, so expressive, she had looked so soft in her thin white gown that he felt he had acted stupidly. However, it could not be helped, and turning, and bending himself to a rapid walk, he dismissed the subject from his mind.

CHAPTER 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820050202/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmTessD11.asp

In the village of Marlott, preparations are being made for the May- Day Dance, which is about to begin. Every girl in this dance is to wear a white dress and carry a peeled willow wand in her right hand and a bunch of white flowers in her left hand. John's daughter, Tess, is a participant in the dance. Angel Clare, who comes to the dance as he passes through the village with his two brothers, regrets that he has not chosen Tess, who is quite pretty, as his dancing partner. He also notices that she is watching him.

Notes In this chapter, Hardy depicts the simple pleasure of country life at the May-Day Dance. All of the young ladies have dressed in white and carry willow wands and white flowers, a picture of purity. But there seems to be a longing for something more. They want to appear more elegant than their poor working class background permits. Each of the girls is also attracted to Angel Clare, who is obviously of a higher class and whose manners are much better than those of the Marlott boys. When Angel dances with one of the girls, all of the others envy her, including Tess. In fact, she experiences her first pangs of heartache due to Angel. This simple heartache foreshadows the true heartbreak that Tess will feel later when Angel deserts her

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Lord Jim/section_10_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 11

chapter 11

{"name": "Chapter 11", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-11", "summary": "Our chatty narrator Marlow rambles a bit about life at sea and what it means to be a sailor. We'd all find this a bit more interesting if he were singing. Or maybe if he looked like this. Alas, we have no idea what he looks like, so we'll have to settle for Marlow and Jim arguing for about Jim's motives and actions. Understandably, Jim defends himself, but Marlow finds Jim's decisions shifty. But Jim won't give up. He explains his decision to stand trial and expresses his distant hope to somehow redeem himself in the future. We'll see, Jimmy, we'll see.", "analysis": ""}

'He heard me out with his head on one side, and I had another glimpse through a rent in the mist in which he moved and had his being. The dim candle spluttered within the ball of glass, and that was all I had to see him by; at his back was the dark night with the clear stars, whose distant glitter disposed in retreating planes lured the eye into the depths of a greater darkness; and yet a mysterious light seemed to show me his boyish head, as if in that moment the youth within him had, for a moment, glowed and expired. "You are an awful good sort to listen like this," he said. "It does me good. You don't know what it is to me. You don't" . . . words seemed to fail him. It was a distinct glimpse. He was a youngster of the sort you like to see about you; of the sort you like to imagine yourself to have been; of the sort whose appearance claims the fellowship of these illusions you had thought gone out, extinct, cold, and which, as if rekindled at the approach of another flame, give a flutter deep, deep down somewhere, give a flutter of light . . . of heat! . . . Yes; I had a glimpse of him then . . . and it was not the last of that kind. . . . "You don't know what it is for a fellow in my position to be believed--make a clean breast of it to an elder man. It is so difficult--so awfully unfair--so hard to understand." 'The mists were closing again. I don't know how old I appeared to him--and how much wise. Not half as old as I felt just then; not half as uselessly wise as I knew myself to be. Surely in no other craft as in that of the sea do the hearts of those already launched to sink or swim go out so much to the youth on the brink, looking with shining eyes upon that glitter of the vast surface which is only a reflection of his own glances full of fire. There is such magnificent vagueness in the expectations that had driven each of us to sea, such a glorious indefiniteness, such a beautiful greed of adventures that are their own and only reward. What we get--well, we won't talk of that; but can one of us restrain a smile? In no other kind of life is the illusion more wide of reality--in no other is the beginning _all_ illusion--the disenchantment more swift--the subjugation more complete. Hadn't we all commenced with the same desire, ended with the same knowledge, carried the memory of the same cherished glamour through the sordid days of imprecation? What wonder that when some heavy prod gets home the bond is found to be close; that besides the fellowship of the craft there is felt the strength of a wider feeling--the feeling that binds a man to a child. He was there before me, believing that age and wisdom can find a remedy against the pain of truth, giving me a glimpse of himself as a young fellow in a scrape that is the very devil of a scrape, the sort of scrape greybeards wag at solemnly while they hide a smile. And he had been deliberating upon death--confound him! He had found that to meditate about because he thought he had saved his life, while all its glamour had gone with the ship in the night. What more natural! It was tragic enough and funny enough in all conscience to call aloud for compassion, and in what was I better than the rest of us to refuse him my pity? And even as I looked at him the mists rolled into the rent, and his voice spoke-- '"I was so lost, you know. It was the sort of thing one does not expect to happen to one. It was not like a fight, for instance." '"It was not," I admitted. He appeared changed, as if he had suddenly matured. '"One couldn't be sure," he muttered. '"Ah! You were not sure," I said, and was placated by the sound of a faint sigh that passed between us like the flight of a bird in the night. '"Well, I wasn't," he said courageously. "It was something like that wretched story they made up. It was not a lie--but it wasn't truth all the same. It was something. . . . One knows a downright lie. There was not the thickness of a sheet of paper between the right and the wrong of this affair." '"How much more did you want?" I asked; but I think I spoke so low that he did not catch what I said. He had advanced his argument as though life had been a network of paths separated by chasms. His voice sounded reasonable. '"Suppose I had not--I mean to say, suppose I had stuck to the ship? Well. How much longer? Say a minute--half a minute. Come. In thirty seconds, as it seemed certain then, I would have been overboard; and do you think I would not have laid hold of the first thing that came in my way--oar, life-buoy, grating--anything? Wouldn't you?" '"And be saved," I interjected. '"I would have meant to be," he retorted. "And that's more than I meant when I" . . . he shivered as if about to swallow some nauseous drug . . . "jumped," he pronounced with a convulsive effort, whose stress, as if propagated by the waves of the air, made my body stir a little in the chair. He fixed me with lowering eyes. "Don't you believe me?" he cried. "I swear! . . . Confound it! You got me here to talk, and . . . You must! . . . You said you would believe." "Of course I do," I protested, in a matter-of-fact tone which produced a calming effect. "Forgive me," he said. "Of course I wouldn't have talked to you about all this if you had not been a gentleman. I ought to have known . . . I am--I am--a gentleman too . . ." "Yes, yes," I said hastily. He was looking me squarely in the face, and withdrew his gaze slowly. "Now you understand why I didn't after all . . . didn't go out in that way. I wasn't going to be frightened at what I had done. And, anyhow, if I had stuck to the ship I would have done my best to be saved. Men have been known to float for hours--in the open sea--and be picked up not much the worse for it. I might have lasted it out better than many others. There's nothing the matter with my heart." He withdrew his right fist from his pocket, and the blow he struck on his chest resounded like a muffled detonation in the night. '"No," I said. He meditated, with his legs slightly apart and his chin sunk. "A hair's-breadth," he muttered. "Not the breadth of a hair between this and that. And at the time . . ." '"It is difficult to see a hair at midnight," I put in, a little viciously I fear. Don't you see what I mean by the solidarity of the craft? I was aggrieved against him, as though he had cheated me--me!--of a splendid opportunity to keep up the illusion of my beginnings, as though he had robbed our common life of the last spark of its glamour. "And so you cleared out--at once." '"Jumped," he corrected me incisively. "Jumped--mind!" he repeated, and I wondered at the evident but obscure intention. "Well, yes! Perhaps I could not see then. But I had plenty of time and any amount of light in that boat. And I could think, too. Nobody would know, of course, but this did not make it any easier for me. You've got to believe that, too. I did not want all this talk. . . . No . . . Yes . . . I won't lie . . . I wanted it: it is the very thing I wanted--there. Do you think you or anybody could have made me if I . . . I am--I am not afraid to tell. And I wasn't afraid to think either. I looked it in the face. I wasn't going to run away. At first--at night, if it hadn't been for those fellows I might have . . . No! by heavens! I was not going to give them that satisfaction. They had done enough. They made up a story, and believed it for all I know. But I knew the truth, and I would live it down--alone, with myself. I wasn't going to give in to such a beastly unfair thing. What did it prove after all? I was confoundedly cut up. Sick of life--to tell you the truth; but what would have been the good to shirk it--in--in--that way? That was not the way. I believe--I believe it would have--it would have ended--nothing." 'He had been walking up and down, but with the last word he turned short at me. '"What do _you_ believe?" he asked with violence. A pause ensued, and suddenly I felt myself overcome by a profound and hopeless fatigue, as though his voice had startled me out of a dream of wandering through empty spaces whose immensity had harassed my soul and exhausted my body. '". . . Would have ended nothing," he muttered over me obstinately, after a little while. "No! the proper thing was to face it out--alone for myself--wait for another chance--find out . . ."'

Chapter 11

https://web.archive.org/web/20210118112654/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/lord-jim/summary/chapter-11

Our chatty narrator Marlow rambles a bit about life at sea and what it means to be a sailor. We'd all find this a bit more interesting if he were singing. Or maybe if he looked like this. Alas, we have no idea what he looks like, so we'll have to settle for Marlow and Jim arguing for about Jim's motives and actions. Understandably, Jim defends himself, but Marlow finds Jim's decisions shifty. But Jim won't give up. He explains his decision to stand trial and expresses his distant hope to somehow redeem himself in the future. We'll see, Jimmy, we'll see.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/161-chapters/22.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Sense and Sensibility/section_21_part_0.txt

Sense and Sensibility.chapter 22

chapter 22

{"name": "Chapter 22", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-22", "summary": "Marianne has had it with the busybody Miss Steeles, so it's up to Elinor to keep them entertained. Lucy is naturally pretty gifted - along with being very pretty, she's also smart and witty. However, she's not very educated or well-read, and Elinor finds her something of a boring companion. One day, as Elinor and Lucy walk from the park to Barton Cottage, Lucy asks about Mrs. Ferrars, Fanny and Edward's mother. Elinor is a little weirded out by this question, understandably. Lucy presses the issue - she says she doesn't want to be impertinent, but she's really, really curious about Mrs. Ferrars, for some odd reason. Elinor is taken aback, and says so. Lucy hints that someday she and Mrs. Ferrars might be intimately related, and that she's curious because of this prospect. Elinor is totally shocked now. She asks if perhaps Lucy is engaged to Robert Ferrars, the youngest brother - and worries that someday the two of them might be related . Lucy admits that she's not engaged to Robert Ferrars - but is instead engaged to his older brother! What the what? Lucy engaged to Edward? What kind of merciless alternate universe have we stumbled into? Lucy goes on placidly, seemingly unaware of her companion's utter shock and horror. First of all, she rather insultingly says that Edward looks upon Elinor and Marianne as his own sisters . Secondly, she demurely admits that they've been secretly engaged for four years. We're appalled. So is Elinor. Apparently, Lucy and Edward met when he was living and studying with Mr. Pratt, Lucy and Anne's uncle. They met when they were young and impressionable, fell in love , and now are engaged. Elinor feebly protests that this can't be the same Edward Ferrars - perhaps Lucy is mistaken? Nope, it's definitely him. Definitely, definitely, definitely the Edward of Elinor's secret desires. Lucy even goes so far as to show Elinor a little portrait of Edward that she carries around, proving once and for all that this is the same guy. Elinor responds rather coldly to Lucy's revelation , saying that their secret is safe with her, but she can't understand why she was the recipient of it in the first place. Lucy angelically claims that she trusts Elinor instinctively, and that she feels like they've known each other for a long time. Apparently, the only other person who knows is Anne, Lucy's sister. Lucy weeps a little, whining that she and Edward only get to see each other once or twice a year. Elinor is not sympathetic. Lucy wonders if she should stick with Edward, or if she should just call the whole thing off. She looks pointedly at Elinor as she muses upon this - how much does Lucy know about Edward and Elinor's relationship, really? How shrewd is she, exactly?! Lucy asks Elinor what she should do - and obviously, Elinor doesn't have a reply. Lucy goes on, asking if Edward was down in the dumps when he was visiting the Dashwoods at Barton . Elinor admits that he was a little sad in the beginning of his visit. As if we haven't had enough proof of Edward's situation yet, Lucy shows Elinor a letter from him, which is undoubtedly in his handwriting. Lucy puts the final nail in the coffin of Elinor's hopes, saying that the ring Edward wears is set with a lock of her hair - not, as Elinor and Marianne believed, with Elinor's. Ouch. Fortunately, the girls arrive back at the cottage, and end their conversation. The Steeles go back home, and Elinor is left alone with her miserable thoughts.", "analysis": ""}

Marianne, who had never much toleration for any thing like impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of taste from herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from the state of her spirits, to be pleased with the Miss Steeles, or to encourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of her behaviour towards them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on their side, Elinor principally attributed that preference of herself which soon became evident in the manners of both, but especially of Lucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of striving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank communication of her sentiments. Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing; and as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her agreeable; but her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant and illiterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of information in the most common particulars, could not be concealed from Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear to advantage. Elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of abilities which education might have rendered so respectable; but she saw, with less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have no lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made every shew of attention and deference towards herself perfectly valueless. "You will think my question an odd one, I dare say," said Lucy to her one day, as they were walking together from the park to the cottage--"but pray, are you personally acquainted with your sister-in-law's mother, Mrs. Ferrars?" Elinor DID think the question a very odd one, and her countenance expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars. "Indeed!" replied Lucy; "I wonder at that, for I thought you must have seen her at Norland sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what sort of a woman she is?" "No," returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward's mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent curiosity-- "I know nothing of her." "I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a way," said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; "but perhaps there may be reasons--I wish I might venture; but however I hope you will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be impertinent." Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying, with some hesitation, "I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure I would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I should not have the smallest fear of trusting YOU; indeed, I should be very glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble YOU. I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars." "I am sorry I do NOT," said Elinor, in great astonishment, "if it could be of any use to YOU to know my opinion of her. But really I never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character." "I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present--but the time MAY come--how soon it will come must depend upon herself--when we may be very intimately connected." She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side glance at her companion to observe its effect on her. "Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "what do you mean? Are you acquainted with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?" And she did not feel much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law. "No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. ROBERT Ferrars--I never saw him in my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother." What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon. "You may well be surprised," continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own sisters."--She paused. Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner, which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude-- "May I ask if your engagement is of long standing?" "We have been engaged these four years." "Four years!" "Yes." Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it. "I did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till the other day." "Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my uncle's care, you know, a considerable while." "Your uncle!" "Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?" "I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which increased with her increase of emotion. "He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of his mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so prudent as I ought to have been.-- Though you do not know him so well as me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him." "Certainly," answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but after a moment's reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward's honour and love, and her companion's falsehood--"Engaged to Mr. Edward Ferrars!--I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me, that really--I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake of person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars." "We can mean no other," cried Lucy, smiling. "Mr. Edward Ferrars, the eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must allow that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who all my happiness depends." "It is strange," replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, "that I should never have heard him even mention your name." "No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has been to keep the matter secret.-- You knew nothing of me, or my family, and, therefore, there could be no OCCASION for ever mentioning my name to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's suspecting any thing, THAT was reason enough for his not mentioning it." She was silent.--Elinor's security sunk; but her self-command did not sink with it. "Four years you have been engaged," said she with a firm voice. "Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor Edward! It puts him quite out of heart." Then taking a small miniature from her pocket, she added, "To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for.--I have had it above these three years." She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its being Edward's face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the likeness. "I have never been able," continued Lucy, "to give him my picture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity." "You are quite in the right," replied Elinor calmly. They then proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first. "I am sure," said she, "I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding proud woman." "I certainly did not seek your confidence," said Elinor; "but you do me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it could not add to its safety." As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part of what she had been saying; but Lucy's countenance suffered no change. "I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you," said she, "in telling you all this. I have not known you long to be sure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by description a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if you was an old acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really thought some explanation was due to you after my making such particular inquiries about Edward's mother; and I am so unfortunate, that I have not a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world t'other day, when Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she should out with it all. You can't think how much I go through in my mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I have suffered for Edward's sake these last four years. Every thing in such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom--we can hardly meet above twice a-year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite broke." Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very compassionate. "Sometimes." continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, "I think whether it would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely." As she said this, she looked directly at her companion. "But then at other times I have not resolution enough for it.-- I cannot bear the thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of such a thing would do. And on my own account too--so dear as he is to me--I don't think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to do in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself?" "Pardon me," replied Elinor, startled by the question; "but I can give you no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct you." "To be sure," continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on both sides, "his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor Edward is so cast down by it! Did you not think him dreadful low-spirited when he was at Barton? He was so miserable when he left us at Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him quite ill." "Did he come from your uncle's, then, when he visited us?" "Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he came directly from town?" "No," replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh circumstance in favour of Lucy's veracity; "I remember he told us, that he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth." She remembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to their names. "Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?" repeated Lucy. "We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived." "I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was the matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected.-- Poor fellow!--I am afraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes in wretched spirits. I heard from him just before I left Exeter;" taking a letter from her pocket and carelessly showing the direction to Elinor. "You know his hand, I dare say, a charming one it is; but that is not written so well as usual.--He was tired, I dare say, for he had just filled the sheet to me as full as possible." Elinor saw that it WAS his hand, and she could doubt no longer. This picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been accidentally obtained; it might not have been Edward's gift; but a correspondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a positive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else; for a few moments, she was almost overcome--her heart sunk within her, and she could hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably necessary; and she struggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feelings, that her success was speedy, and for the time complete. "Writing to each other," said Lucy, returning the letter into her pocket, "is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes, I have one other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even THAT. If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy. I gave him a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last, and that was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture. Perhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him?" "I did," said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was concealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt before. She was mortified, shocked, confounded. Fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the conversation could be continued no farther. After sitting with them a few minutes, the Miss Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was then at liberty to think and be wretched. [At this point in the first and second editions, Volume 1 ends.]

Chapter 22

https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-22

Marianne has had it with the busybody Miss Steeles, so it's up to Elinor to keep them entertained. Lucy is naturally pretty gifted - along with being very pretty, she's also smart and witty. However, she's not very educated or well-read, and Elinor finds her something of a boring companion. One day, as Elinor and Lucy walk from the park to Barton Cottage, Lucy asks about Mrs. Ferrars, Fanny and Edward's mother. Elinor is a little weirded out by this question, understandably. Lucy presses the issue - she says she doesn't want to be impertinent, but she's really, really curious about Mrs. Ferrars, for some odd reason. Elinor is taken aback, and says so. Lucy hints that someday she and Mrs. Ferrars might be intimately related, and that she's curious because of this prospect. Elinor is totally shocked now. She asks if perhaps Lucy is engaged to Robert Ferrars, the youngest brother - and worries that someday the two of them might be related . Lucy admits that she's not engaged to Robert Ferrars - but is instead engaged to his older brother! What the what? Lucy engaged to Edward? What kind of merciless alternate universe have we stumbled into? Lucy goes on placidly, seemingly unaware of her companion's utter shock and horror. First of all, she rather insultingly says that Edward looks upon Elinor and Marianne as his own sisters . Secondly, she demurely admits that they've been secretly engaged for four years. We're appalled. So is Elinor. Apparently, Lucy and Edward met when he was living and studying with Mr. Pratt, Lucy and Anne's uncle. They met when they were young and impressionable, fell in love , and now are engaged. Elinor feebly protests that this can't be the same Edward Ferrars - perhaps Lucy is mistaken? Nope, it's definitely him. Definitely, definitely, definitely the Edward of Elinor's secret desires. Lucy even goes so far as to show Elinor a little portrait of Edward that she carries around, proving once and for all that this is the same guy. Elinor responds rather coldly to Lucy's revelation , saying that their secret is safe with her, but she can't understand why she was the recipient of it in the first place. Lucy angelically claims that she trusts Elinor instinctively, and that she feels like they've known each other for a long time. Apparently, the only other person who knows is Anne, Lucy's sister. Lucy weeps a little, whining that she and Edward only get to see each other once or twice a year. Elinor is not sympathetic. Lucy wonders if she should stick with Edward, or if she should just call the whole thing off. She looks pointedly at Elinor as she muses upon this - how much does Lucy know about Edward and Elinor's relationship, really? How shrewd is she, exactly?! Lucy asks Elinor what she should do - and obviously, Elinor doesn't have a reply. Lucy goes on, asking if Edward was down in the dumps when he was visiting the Dashwoods at Barton . Elinor admits that he was a little sad in the beginning of his visit. As if we haven't had enough proof of Edward's situation yet, Lucy shows Elinor a letter from him, which is undoubtedly in his handwriting. Lucy puts the final nail in the coffin of Elinor's hopes, saying that the ring Edward wears is set with a lock of her hair - not, as Elinor and Marianne believed, with Elinor's. Ouch. Fortunately, the girls arrive back at the cottage, and end their conversation. The Steeles go back home, and Elinor is left alone with her miserable thoughts.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/5658-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Lord Jim/section_10_part_0.txt

Lord Jim.chapter 11

chapter 11

{"name": "Chapter 11", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim19.asp", "summary": "In this chapter, Marlow reminds the reader that he and Jim are on the verandah. As Jim continues his tale, Marlow notices that mist is rising around them and sees the candle flicker. He comments that truth and illusion are often alike and that it is difficult to know what is right. It is obvious that once again he is sympathizing with Jim's story. Jim now tries to justify his desertion. He tells Marlow that he would never have jumped if the crew in the lifeboat had not called to him. He also admits that he had been miserable about the jump and had considered suicide several times while in the lifeboat. Jim is trying to be completely truthful so that Marlow will believe every word of what he says. He then turns to Marlow and asks him whether or not he believes him to be guilty. Marlow is so surprised over Jim's question that he cannot answer it.", "analysis": "Notes Light from the candle mingles with the darkness of the night as Jim speaks. The light and dark blend together in the mist, much like Jim's truth and illusion and much like his dark side and bright side. In the changing pattern of light and dark, Jim sometimes looks boyish and sometimes mature to Marlow. In truth, Jim vacillates between youth and maturity in his approach to life. The symbolic nature of Jim's jump into evil is emphasized in this chapter. Jim has already lost his peace of mind. He is trying to convince Marlow that he should not be judged harshly over jumping, for he was \"forced\" into it by the calls of the crewmen in the lifeboat. He also explains that had he stayed on board and gone down with the ship, he would have grabbed on to the first thing floating past in order to save himself. He sees no difference in either action, for both are natural instincts towards self- preservation. In trying to convince Marlow of his innocence, Jim is indirectly trying to atone for his \"sin\". He implies that he will dedicate the rest of his life to the performance of heroic deeds so that the memory of his failure may be wiped out forever; he is just waiting for a chance to prove himself. Jim is definitely showing his romantic side once again. It is obvious that Jim is a character filled with conflict. This device of choosing a hero who has done something wrong, but who is, at least, better than most, is common in Conrad's writing. He does a similar thing with Kurtz in Heart of Darkness."}

'He heard me out with his head on one side, and I had another glimpse through a rent in the mist in which he moved and had his being. The dim candle spluttered within the ball of glass, and that was all I had to see him by; at his back was the dark night with the clear stars, whose distant glitter disposed in retreating planes lured the eye into the depths of a greater darkness; and yet a mysterious light seemed to show me his boyish head, as if in that moment the youth within him had, for a moment, glowed and expired. "You are an awful good sort to listen like this," he said. "It does me good. You don't know what it is to me. You don't" . . . words seemed to fail him. It was a distinct glimpse. He was a youngster of the sort you like to see about you; of the sort you like to imagine yourself to have been; of the sort whose appearance claims the fellowship of these illusions you had thought gone out, extinct, cold, and which, as if rekindled at the approach of another flame, give a flutter deep, deep down somewhere, give a flutter of light . . . of heat! . . . Yes; I had a glimpse of him then . . . and it was not the last of that kind. . . . "You don't know what it is for a fellow in my position to be believed--make a clean breast of it to an elder man. It is so difficult--so awfully unfair--so hard to understand." 'The mists were closing again. I don't know how old I appeared to him--and how much wise. Not half as old as I felt just then; not half as uselessly wise as I knew myself to be. Surely in no other craft as in that of the sea do the hearts of those already launched to sink or swim go out so much to the youth on the brink, looking with shining eyes upon that glitter of the vast surface which is only a reflection of his own glances full of fire. There is such magnificent vagueness in the expectations that had driven each of us to sea, such a glorious indefiniteness, such a beautiful greed of adventures that are their own and only reward. What we get--well, we won't talk of that; but can one of us restrain a smile? In no other kind of life is the illusion more wide of reality--in no other is the beginning _all_ illusion--the disenchantment more swift--the subjugation more complete. Hadn't we all commenced with the same desire, ended with the same knowledge, carried the memory of the same cherished glamour through the sordid days of imprecation? What wonder that when some heavy prod gets home the bond is found to be close; that besides the fellowship of the craft there is felt the strength of a wider feeling--the feeling that binds a man to a child. He was there before me, believing that age and wisdom can find a remedy against the pain of truth, giving me a glimpse of himself as a young fellow in a scrape that is the very devil of a scrape, the sort of scrape greybeards wag at solemnly while they hide a smile. And he had been deliberating upon death--confound him! He had found that to meditate about because he thought he had saved his life, while all its glamour had gone with the ship in the night. What more natural! It was tragic enough and funny enough in all conscience to call aloud for compassion, and in what was I better than the rest of us to refuse him my pity? And even as I looked at him the mists rolled into the rent, and his voice spoke-- '"I was so lost, you know. It was the sort of thing one does not expect to happen to one. It was not like a fight, for instance." '"It was not," I admitted. He appeared changed, as if he had suddenly matured. '"One couldn't be sure," he muttered. '"Ah! You were not sure," I said, and was placated by the sound of a faint sigh that passed between us like the flight of a bird in the night. '"Well, I wasn't," he said courageously. "It was something like that wretched story they made up. It was not a lie--but it wasn't truth all the same. It was something. . . . One knows a downright lie. There was not the thickness of a sheet of paper between the right and the wrong of this affair." '"How much more did you want?" I asked; but I think I spoke so low that he did not catch what I said. He had advanced his argument as though life had been a network of paths separated by chasms. His voice sounded reasonable. '"Suppose I had not--I mean to say, suppose I had stuck to the ship? Well. How much longer? Say a minute--half a minute. Come. In thirty seconds, as it seemed certain then, I would have been overboard; and do you think I would not have laid hold of the first thing that came in my way--oar, life-buoy, grating--anything? Wouldn't you?" '"And be saved," I interjected. '"I would have meant to be," he retorted. "And that's more than I meant when I" . . . he shivered as if about to swallow some nauseous drug . . . "jumped," he pronounced with a convulsive effort, whose stress, as if propagated by the waves of the air, made my body stir a little in the chair. He fixed me with lowering eyes. "Don't you believe me?" he cried. "I swear! . . . Confound it! You got me here to talk, and . . . You must! . . . You said you would believe." "Of course I do," I protested, in a matter-of-fact tone which produced a calming effect. "Forgive me," he said. "Of course I wouldn't have talked to you about all this if you had not been a gentleman. I ought to have known . . . I am--I am--a gentleman too . . ." "Yes, yes," I said hastily. He was looking me squarely in the face, and withdrew his gaze slowly. "Now you understand why I didn't after all . . . didn't go out in that way. I wasn't going to be frightened at what I had done. And, anyhow, if I had stuck to the ship I would have done my best to be saved. Men have been known to float for hours--in the open sea--and be picked up not much the worse for it. I might have lasted it out better than many others. There's nothing the matter with my heart." He withdrew his right fist from his pocket, and the blow he struck on his chest resounded like a muffled detonation in the night. '"No," I said. He meditated, with his legs slightly apart and his chin sunk. "A hair's-breadth," he muttered. "Not the breadth of a hair between this and that. And at the time . . ." '"It is difficult to see a hair at midnight," I put in, a little viciously I fear. Don't you see what I mean by the solidarity of the craft? I was aggrieved against him, as though he had cheated me--me!--of a splendid opportunity to keep up the illusion of my beginnings, as though he had robbed our common life of the last spark of its glamour. "And so you cleared out--at once." '"Jumped," he corrected me incisively. "Jumped--mind!" he repeated, and I wondered at the evident but obscure intention. "Well, yes! Perhaps I could not see then. But I had plenty of time and any amount of light in that boat. And I could think, too. Nobody would know, of course, but this did not make it any easier for me. You've got to believe that, too. I did not want all this talk. . . . No . . . Yes . . . I won't lie . . . I wanted it: it is the very thing I wanted--there. Do you think you or anybody could have made me if I . . . I am--I am not afraid to tell. And I wasn't afraid to think either. I looked it in the face. I wasn't going to run away. At first--at night, if it hadn't been for those fellows I might have . . . No! by heavens! I was not going to give them that satisfaction. They had done enough. They made up a story, and believed it for all I know. But I knew the truth, and I would live it down--alone, with myself. I wasn't going to give in to such a beastly unfair thing. What did it prove after all? I was confoundedly cut up. Sick of life--to tell you the truth; but what would have been the good to shirk it--in--in--that way? That was not the way. I believe--I believe it would have--it would have ended--nothing." 'He had been walking up and down, but with the last word he turned short at me. '"What do _you_ believe?" he asked with violence. A pause ensued, and suddenly I felt myself overcome by a profound and hopeless fatigue, as though his voice had startled me out of a dream of wandering through empty spaces whose immensity had harassed my soul and exhausted my body. '". . . Would have ended nothing," he muttered over me obstinately, after a little while. "No! the proper thing was to face it out--alone for myself--wait for another chance--find out . . ."'

Chapter 11

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820051943/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmLordJim19.asp

In this chapter, Marlow reminds the reader that he and Jim are on the verandah. As Jim continues his tale, Marlow notices that mist is rising around them and sees the candle flicker. He comments that truth and illusion are often alike and that it is difficult to know what is right. It is obvious that once again he is sympathizing with Jim's story. Jim now tries to justify his desertion. He tells Marlow that he would never have jumped if the crew in the lifeboat had not called to him. He also admits that he had been miserable about the jump and had considered suicide several times while in the lifeboat. Jim is trying to be completely truthful so that Marlow will believe every word of what he says. He then turns to Marlow and asks him whether or not he believes him to be guilty. Marlow is so surprised over Jim's question that he cannot answer it.

Notes Light from the candle mingles with the darkness of the night as Jim speaks. The light and dark blend together in the mist, much like Jim's truth and illusion and much like his dark side and bright side. In the changing pattern of light and dark, Jim sometimes looks boyish and sometimes mature to Marlow. In truth, Jim vacillates between youth and maturity in his approach to life. The symbolic nature of Jim's jump into evil is emphasized in this chapter. Jim has already lost his peace of mind. He is trying to convince Marlow that he should not be judged harshly over jumping, for he was "forced" into it by the calls of the crewmen in the lifeboat. He also explains that had he stayed on board and gone down with the ship, he would have grabbed on to the first thing floating past in order to save himself. He sees no difference in either action, for both are natural instincts towards self- preservation. In trying to convince Marlow of his innocence, Jim is indirectly trying to atone for his "sin". He implies that he will dedicate the rest of his life to the performance of heroic deeds so that the memory of his failure may be wiped out forever; he is just waiting for a chance to prove himself. Jim is definitely showing his romantic side once again. It is obvious that Jim is a character filled with conflict. This device of choosing a hero who has done something wrong, but who is, at least, better than most, is common in Conrad's writing. He does a similar thing with Kurtz in Heart of Darkness.

sparknotes

all_chapterized_books/28054-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_0_part_4.txt

The Brothers Karamazov.book 1.chapter 3

book 1, chapter 3

{"name": "book 1, Chapter 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section1/", "summary": "Second Marriage, Second Children Fyodor Pavlovich remarries soon after getting rid of four-year-old Dmitri. He stays married for about eight years. His wife, Sofia Ivanovna, is a sixteen-year-old orphan from another province, where Fyodor Pavlovich has traveled on a business trip. Despite his drunken and debauched lifestyle, Fyodor Pavlovich has handled his investments shrewdly, and his fortune continues to grow. Fyodor Pavlovich convinces Sofia to elope with him against the wishes of her guardian, and Fyodor Pavlovich treats her deplorably, openly holding orgies with other women in the house, right under her nose. As a result of Fyodor Pavlovich's ill treatment, Sofia becomes nervous and hysterical, until her husband begins calling her \"the shrieker. Despite her instability, Sofia gives birth to two sons, Ivan and Alexei, who is nicknamed Alyosha. When Alyosha is four, Sofia dies, and the two boys fall into the care of the same servant who briefly had charge of Dmitri. Their mother's former guardian, a general's widow, then takes them in. The widow soon dies, but leaves funds for the education of Alyosha and Ivan. As the boys grow older, in the care of their benefactress's heir, Ivan becomes a brilliant student, gaining notoriety in literary circles for an article he writes about ecclesiastical courts. Eventually Ivan moves back to his father's town to live with his father, despite having been ashamed of him all his life. This bizarre circumstance is partially arranged by Dmitri, who, after being told about his ruined inheritance, has requested that his brother join him and their father, hoping that Ivan might help to mediate their dispute", "analysis": ""}

Chapter III. The Second Marriage And The Second Family Very shortly after getting his four-year-old Mitya off his hands Fyodor Pavlovitch married a second time. His second marriage lasted eight years. He took this second wife, Sofya Ivanovna, also a very young girl, from another province, where he had gone upon some small piece of business in company with a Jew. Though Fyodor Pavlovitch was a drunkard and a vicious debauchee he never neglected investing his capital, and managed his business affairs very successfully, though, no doubt, not over- scrupulously. Sofya Ivanovna was the daughter of an obscure deacon, and was left from childhood an orphan without relations. She grew up in the house of a general's widow, a wealthy old lady of good position, who was at once her benefactress and tormentor. I do not know the details, but I have only heard that the orphan girl, a meek and gentle creature, was once cut down from a halter in which she was hanging from a nail in the loft, so terrible were her sufferings from the caprice and everlasting nagging of this old woman, who was apparently not bad-hearted but had become an insufferable tyrant through idleness. Fyodor Pavlovitch made her an offer; inquiries were made about him and he was refused. But again, as in his first marriage, he proposed an elopement to the orphan girl. There is very little doubt that she would not on any account have married him if she had known a little more about him in time. But she lived in another province; besides, what could a little girl of sixteen know about it, except that she would be better at the bottom of the river than remaining with her benefactress. So the poor child exchanged a benefactress for a benefactor. Fyodor Pavlovitch did not get a penny this time, for the general's widow was furious. She gave them nothing and cursed them both. But he had not reckoned on a dowry; what allured him was the remarkable beauty of the innocent girl, above all her innocent appearance, which had a peculiar attraction for a vicious profligate, who had hitherto admired only the coarser types of feminine beauty. "Those innocent eyes slit my soul up like a razor," he used to say afterwards, with his loathsome snigger. In a man so depraved this might, of course, mean no more than sensual attraction. As he had received no dowry with his wife, and had, so to speak, taken her "from the halter," he did not stand on ceremony with her. Making her feel that she had "wronged" him, he took advantage of her phenomenal meekness and submissiveness to trample on the elementary decencies of marriage. He gathered loose women into his house, and carried on orgies of debauchery in his wife's presence. To show what a pass things had come to, I may mention that Grigory, the gloomy, stupid, obstinate, argumentative servant, who had always hated his first mistress, Adelaida Ivanovna, took the side of his new mistress. He championed her cause, abusing Fyodor Pavlovitch in a manner little befitting a servant, and on one occasion broke up the revels and drove all the disorderly women out of the house. In the end this unhappy young woman, kept in terror from her childhood, fell into that kind of nervous disease which is most frequently found in peasant women who are said to be "possessed by devils." At times after terrible fits of hysterics she even lost her reason. Yet she bore Fyodor Pavlovitch two sons, Ivan and Alexey, the eldest in the first year of marriage and the second three years later. When she died, little Alexey was in his fourth year, and, strange as it seems, I know that he remembered his mother all his life, like a dream, of course. At her death almost exactly the same thing happened to the two little boys as to their elder brother, Mitya. They were completely forgotten and abandoned by their father. They were looked after by the same Grigory and lived in his cottage, where they were found by the tyrannical old lady who had brought up their mother. She was still alive, and had not, all those eight years, forgotten the insult done her. All that time she was obtaining exact information as to her Sofya's manner of life, and hearing of her illness and hideous surroundings she declared aloud two or three times to her retainers: "It serves her right. God has punished her for her ingratitude." Exactly three months after Sofya Ivanovna's death the general's widow suddenly appeared in our town, and went straight to Fyodor Pavlovitch's house. She spent only half an hour in the town but she did a great deal. It was evening. Fyodor Pavlovitch, whom she had not seen for those eight years, came in to her drunk. The story is that instantly upon seeing him, without any sort of explanation, she gave him two good, resounding slaps on the face, seized him by a tuft of hair, and shook him three times up and down. Then, without a word, she went straight to the cottage to the two boys. Seeing, at the first glance, that they were unwashed and in dirty linen, she promptly gave Grigory, too, a box on the ear, and announcing that she would carry off both the children she wrapped them just as they were in a rug, put them in the carriage, and drove off to her own town. Grigory accepted the blow like a devoted slave, without a word, and when he escorted the old lady to her carriage he made her a low bow and pronounced impressively that, "God would repay her for the orphans." "You are a blockhead all the same," the old lady shouted to him as she drove away. Fyodor Pavlovitch, thinking it over, decided that it was a good thing, and did not refuse the general's widow his formal consent to any proposition in regard to his children's education. As for the slaps she had given him, he drove all over the town telling the story. It happened that the old lady died soon after this, but she left the boys in her will a thousand roubles each "for their instruction, and so that all be spent on them exclusively, with the condition that it be so portioned out as to last till they are twenty-one, for it is more than adequate provision for such children. If other people think fit to throw away their money, let them." I have not read the will myself, but I heard there was something queer of the sort, very whimsically expressed. The principal heir, Yefim Petrovitch Polenov, the Marshal of Nobility of the province, turned out, however, to be an honest man. Writing to Fyodor Pavlovitch, and discerning at once that he could extract nothing from him for his children's education (though the latter never directly refused but only procrastinated as he always did in such cases, and was, indeed, at times effusively sentimental), Yefim Petrovitch took a personal interest in the orphans. He became especially fond of the younger, Alexey, who lived for a long while as one of his family. I beg the reader to note this from the beginning. And to Yefim Petrovitch, a man of a generosity and humanity rarely to be met with, the young people were more indebted for their education and bringing up than to any one. He kept the two thousand roubles left to them by the general's widow intact, so that by the time they came of age their portions had been doubled by the accumulation of interest. He educated them both at his own expense, and certainly spent far more than a thousand roubles upon each of them. I won't enter into a detailed account of their boyhood and youth, but will only mention a few of the most important events. Of the elder, Ivan, I will only say that he grew into a somewhat morose and reserved, though far from timid boy. At ten years old he had realized that they were living not in their own home but on other people's charity, and that their father was a man of whom it was disgraceful to speak. This boy began very early, almost in his infancy (so they say at least), to show a brilliant and unusual aptitude for learning. I don't know precisely why, but he left the family of Yefim Petrovitch when he was hardly thirteen, entering a Moscow gymnasium, and boarding with an experienced and celebrated teacher, an old friend of Yefim Petrovitch. Ivan used to declare afterwards that this was all due to the "ardor for good works" of Yefim Petrovitch, who was captivated by the idea that the boy's genius should be trained by a teacher of genius. But neither Yefim Petrovitch nor this teacher was living when the young man finished at the gymnasium and entered the university. As Yefim Petrovitch had made no provision for the payment of the tyrannical old lady's legacy, which had grown from one thousand to two, it was delayed, owing to formalities inevitable in Russia, and the young man was in great straits for the first two years at the university, as he was forced to keep himself all the time he was studying. It must be noted that he did not even attempt to communicate with his father, perhaps from pride, from contempt for him, or perhaps from his cool common sense, which told him that from such a father he would get no real assistance. However that may have been, the young man was by no means despondent and succeeded in getting work, at first giving sixpenny lessons and afterwards getting paragraphs on street incidents into the newspapers under the signature of "Eye-Witness." These paragraphs, it was said, were so interesting and piquant that they were soon taken. This alone showed the young man's practical and intellectual superiority over the masses of needy and unfortunate students of both sexes who hang about the offices of the newspapers and journals, unable to think of anything better than everlasting entreaties for copying and translations from the French. Having once got into touch with the editors Ivan Fyodorovitch always kept up his connection with them, and in his latter years at the university he published brilliant reviews of books upon various special subjects, so that he became well known in literary circles. But only in his last year he suddenly succeeded in attracting the attention of a far wider circle of readers, so that a great many people noticed and remembered him. It was rather a curious incident. When he had just left the university and was preparing to go abroad upon his two thousand roubles, Ivan Fyodorovitch published in one of the more important journals a strange article, which attracted general notice, on a subject of which he might have been supposed to know nothing, as he was a student of natural science. The article dealt with a subject which was being debated everywhere at the time--the position of the ecclesiastical courts. After discussing several opinions on the subject he went on to explain his own view. What was most striking about the article was its tone, and its unexpected conclusion. Many of the Church party regarded him unquestioningly as on their side. And yet not only the secularists but even atheists joined them in their applause. Finally some sagacious persons opined that the article was nothing but an impudent satirical burlesque. I mention this incident particularly because this article penetrated into the famous monastery in our neighborhood, where the inmates, being particularly interested in the question of the ecclesiastical courts, were completely bewildered by it. Learning the author's name, they were interested in his being a native of the town and the son of "that Fyodor Pavlovitch." And just then it was that the author himself made his appearance among us. Why Ivan Fyodorovitch had come amongst us I remember asking myself at the time with a certain uneasiness. This fateful visit, which was the first step leading to so many consequences, I never fully explained to myself. It seemed strange on the face of it that a young man so learned, so proud, and apparently so cautious, should suddenly visit such an infamous house and a father who had ignored him all his life, hardly knew him, never thought of him, and would not under any circumstances have given him money, though he was always afraid that his sons Ivan and Alexey would also come to ask him for it. And here the young man was staying in the house of such a father, had been living with him for two months, and they were on the best possible terms. This last fact was a special cause of wonder to many others as well as to me. Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov, of whom we have spoken already, the cousin of Fyodor Pavlovitch's first wife, happened to be in the neighborhood again on a visit to his estate. He had come from Paris, which was his permanent home. I remember that he was more surprised than any one when he made the acquaintance of the young man, who interested him extremely, and with whom he sometimes argued and not without an inner pang compared himself in acquirements. "He is proud," he used to say, "he will never be in want of pence; he has got money enough to go abroad now. What does he want here? Every one can see that he hasn't come for money, for his father would never give him any. He has no taste for drink and dissipation, and yet his father can't do without him. They get on so well together!" That was the truth; the young man had an unmistakable influence over his father, who positively appeared to be behaving more decently and even seemed at times ready to obey his son, though often extremely and even spitefully perverse. It was only later that we learned that Ivan had come partly at the request of, and in the interests of, his elder brother, Dmitri, whom he saw for the first time on this very visit, though he had before leaving Moscow been in correspondence with him about an important matter of more concern to Dmitri than himself. What that business was the reader will learn fully in due time. Yet even when I did know of this special circumstance I still felt Ivan Fyodorovitch to be an enigmatic figure, and thought his visit rather mysterious. I may add that Ivan appeared at the time in the light of a mediator between his father and his elder brother Dmitri, who was in open quarrel with his father and even planning to bring an action against him. The family, I repeat, was now united for the first time, and some of its members met for the first time in their lives. The younger brother, Alexey, had been a year already among us, having been the first of the three to arrive. It is of that brother Alexey I find it most difficult to speak in this introduction. Yet I must give some preliminary account of him, if only to explain one queer fact, which is that I have to introduce my hero to the reader wearing the cassock of a novice. Yes, he had been for the last year in our monastery, and seemed willing to be cloistered there for the rest of his life.

book 1, Chapter 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section1/

Second Marriage, Second Children Fyodor Pavlovich remarries soon after getting rid of four-year-old Dmitri. He stays married for about eight years. His wife, Sofia Ivanovna, is a sixteen-year-old orphan from another province, where Fyodor Pavlovich has traveled on a business trip. Despite his drunken and debauched lifestyle, Fyodor Pavlovich has handled his investments shrewdly, and his fortune continues to grow. Fyodor Pavlovich convinces Sofia to elope with him against the wishes of her guardian, and Fyodor Pavlovich treats her deplorably, openly holding orgies with other women in the house, right under her nose. As a result of Fyodor Pavlovich's ill treatment, Sofia becomes nervous and hysterical, until her husband begins calling her "the shrieker. Despite her instability, Sofia gives birth to two sons, Ivan and Alexei, who is nicknamed Alyosha. When Alyosha is four, Sofia dies, and the two boys fall into the care of the same servant who briefly had charge of Dmitri. Their mother's former guardian, a general's widow, then takes them in. The widow soon dies, but leaves funds for the education of Alyosha and Ivan. As the boys grow older, in the care of their benefactress's heir, Ivan becomes a brilliant student, gaining notoriety in literary circles for an article he writes about ecclesiastical courts. Eventually Ivan moves back to his father's town to live with his father, despite having been ashamed of him all his life. This bizarre circumstance is partially arranged by Dmitri, who, after being told about his ruined inheritance, has requested that his brother join him and their father, hoping that Ivan might help to mediate their dispute

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/30.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_29_part_0.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 30

chapter 30

{"name": "Phase IV: \"The Consequence,\" Chapter Thirty", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-30", "summary": "Angel and Tess drive along towards the train station with the load of butter for the market. At first they don't talk. After a while it starts to drizzle. They snuggle up, and Angel takes a large piece of cloth and puts it over both of their shoulders. Now that they're all cozy and more-or-less dry, Angel asks her again for her reasons against marrying. She says she'll try to tell him before they get home. They pass an old manor-house, and Angel tells her it's the old seat of the D'Urbervilles--remember, he still doesn't know that she's related to that family. Tess doesn't say much in response. They get to the train station, and unload the butter and milk from the cart. Angel asks her why she won't marry him, if she loves him. She says it's because of something to do with her history. Again, Angel almost laughs. What kind of \"history\" can a country girl like Tess have? Tess starts to relate the story of childhood, but when she says that her father discovered that they were D'Urbervilles, and not Durbeyfields, Angel stops her. He has a romantic interest in old families, because he likes the history, he tells her. He just doesn't like it when people seem to think that good blood is everything. He asks if her D'Urberville connection was the only objection she had to marrying him. She loses courage, and says yes. Angel thinks it's awesome that she's a D'Urberville, and is very happy that that was the only obstacle. He calls her \"Mistress Theresa D'Urberville.\" She says she likes the old spelling of her name better. He tries to remember where he just heard the name D'Urberville recently... oh right, it was the name of that rascal who insulted his father. Tess gets more distressed at this reminder of Alec, but Angel doesn't seem to see it. He thinks she's just agitated with emotion. He asks if she'll marry him, now that her secret is out, and he doesn't mind it. She asks if he's very sure, and if he really, really wants to marry her. Of course he does, and she says yes, but then bursts into hysterical sobs. Angel asks what's up. She says she's broken her vow never to get married. She calms down a bit when she realizes that her crying is hurting his feelings, and she smooches him to show him just how much she loves him. After this make-out session, they climb back in the cart to drive home. She tells him she has to write to her mother, and he asks where her mother lives. When she tells him, he realizes that he had seen her before--at the dance on the village green. Tess, of course, had remembered it long since, and says that she hopes it's not a bad omen for them now, that he didn't dance with her then.", "analysis": ""}

In the diminishing daylight they went along the level roadway through the meads, which stretched away into gray miles, and were backed in the extreme edge of distance by the swarthy and abrupt slopes of Egdon Heath. On its summit stood clumps and stretches of fir-trees, whose notched tips appeared like battlemented towers crowning black-fronted castles of enchantment. They were so absorbed in the sense of being close to each other that they did not begin talking for a long while, the silence being broken only by the clucking of the milk in the tall cans behind them. The lane they followed was so solitary that the hazel nuts had remained on the boughs till they slipped from their shells, and the blackberries hung in heavy clusters. Every now and then Angel would fling the lash of his whip round one of these, pluck it off, and give it to his companion. The dull sky soon began to tell its meaning by sending down herald-drops of rain, and the stagnant air of the day changed into a fitful breeze which played about their faces. The quick-silvery glaze on the rivers and pools vanished; from broad mirrors of light they changed to lustreless sheets of lead, with a surface like a rasp. But that spectacle did not affect her preoccupation. Her countenance, a natural carnation slightly embrowned by the season, had deepened its tinge with the beating of the rain-drops; and her hair, which the pressure of the cows' flanks had, as usual, caused to tumble down from its fastenings and stray beyond the curtain of her calico bonnet, was made clammy by the moisture, till it hardly was better than seaweed. "I ought not to have come, I suppose," she murmured, looking at the sky. "I am sorry for the rain," said he. "But how glad I am to have you here!" Remote Egdon disappeared by degree behind the liquid gauze. The evening grew darker, and the roads being crossed by gates, it was not safe to drive faster than at a walking pace. The air was rather chill. "I am so afraid you will get cold, with nothing upon your arms and shoulders," he said. "Creep close to me, and perhaps the drizzle won't hurt you much. I should be sorrier still if I did not think that the rain might be helping me." She imperceptibly crept closer, and he wrapped round them both a large piece of sail-cloth, which was sometimes used to keep the sun off the milk-cans. Tess held it from slipping off him as well as herself, Clare's hands being occupied. "Now we are all right again. Ah--no we are not! It runs down into my neck a little, and it must still more into yours. That's better. Your arms are like wet marble, Tess. Wipe them in the cloth. Now, if you stay quiet, you will not get another drop. Well, dear--about that question of mine--that long-standing question?" The only reply that he could hear for a little while was the smack of the horse's hoofs on the moistening road, and the cluck of the milk in the cans behind them. "Do you remember what you said?" "I do," she replied. "Before we get home, mind." "I'll try." He said no more then. As they drove on, the fragment of an old manor house of Caroline date rose against the sky, and was in due course passed and left behind. "That," he observed, to entertain her, "is an interesting old place--one of the several seats which belonged to an ancient Norman family formerly of great influence in this county, the d'Urbervilles. I never pass one of their residences without thinking of them. There is something very sad in the extinction of a family of renown, even if it was fierce, domineering, feudal renown." "Yes," said Tess. They crept along towards a point in the expanse of shade just at hand at which a feeble light was beginning to assert its presence, a spot where, by day, a fitful white streak of steam at intervals upon the dark green background denoted intermittent moments of contact between their secluded world and modern life. Modern life stretched out its steam feeler to this point three or four times a day, touched the native existences, and quickly withdrew its feeler again, as if what it touched had been uncongenial. They reached the feeble light, which came from the smoky lamp of a little railway station; a poor enough terrestrial star, yet in one sense of more importance to Talbothays Dairy and mankind than the celestial ones to which it stood in such humiliating contrast. The cans of new milk were unladen in the rain, Tess getting a little shelter from a neighbouring holly tree. Then there was the hissing of a train, which drew up almost silently upon the wet rails, and the milk was rapidly swung can by can into the truck. The light of the engine flashed for a second upon Tess Durbeyfield's figure, motionless under the great holly tree. No object could have looked more foreign to the gleaming cranks and wheels than this unsophisticated girl, with the round bare arms, the rainy face and hair, the suspended attitude of a friendly leopard at pause, the print gown of no date or fashion, and the cotton bonnet drooping on her brow. She mounted again beside her lover, with a mute obedience characteristic of impassioned natures at times, and when they had wrapped themselves up over head and ears in the sailcloth again, they plunged back into the now thick night. Tess was so receptive that the few minutes of contact with the whirl of material progress lingered in her thought. "Londoners will drink it at their breakfasts to-morrow, won't they?" she asked. "Strange people that we have never seen." "Yes--I suppose they will. Though not as we send it. When its strength has been lowered, so that it may not get up into their heads." "Noble men and noble women, ambassadors and centurions, ladies and tradeswomen, and babies who have never seen a cow." "Well, yes; perhaps; particularly centurions." "Who don't know anything of us, and where it comes from; or think how we two drove miles across the moor to-night in the rain that it might reach 'em in time?" "We did not drive entirely on account of these precious Londoners; we drove a little on our own--on account of that anxious matter which you will, I am sure, set at rest, dear Tess. Now, permit me to put it in this way. You belong to me already, you know; your heart, I mean. Does it not?" "You know as well as I. O yes--yes!" "Then, if your heart does, why not your hand?" "My only reason was on account of you--on account of a question. I have something to tell you--" "But suppose it to be entirely for my happiness, and my worldly convenience also?" "O yes; if it is for your happiness and worldly convenience. But my life before I came here--I want--" "Well, it is for my convenience as well as my happiness. If I have a very large farm, either English or colonial, you will be invaluable as a wife to me; better than a woman out of the largest mansion in the country. So please--please, dear Tessy, disabuse your mind of the feeling that you will stand in my way." "But my history. I want you to know it--you must let me tell you--you will not like me so well!" "Tell it if you wish to, dearest. This precious history then. Yes, I was born at so and so, Anno Domini--" "I was born at Marlott," she said, catching at his words as a help, lightly as they were spoken. "And I grew up there. And I was in the Sixth Standard when I left school, and they said I had great aptness, and should make a good teacher, so it was settled that I should be one. But there was trouble in my family; father was not very industrious, and he drank a little." "Yes, yes. Poor child! Nothing new." He pressed her more closely to his side. "And then--there is something very unusual about it--about me. I--I was--" Tess's breath quickened. "Yes, dearest. Never mind." "I--I--am not a Durbeyfield, but a d'Urberville--a descendant of the same family as those that owned the old house we passed. And--we are all gone to nothing!" "A d'Urberville!--Indeed! And is that all the trouble, dear Tess?" "Yes," she answered faintly. "Well--why should I love you less after knowing this?" "I was told by the dairyman that you hated old families." He laughed. "Well, it is true, in one sense. I do hate the aristocratic principle of blood before everything, and do think that as reasoners the only pedigrees we ought to respect are those spiritual ones of the wise and virtuous, without regard to corporal paternity. But I am extremely interested in this news--you can have no idea how interested I am! Are you not interested yourself in being one of that well-known line?" "No. I have thought it sad--especially since coming here, and knowing that many of the hills and fields I see once belonged to my father's people. But other hills and field belonged to Retty's people, and perhaps others to Marian's, so that I don't value it particularly." "Yes--it is surprising how many of the present tillers of the soil were once owners of it, and I sometimes wonder that a certain school of politicians don't make capital of the circumstance; but they don't seem to know it... I wonder that I did not see the resemblance of your name to d'Urberville, and trace the manifest corruption. And this was the carking secret!" She had not told. At the last moment her courage had failed her; she feared his blame for not telling him sooner; and her instinct of self-preservation was stronger than her candour. "Of course," continued the unwitting Clare, "I should have been glad to know you to be descended exclusively from the long-suffering, dumb, unrecorded rank and file of the English nation, and not from the self-seeking few who made themselves powerful at the expense of the rest. But I am corrupted away from that by my affection for you, Tess (he laughed as he spoke), and made selfish likewise. For your own sake I rejoice in your descent. Society is hopelessly snobbish, and this fact of your extraction may make an appreciable difference to its acceptance of you as my wife, after I have made you the well-read woman that I mean to make you. My mother too, poor soul, will think so much better of you on account of it. Tess, you must spell your name correctly--d'Urberville--from this very day." "I like the other way rather best." "But you MUST, dearest! Good heavens, why dozens of mushroom millionaires would jump at such a possession! By the bye, there's one of that kidney who has taken the name--where have I heard of him?--Up in the neighbourhood of The Chase, I think. Why, he is the very man who had that rumpus with my father I told you of. What an odd coincidence!" "Angel, I think I would rather not take the name! It is unlucky, perhaps!" She was agitated. "Now then, Mistress Teresa d'Urberville, I have you. Take my name, and so you will escape yours! The secret is out, so why should you any longer refuse me?" "If it is SURE to make you happy to have me as your wife, and you feel that you do wish to marry me, VERY, VERY much--" "I do, dearest, of course!" "I mean, that it is only your wanting me very much, and being hardly able to keep alive without me, whatever my offences, that would make me feel I ought to say I will." "You will--you do say it, I know! You will be mine for ever and ever." He clasped her close and kissed her. "Yes!" She had no sooner said it than she burst into a dry hard sobbing, so violent that it seemed to rend her. Tess was not a hysterical girl by any means, and he was surprised. "Why do you cry, dearest?" "I can't tell--quite!--I am so glad to think--of being yours, and making you happy!" "But this does not seem very much like gladness, my Tessy!" "I mean--I cry because I have broken down in my vow! I said I would die unmarried!" "But, if you love me you would like me to be your husband?" "Yes, yes, yes! But O, I sometimes wish I had never been born!" "Now, my dear Tess, if I did not know that you are very much excited, and very inexperienced, I should say that remark was not very complimentary. How came you to wish that if you care for me? Do you care for me? I wish you would prove it in some way." "How can I prove it more than I have done?" she cried, in a distraction of tenderness. "Will this prove it more?" She clasped his neck, and for the first time Clare learnt what an impassioned woman's kisses were like upon the lips of one whom she loved with all her heart and soul, as Tess loved him. "There--now do you believe?" she asked, flushed, and wiping her eyes. "Yes. I never really doubted--never, never!" So they drove on through the gloom, forming one bundle inside the sail-cloth, the horse going as he would, and the rain driving against them. She had consented. She might as well have agreed at first. The "appetite for joy" which pervades all creation, that tremendous force which sways humanity to its purpose, as the tide sways the helpless weed, was not to be controlled by vague lucubrations over the social rubric. "I must write to my mother," she said. "You don't mind my doing that?" "Of course not, dear child. You are a child to me, Tess, not to know how very proper it is to write to your mother at such a time, and how wrong it would be in me to object. Where does she live?" "At the same place--Marlott. On the further side of Blackmoor Vale." "Ah, then I HAVE seen you before this summer--" "Yes; at that dance on the green; but you would not dance with me. O, I hope that is of no ill-omen for us now!"

Phase IV: "The Consequence," Chapter Thirty

https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-30

Angel and Tess drive along towards the train station with the load of butter for the market. At first they don't talk. After a while it starts to drizzle. They snuggle up, and Angel takes a large piece of cloth and puts it over both of their shoulders. Now that they're all cozy and more-or-less dry, Angel asks her again for her reasons against marrying. She says she'll try to tell him before they get home. They pass an old manor-house, and Angel tells her it's the old seat of the D'Urbervilles--remember, he still doesn't know that she's related to that family. Tess doesn't say much in response. They get to the train station, and unload the butter and milk from the cart. Angel asks her why she won't marry him, if she loves him. She says it's because of something to do with her history. Again, Angel almost laughs. What kind of "history" can a country girl like Tess have? Tess starts to relate the story of childhood, but when she says that her father discovered that they were D'Urbervilles, and not Durbeyfields, Angel stops her. He has a romantic interest in old families, because he likes the history, he tells her. He just doesn't like it when people seem to think that good blood is everything. He asks if her D'Urberville connection was the only objection she had to marrying him. She loses courage, and says yes. Angel thinks it's awesome that she's a D'Urberville, and is very happy that that was the only obstacle. He calls her "Mistress Theresa D'Urberville." She says she likes the old spelling of her name better. He tries to remember where he just heard the name D'Urberville recently... oh right, it was the name of that rascal who insulted his father. Tess gets more distressed at this reminder of Alec, but Angel doesn't seem to see it. He thinks she's just agitated with emotion. He asks if she'll marry him, now that her secret is out, and he doesn't mind it. She asks if he's very sure, and if he really, really wants to marry her. Of course he does, and she says yes, but then bursts into hysterical sobs. Angel asks what's up. She says she's broken her vow never to get married. She calms down a bit when she realizes that her crying is hurting his feelings, and she smooches him to show him just how much she loves him. After this make-out session, they climb back in the cart to drive home. She tells him she has to write to her mother, and he asks where her mother lives. When she tells him, he realizes that he had seen her before--at the dance on the village green. Tess, of course, had remembered it long since, and says that she hopes it's not a bad omen for them now, that he didn't dance with her then.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/20.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Tess of the d'Urbervilles/section_3_part_5.txt

Tess of the d'Urbervilles.chapter xx

chapter xx

{"name": "Chapter XX", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase3-chapter16-24", "summary": "Tess is finally happy. She is in love with Angel. They walk together in misty fields. To Clare, Tess is a pagan goddess, indeed the very \"essence of woman,\" but she insists that she is nothing more than an ordinary woman", "analysis": ""}

The season developed and matured. Another year's instalment of flowers, leaves, nightingales, thrushes, finches, and such ephemeral creatures, took up their positions where only a year ago others had stood in their place when these were nothing more than germs and inorganic particles. Rays from the sunrise drew forth the buds and stretched them into long stalks, lifted up sap in noiseless streams, opened petals, and sucked out scents in invisible jets and breathings. Dairyman Crick's household of maids and men lived on comfortably, placidly, even merrily. Their position was perhaps the happiest of all positions in the social scale, being above the line at which neediness ends, and below the line at which the _convenances_ begin to cramp natural feelings, and the stress of threadbare modishness makes too little of enough. Thus passed the leafy time when arborescence seems to be the one thing aimed at out of doors. Tess and Clare unconsciously studied each other, ever balanced on the edge of a passion, yet apparently keeping out of it. All the while they were converging, under an irresistible law, as surely as two streams in one vale. Tess had never in her recent life been so happy as she was now, possibly never would be so happy again. She was, for one thing, physically and mentally suited among these new surroundings. The sapling which had rooted down to a poisonous stratum on the spot of its sowing had been transplanted to a deeper soil. Moreover she, and Clare also, stood as yet on the debatable land between predilection and love; where no profundities have been reached; no reflections have set in, awkwardly inquiring, "Whither does this new current tend to carry me? What does it mean to my future? How does it stand towards my past?" Tess was the merest stray phenomenon to Angel Clare as yet--a rosy, warming apparition which had only just acquired the attribute of persistence in his consciousness. So he allowed his mind to be occupied with her, deeming his preoccupation to be no more than a philosopher's regard of an exceedingly novel, fresh, and interesting specimen of womankind. They met continually; they could not help it. They met daily in that strange and solemn interval, the twilight of the morning, in the violet or pink dawn; for it was necessary to rise early, so very early, here. Milking was done betimes; and before the milking came the skimming, which began at a little past three. It usually fell to the lot of some one or other of them to wake the rest, the first being aroused by an alarm-clock; and, as Tess was the latest arrival, and they soon discovered that she could be depended upon not to sleep though the alarm as others did, this task was thrust most frequently upon her. No sooner had the hour of three struck and whizzed, than she left her room and ran to the dairyman's door; then up the ladder to Angel's, calling him in a loud whisper; then woke her fellow-milkmaids. By the time that Tess was dressed Clare was downstairs and out in the humid air. The remaining maids and the dairyman usually gave themselves another turn on the pillow, and did not appear till a quarter of an hour later. The gray half-tones of daybreak are not the gray half-tones of the day's close, though the degree of their shade may be the same. In the twilight of the morning, light seems active, darkness passive; in the twilight of evening it is the darkness which is active and crescent, and the light which is the drowsy reverse. Being so often--possibly not always by chance--the first two persons to get up at the dairy-house, they seemed to themselves the first persons up of all the world. In these early days of her residence here Tess did not skim, but went out of doors at once after rising, where he was generally awaiting her. The spectral, half-compounded, aqueous light which pervaded the open mead impressed them with a feeling of isolation, as if they were Adam and Eve. At this dim inceptive stage of the day Tess seemed to Clare to exhibit a dignified largeness both of disposition and physique, an almost regnant power, possibly because he knew that at that preternatural time hardly any woman so well endowed in person as she was likely to be walking in the open air within the boundaries of his horizon; very few in all England. Fair women are usually asleep at mid-summer dawns. She was close at hand, and the rest were nowhere. The mixed, singular, luminous gloom in which they walked along together to the spot where the cows lay often made him think of the Resurrection hour. He little thought that the Magdalen might be at his side. Whilst all the landscape was in neutral shade his companion's face, which was the focus of his eyes, rising above the mist stratum, seemed to have a sort of phosphorescence upon it. She looked ghostly, as if she were merely a soul at large. In reality her face, without appearing to do so, had caught the cold gleam of day from the north-east; his own face, though he did not think of it, wore the same aspect to her. It was then, as has been said, that she impressed him most deeply. She was no longer the milkmaid, but a visionary essence of woman--a whole sex condensed into one typical form. He called her Artemis, Demeter, and other fanciful names half teasingly, which she did not like because she did not understand them. "Call me Tess," she would say askance; and he did. Then it would grow lighter, and her features would become simply feminine; they had changed from those of a divinity who could confer bliss to those of a being who craved it. At these non-human hours they could get quite close to the waterfowl. Herons came, with a great bold noise as of opening doors and shutters, out of the boughs of a plantation which they frequented at the side of the mead; or, if already on the spot, hardily maintained their standing in the water as the pair walked by, watching them by moving their heads round in a slow, horizontal, passionless wheel, like the turn of puppets by clockwork. They could then see the faint summer fogs in layers, woolly, level, and apparently no thicker than counterpanes, spread about the meadows in detached remnants of small extent. On the gray moisture of the grass were marks where the cows had lain through the night--dark-green islands of dry herbage the size of their carcasses, in the general sea of dew. From each island proceeded a serpentine trail, by which the cow had rambled away to feed after getting up, at the end of which trail they found her; the snoring puff from her nostrils, when she recognized them, making an intenser little fog of her own amid the prevailing one. Then they drove the animals back to the barton, or sat down to milk them on the spot, as the case might require. Or perhaps the summer fog was more general, and the meadows lay like a white sea, out of which the scattered trees rose like dangerous rocks. Birds would soar through it into the upper radiance, and hang on the wing sunning themselves, or alight on the wet rails subdividing the mead, which now shone like glass rods. Minute diamonds of moisture from the mist hung, too, upon Tess's eyelashes, and drops upon her hair, like seed pearls. When the day grew quite strong and commonplace these dried off her; moreover, Tess then lost her strange and ethereal beauty; her teeth, lips, and eyes scintillated in the sunbeams and she was again the dazzlingly fair dairymaid only, who had to hold her own against the other women of the world. About this time they would hear Dairyman Crick's voice, lecturing the non-resident milkers for arriving late, and speaking sharply to old Deborah Fyander for not washing her hands. "For Heaven's sake, pop thy hands under the pump, Deb! Upon my soul, if the London folk only knowed of thee and thy slovenly ways, they'd swaller their milk and butter more mincing than they do a'ready; and that's saying a good deal." The milking progressed, till towards the end Tess and Clare, in common with the rest, could hear the heavy breakfast table dragged out from the wall in the kitchen by Mrs Crick, this being the invariable preliminary to each meal; the same horrible scrape accompanying its return journey when the table had been cleared.

Chapter XX

https://web.archive.org/web/20210213065711/https://www.novelguide.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summaries/phase3-chapter16-24

Tess is finally happy. She is in love with Angel. They walk together in misty fields. To Clare, Tess is a pagan goddess, indeed the very "essence of woman," but she insists that she is nothing more than an ordinary woman

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/107-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Far From the Madding Crowd/section_15_part_0.txt

Far From the Madding Crowd.chapter 16

chapter 16

{"name": "Chapter 16", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-16", "summary": "Cut to a scene inside a church. A young man in a military jacket talks to a priest and goes up to the altar as if he's getting ready to be married. The only problem is that there doesn't seem to be a bride anywhere around. Eventually, the priest leaves. Finally, the young man turns and looks around the church. Not seeing anyone he knows, he walks out of the church and meets a young woman in a park. She says she got the church mixed up and that she hopes they can be married the next day just as easily. The dude is mad, though, and he says that he won't be ready to make another go at it for some time. The woman ends the chapter by asking when the wedding will be. The guy just says, \"God knows!\" and walks away from her.", "analysis": ""}

ALL SAINTS' AND ALL SOULS' On a week-day morning a small congregation, consisting mainly of women and girls, rose from its knees in the mouldy nave of a church called All Saints', in the distant barrack-town before-mentioned, at the end of a service without a sermon. They were about to disperse, when a smart footstep, entering the porch and coming up the central passage, arrested their attention. The step echoed with a ring unusual in a church; it was the clink of spurs. Everybody looked. A young cavalry soldier in a red uniform, with the three chevrons of a sergeant upon his sleeve, strode up the aisle, with an embarrassment which was only the more marked by the intense vigour of his step, and by the determination upon his face to show none. A slight flush had mounted his cheek by the time he had run the gauntlet between these women; but, passing on through the chancel arch, he never paused till he came close to the altar railing. Here for a moment he stood alone. The officiating curate, who had not yet doffed his surplice, perceived the new-comer, and followed him to the communion-space. He whispered to the soldier, and then beckoned to the clerk, who in his turn whispered to an elderly woman, apparently his wife, and they also went up the chancel steps. "'Tis a wedding!" murmured some of the women, brightening. "Let's wait!" The majority again sat down. There was a creaking of machinery behind, and some of the young ones turned their heads. From the interior face of the west wall of the tower projected a little canopy with a quarter-jack and small bell beneath it, the automaton being driven by the same clock machinery that struck the large bell in the tower. Between the tower and the church was a close screen, the door of which was kept shut during services, hiding this grotesque clockwork from sight. At present, however, the door was open, and the egress of the jack, the blows on the bell, and the mannikin's retreat into the nook again, were visible to many, and audible throughout the church. The jack had struck half-past eleven. "Where's the woman?" whispered some of the spectators. The young sergeant stood still with the abnormal rigidity of the old pillars around. He faced the south-east, and was as silent as he was still. The silence grew to be a noticeable thing as the minutes went on, and nobody else appeared, and not a soul moved. The rattle of the quarter-jack again from its niche, its blows for three-quarters, its fussy retreat, were almost painfully abrupt, and caused many of the congregation to start palpably. "I wonder where the woman is!" a voice whispered again. There began now that slight shifting of feet, that artificial coughing among several, which betrays a nervous suspense. At length there was a titter. But the soldier never moved. There he stood, his face to the south-east, upright as a column, his cap in his hand. The clock ticked on. The women threw off their nervousness, and titters and giggling became more frequent. Then came a dead silence. Every one was waiting for the end. Some persons may have noticed how extraordinarily the striking of quarters seems to quicken the flight of time. It was hardly credible that the jack had not got wrong with the minutes when the rattle began again, the puppet emerged, and the four quarters were struck fitfully as before. One could almost be positive that there was a malicious leer upon the hideous creature's face, and a mischievous delight in its twitchings. Then followed the dull and remote resonance of the twelve heavy strokes in the tower above. The women were impressed, and there was no giggle this time. The clergyman glided into the vestry, and the clerk vanished. The sergeant had not yet turned; every woman in the church was waiting to see his face, and he appeared to know it. At last he did turn, and stalked resolutely down the nave, braving them all, with a compressed lip. Two bowed and toothless old almsmen then looked at each other and chuckled, innocently enough; but the sound had a strange weird effect in that place. Opposite to the church was a paved square, around which several overhanging wood buildings of old time cast a picturesque shade. The young man on leaving the door went to cross the square, when, in the middle, he met a little woman. The expression of her face, which had been one of intense anxiety, sank at the sight of his nearly to terror. "Well?" he said, in a suppressed passion, fixedly looking at her. "Oh, Frank--I made a mistake!--I thought that church with the spire was All Saints', and I was at the door at half-past eleven to a minute as you said. I waited till a quarter to twelve, and found then that I was in All Souls'. But I wasn't much frightened, for I thought it could be to-morrow as well." "You fool, for so fooling me! But say no more." "Shall it be to-morrow, Frank?" she asked blankly. "To-morrow!" and he gave vent to a hoarse laugh. "I don't go through that experience again for some time, I warrant you!" "But after all," she expostulated in a trembling voice, "the mistake was not such a terrible thing! Now, dear Frank, when shall it be?" "Ah, when? God knows!" he said, with a light irony, and turning from her walked rapidly away.

Chapter 16

https://web.archive.org/web/20201219162644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/far-from-the-madding-crowd/summary/chapter-16

Cut to a scene inside a church. A young man in a military jacket talks to a priest and goes up to the altar as if he's getting ready to be married. The only problem is that there doesn't seem to be a bride anywhere around. Eventually, the priest leaves. Finally, the young man turns and looks around the church. Not seeing anyone he knows, he walks out of the church and meets a young woman in a park. She says she got the church mixed up and that she hopes they can be married the next day just as easily. The dude is mad, though, and he says that he won't be ready to make another go at it for some time. The woman ends the chapter by asking when the wedding will be. The guy just says, "God knows!" and walks away from her.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_9_part_0.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 10

chapter 10

{"name": "Phase I: \"The Maiden,\" Chapter Ten", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-10", "summary": "The narrator tells us how the regular folks in Tess's new neighborhood spend their free time: they drink. A lot. On Saturdays, they all walk as a group to a nearby town, and walk back late at night. Or early the next morning. Tess doesn't go with them for a long time, but finally starts to go along with them--some of the women pressure her, and she gives in. She enjoys the company, especially after hanging out with chickens and an eccentric old lady all week. Tess has gone several times on these weekly trips to the next town, and has gotten in the habit of walking home with the group--they come home so late that she doesn't feel comfortably walking back alone. One week, Alec sees her standing in the street waiting for her comrades to walk home with her. He offers her a ride home, but she politely refuses, saying that she'd rather wait for her peers. The other villagers join her soon, and they begin their three-mile walk together. Tess is the only sober one in the group. Car Darch, one of the women in the group has it in for Tess because Tess is Alec's new favorite, and she's jealous. Car is in the front of the group, and is balancing a basket of groceries on her head. Someone in the group suddenly notices a trickle of something going down Car's back. It's treacle . Everyone starts laughing at her, so Car throws herself on the grass and starts rubbing her back against the ground to get the sticky goop off. Of course, they only laugh harder. Tess joins in the laughter. Big mistake. Car immediately picks a fight with her about it. Tess defends herself, saying that everyone else was laughing. Car actually wants a fist-fight, and pulls off her outer clothes . Some of the men in the group try to make peace and defend Tess, but that only makes their wives jealous and angry. Suddenly, Alec D'Urberville appears on horseback. He asks what's going on , and then offers to rescue Tess. She's about ready to faint from a combination of shame and anger and fear, and agrees to climb up with him. The women in the group watch Alec ride off with Tess, and chuckle quietly amongst themselves. \"Out of the frying-pan into the fire!\" as Car's mother explains it.", "analysis": ""}

Every village has its idiosyncrasy, its constitution, often its own code of morality. The levity of some of the younger women in and about Trantridge was marked, and was perhaps symptomatic of the choice spirit who ruled The Slopes in that vicinity. The place had also a more abiding defect; it drank hard. The staple conversation on the farms around was on the uselessness of saving money; and smock-frocked arithmeticians, leaning on their ploughs or hoes, would enter into calculations of great nicety to prove that parish relief was a fuller provision for a man in his old age than any which could result from savings out of their wages during a whole lifetime. The chief pleasure of these philosophers lay in going every Saturday night, when work was done, to Chaseborough, a decayed market-town two or three miles distant; and, returning in the small hours of the next morning, to spend Sunday in sleeping off the dyspeptic effects of the curious compounds sold to them as beer by the monopolizers of the once-independent inns. For a long time Tess did not join in the weekly pilgrimages. But under pressure from matrons not much older than herself--for a field-man's wages being as high at twenty-one as at forty, marriage was early here--Tess at length consented to go. Her first experience of the journey afforded her more enjoyment than she had expected, the hilariousness of the others being quite contagious after her monotonous attention to the poultry-farm all the week. She went again and again. Being graceful and interesting, standing moreover on the momentary threshold of womanhood, her appearance drew down upon her some sly regards from loungers in the streets of Chaseborough; hence, though sometimes her journey to the town was made independently, she always searched for her fellows at nightfall, to have the protection of their companionship homeward. This had gone on for a month or two when there came a Saturday in September, on which a fair and a market coincided; and the pilgrims from Trantridge sought double delights at the inns on that account. Tess's occupations made her late in setting out, so that her comrades reached the town long before her. It was a fine September evening, just before sunset, when yellow lights struggle with blue shades in hairlike lines, and the atmosphere itself forms a prospect without aid from more solid objects, except the innumerable winged insects that dance in it. Through this low-lit mistiness Tess walked leisurely along. She did not discover the coincidence of the market with the fair till she had reached the place, by which time it was close upon dusk. Her limited marketing was soon completed; and then as usual she began to look about for some of the Trantridge cottagers. At first she could not find them, and she was informed that most of them had gone to what they called a private little jig at the house of a hay-trusser and peat-dealer who had transactions with their farm. He lived in an out-of-the-way nook of the townlet, and in trying to find her course thither her eyes fell upon Mr d'Urberville standing at a street corner. "What--my Beauty? You here so late?" he said. She told him that she was simply waiting for company homeward. "I'll see you again," said he over her shoulder as she went on down the back lane. Approaching the hay-trussers, she could hear the fiddled notes of a reel proceeding from some building in the rear; but no sound of dancing was audible--an exceptional state of things for these parts, where as a rule the stamping drowned the music. The front door being open she could see straight through the house into the garden at the back as far as the shades of night would allow; and nobody appearing to her knock, she traversed the dwelling and went up the path to the outhouse whence the sound had attracted her. It was a windowless erection used for storage, and from the open door there floated into the obscurity a mist of yellow radiance, which at first Tess thought to be illuminated smoke. But on drawing nearer she perceived that it was a cloud of dust, lit by candles within the outhouse, whose beams upon the haze carried forward the outline of the doorway into the wide night of the garden. When she came close and looked in she beheld indistinct forms racing up and down to the figure of the dance, the silence of their footfalls arising from their being overshoe in "scroff"--that is to say, the powdery residuum from the storage of peat and other products, the stirring of which by their turbulent feet created the nebulosity that involved the scene. Through this floating, fusty _debris_ of peat and hay, mixed with the perspirations and warmth of the dancers, and forming together a sort of vegeto-human pollen, the muted fiddles feebly pushed their notes, in marked contrast to the spirit with which the measure was trodden out. They coughed as they danced, and laughed as they coughed. Of the rushing couples there could barely be discerned more than the high lights--the indistinctness shaping them to satyrs clasping nymphs--a multiplicity of Pans whirling a multiplicity of Syrinxes; Lotis attempting to elude Priapus, and always failing. At intervals a couple would approach the doorway for air, and the haze no longer veiling their features, the demigods resolved themselves into the homely personalities of her own next-door neighbours. Could Trantridge in two or three short hours have metamorphosed itself thus madly! Some Sileni of the throng sat on benches and hay-trusses by the wall; and one of them recognized her. "The maids don't think it respectable to dance at The Flower-de-Luce," he explained. "They don't like to let everybody see which be their fancy-men. Besides, the house sometimes shuts up just when their jints begin to get greased. So we come here and send out for liquor." "But when be any of you going home?" asked Tess with some anxiety. "Now--a'most directly. This is all but the last jig." She waited. The reel drew to a close, and some of the party were in the mind of starting. But others would not, and another dance was formed. This surely would end it, thought Tess. But it merged in yet another. She became restless and uneasy; yet, having waited so long, it was necessary to wait longer; on account of the fair the roads were dotted with roving characters of possibly ill intent; and, though not fearful of measurable dangers, she feared the unknown. Had she been near Marlott she would have had less dread. "Don't ye be nervous, my dear good soul," expostulated, between his coughs, a young man with a wet face and his straw hat so far back upon his head that the brim encircled it like the nimbus of a saint. "What's yer hurry? To-morrow is Sunday, thank God, and we can sleep it off in church-time. Now, have a turn with me?" She did not abhor dancing, but she was not going to dance here. The movement grew more passionate: the fiddlers behind the luminous pillar of cloud now and then varied the air by playing on the wrong side of the bridge or with the back of the bow. But it did not matter; the panting shapes spun onwards. They did not vary their partners if their inclination were to stick to previous ones. Changing partners simply meant that a satisfactory choice had not as yet been arrived at by one or other of the pair, and by this time every couple had been suitably matched. It was then that the ecstasy and the dream began, in which emotion was the matter of the universe, and matter but an adventitious intrusion likely to hinder you from spinning where you wanted to spin. Suddenly there was a dull thump on the ground: a couple had fallen, and lay in a mixed heap. The next couple, unable to check its progress, came toppling over the obstacle. An inner cloud of dust rose around the prostrate figures amid the general one of the room, in which a twitching entanglement of arms and legs was discernible. "You shall catch it for this, my gentleman, when you get home!" burst in female accents from the human heap--those of the unhappy partner of the man whose clumsiness had caused the mishap; she happened also to be his recently married wife, in which assortment there was nothing unusual at Trantridge as long as any affection remained between wedded couples; and, indeed, it was not uncustomary in their later lives, to avoid making odd lots of the single people between whom there might be a warm understanding. A loud laugh from behind Tess's back, in the shade of the garden, united with the titter within the room. She looked round, and saw the red coal of a cigar: Alec d'Urberville was standing there alone. He beckoned to her, and she reluctantly retreated towards him. "Well, my Beauty, what are you doing here?" She was so tired after her long day and her walk that she confided her trouble to him--that she had been waiting ever since he saw her to have their company home, because the road at night was strange to her. "But it seems they will never leave off, and I really think I will wait no longer." "Certainly do not. I have only a saddle-horse here to-day; but come to The Flower-de-Luce, and I'll hire a trap, and drive you home with me." Tess, though flattered, had never quite got over her original mistrust of him, and, despite their tardiness, she preferred to walk home with the work-folk. So she answered that she was much obliged to him, but would not trouble him. "I have said that I will wait for 'em, and they will expect me to now." "Very well, Miss Independence. Please yourself... Then I shall not hurry... My good Lord, what a kick-up they are having there!" He had not put himself forward into the light, but some of them had perceived him, and his presence led to a slight pause and a consideration of how the time was flying. As soon as he had re-lit a cigar and walked away the Trantridge people began to collect themselves from amid those who had come in from other farms, and prepared to leave in a body. Their bundles and baskets were gathered up, and half an hour later, when the clock-chime sounded a quarter past eleven, they were straggling along the lane which led up the hill towards their homes. It was a three-mile walk, along a dry white road, made whiter to-night by the light of the moon. Tess soon perceived as she walked in the flock, sometimes with this one, sometimes with that, that the fresh night air was producing staggerings and serpentine courses among the men who had partaken too freely; some of the more careless women also were wandering in their gait--to wit, a dark virago, Car Darch, dubbed Queen of Spades, till lately a favourite of d'Urberville's; Nancy, her sister, nicknamed the Queen of Diamonds; and the young married woman who had already tumbled down. Yet however terrestrial and lumpy their appearance just now to the mean unglamoured eye, to themselves the case was different. They followed the road with a sensation that they were soaring along in a supporting medium, possessed of original and profound thoughts, themselves and surrounding nature forming an organism of which all the parts harmoniously and joyously interpenetrated each other. They were as sublime as the moon and stars above them, and the moon and stars were as ardent as they. Tess, however, had undergone such painful experiences of this kind in her father's house that the discovery of their condition spoilt the pleasure she was beginning to feel in the moonlight journey. Yet she stuck to the party, for reasons above given. In the open highway they had progressed in scattered order; but now their route was through a field-gate, and the foremost finding a difficulty in opening it, they closed up together. This leading pedestrian was Car the Queen of Spades, who carried a wicker-basket containing her mother's groceries, her own draperies, and other purchases for the week. The basket being large and heavy, Car had placed it for convenience of porterage on the top of her head, where it rode on in jeopardized balance as she walked with arms akimbo. "Well--whatever is that a-creeping down thy back, Car Darch?" said one of the group suddenly. All looked at Car. Her gown was a light cotton print, and from the back of her head a kind of rope could be seen descending to some distance below her waist, like a Chinaman's queue. "'Tis her hair falling down," said another. No; it was not her hair: it was a black stream of something oozing from her basket, and it glistened like a slimy snake in the cold still rays of the moon. "'Tis treacle," said an observant matron. Treacle it was. Car's poor old grandmother had a weakness for the sweet stuff. Honey she had in plenty out of her own hives, but treacle was what her soul desired, and Car had been about to give her a treat of surprise. Hastily lowering the basket the dark girl found that the vessel containing the syrup had been smashed within. By this time there had arisen a shout of laughter at the extraordinary appearance of Car's back, which irritated the dark queen into getting rid of the disfigurement by the first sudden means available, and independently of the help of the scoffers. She rushed excitedly into the field they were about to cross, and flinging herself flat on her back upon the grass, began to wipe her gown as well as she could by spinning horizontally on the herbage and dragging herself over it upon her elbows. The laughter rang louder; they clung to the gate, to the posts, rested on their staves, in the weakness engendered by their convulsions at the spectacle of Car. Our heroine, who had hitherto held her peace, at this wild moment could not help joining in with the rest. It was a misfortune--in more ways than one. No sooner did the dark queen hear the soberer richer note of Tess among those of the other work-people than a long-smouldering sense of rivalry inflamed her to madness. She sprang to her feet and closely faced the object of her dislike. "How darest th' laugh at me, hussy!" she cried. "I couldn't really help it when t'others did," apologized Tess, still tittering. "Ah, th'st think th' beest everybody, dostn't, because th' beest first favourite with He just now! But stop a bit, my lady, stop a bit! I'm as good as two of such! Look here--here's at 'ee!" To Tess's horror the dark queen began stripping off the bodice of her gown--which for the added reason of its ridiculed condition she was only too glad to be free of--till she had bared her plump neck, shoulders, and arms to the moonshine, under which they looked as luminous and beautiful as some Praxitelean creation, in their possession of the faultless rotundities of a lusty country-girl. She closed her fists and squared up at Tess. "Indeed, then, I shall not fight!" said the latter majestically; "and if I had know you was of that sort, I wouldn't have so let myself down as to come with such a whorage as this is!" The rather too inclusive speech brought down a torrent of vituperation from other quarters upon fair Tess's unlucky head, particularly from the Queen of Diamonds, who having stood in the relations to d'Urberville that Car had also been suspected of, united with the latter against the common enemy. Several other women also chimed in, with an animus which none of them would have been so fatuous as to show but for the rollicking evening they had passed. Thereupon, finding Tess unfairly browbeaten, the husbands and lovers tried to make peace by defending her; but the result of that attempt was directly to increase the war. Tess was indignant and ashamed. She no longer minded the loneliness of the way and the lateness of the hour; her one object was to get away from the whole crew as soon as possible. She knew well enough that the better among them would repent of their passion next day. They were all now inside the field, and she was edging back to rush off alone when a horseman emerged almost silently from the corner of the hedge that screened the road, and Alec d'Urberville looked round upon them. "What the devil is all this row about, work-folk?" he asked. The explanation was not readily forthcoming; and, in truth, he did not require any. Having heard their voices while yet some way off he had ridden creepingly forward, and learnt enough to satisfy himself. Tess was standing apart from the rest, near the gate. He bent over towards her. "Jump up behind me," he whispered, "and we'll get shot of the screaming cats in a jiffy!" She felt almost ready to faint, so vivid was her sense of the crisis. At almost any other moment of her life she would have refused such proffered aid and company, as she had refused them several times before; and now the loneliness would not of itself have forced her to do otherwise. But coming as the invitation did at the particular juncture when fear and indignation at these adversaries could be transformed by a spring of the foot into a triumph over them, she abandoned herself to her impulse, climbed the gate, put her toe upon his instep, and scrambled into the saddle behind him. The pair were speeding away into the distant gray by the time that the contentious revellers became aware of what had happened. The Queen of Spades forgot the stain on her bodice, and stood beside the Queen of Diamonds and the new-married, staggering young woman--all with a gaze of fixity in the direction in which the horse's tramp was diminishing into silence on the road. "What be ye looking at?" asked a man who had not observed the incident. "Ho-ho-ho!" laughed dark Car. "Hee-hee-hee!" laughed the tippling bride, as she steadied herself on the arm of her fond husband. "Heu-heu-heu!" laughed dark Car's mother, stroking her moustache as she explained laconically: "Out of the frying-pan into the fire!" Then these children of the open air, whom even excess of alcohol could scarce injure permanently, betook themselves to the field-path; and as they went there moved onward with them, around the shadow of each one's head, a circle of opalized light, formed by the moon's rays upon the glistening sheet of dew. Each pedestrian could see no halo but his or her own, which never deserted the head-shadow, whatever its vulgar unsteadiness might be; but adhered to it, and persistently beautified it; till the erratic motions seemed an inherent part of the irradiation, and the fumes of their breathing a component of the night's mist; and the spirit of the scene, and of the moonlight, and of Nature, seemed harmoniously to mingle with the spirit of wine.

Phase I: "The Maiden," Chapter Ten

https://web.archive.org/web/20210424232301/http://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/tess-of-the-durbervilles/summary/chapter-10

The narrator tells us how the regular folks in Tess's new neighborhood spend their free time: they drink. A lot. On Saturdays, they all walk as a group to a nearby town, and walk back late at night. Or early the next morning. Tess doesn't go with them for a long time, but finally starts to go along with them--some of the women pressure her, and she gives in. She enjoys the company, especially after hanging out with chickens and an eccentric old lady all week. Tess has gone several times on these weekly trips to the next town, and has gotten in the habit of walking home with the group--they come home so late that she doesn't feel comfortably walking back alone. One week, Alec sees her standing in the street waiting for her comrades to walk home with her. He offers her a ride home, but she politely refuses, saying that she'd rather wait for her peers. The other villagers join her soon, and they begin their three-mile walk together. Tess is the only sober one in the group. Car Darch, one of the women in the group has it in for Tess because Tess is Alec's new favorite, and she's jealous. Car is in the front of the group, and is balancing a basket of groceries on her head. Someone in the group suddenly notices a trickle of something going down Car's back. It's treacle . Everyone starts laughing at her, so Car throws herself on the grass and starts rubbing her back against the ground to get the sticky goop off. Of course, they only laugh harder. Tess joins in the laughter. Big mistake. Car immediately picks a fight with her about it. Tess defends herself, saying that everyone else was laughing. Car actually wants a fist-fight, and pulls off her outer clothes . Some of the men in the group try to make peace and defend Tess, but that only makes their wives jealous and angry. Suddenly, Alec D'Urberville appears on horseback. He asks what's going on , and then offers to rescue Tess. She's about ready to faint from a combination of shame and anger and fear, and agrees to climb up with him. The women in the group watch Alec ride off with Tess, and chuckle quietly amongst themselves. "Out of the frying-pan into the fire!" as Car's mother explains it.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/110-chapters/32.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Tess of the D'Urbervilles/section_3_part_8.txt

Tess of the D'Urbervilles.chapter 32

chapter 32

{"name": "Chapter 32", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210410060617/https://www.gradesaver.com/tess-of-the-durbervilles/study-guide/summary-phase-4-chapters-25-34", "summary": "Tess seems to want to stay in a state of perpetual betrothal with Angel, although the beginning of November seems to be when she will marry him. Angel mentions to Tess how Mr. Crick told him how, when he leaves Talbothays it will be winter, when the workload would be light and therefore he should take Tess with him. Tess finally agrees to fix the day of the wedding. Angel wishes to see a little of the working of a flour mill, and visits one at Wellbridge, where he stays at a farm house that had once been a d'Urberville mansion. Tess finally decides to marry Angel on the thirty-first of December. Tess, however, forgets to publish banns in time, but Angel says that obtaining a marriage license will be a better means of marrying. Angel obtains a white wedding dress for Tess. She thinks of her mother's ballad of the mystic robe: \"That never would become that wife / That had once done amiss. Tess wonders whether her wedding dress will betray her.", "analysis": "In a state of near-permanent engagement with Angel, Tess may feel secure in her relationship, for she has no obligation to tell Angel of her past experiences and need not fear the consequences of divulging this information. Therefore the inevitable fact that she must set a date for the wedding continues Tess's sense of anxiety. When Tess forgets to publish the banns for the wedding, this is an action that simultaneously reveals her fear that her secret may be exposed and her desire to sabotage the possibility of an earlier wedding. During this time in England, a couple had several means by which they could become married. The most common means by which this could be done is the publication of banns; this required the announcement of the engagement on several successive Sundays in church. This means of legally marrying is public and allows the possibility that a person may voice objections to the marriage; in the particular case of Tess, she likely fears the possibility that knowledge of her illegitimate child may be exposed. However, a less public, if more expensive means of marriage is through a marriage license, which Angel will obtain. Obtaining a marriage license therefore decreases the possibility of exposure for Tess, even if it does not relieve Tess's sense of guilt. Hardy foreshadows the inevitable return of Tess's history with the d'Urbervilles when Angel secures a former d'Urberville mansion as the site of the couple's honeymoon. Tess will come to face her family ancestry at this location; this suggests that she will face her more personalized d'Urberville experiences as well"}

This penitential mood kept her from naming the wedding-day. The beginning of November found its date still in abeyance, though he asked her at the most tempting times. But Tess's desire seemed to be for a perpetual betrothal in which everything should remain as it was then. The meads were changing now; but it was still warm enough in early afternoons before milking to idle there awhile, and the state of dairy-work at this time of year allowed a spare hour for idling. Looking over the damp sod in the direction of the sun, a glistening ripple of gossamer webs was visible to their eyes under the luminary, like the track of moonlight on the sea. Gnats, knowing nothing of their brief glorification, wandered across the shimmer of this pathway, irradiated as if they bore fire within them, then passed out of its line, and were quite extinct. In the presence of these things he would remind her that the date was still the question. Or he would ask her at night, when he accompanied her on some mission invented by Mrs Crick to give him the opportunity. This was mostly a journey to the farmhouse on the slopes above the vale, to inquire how the advanced cows were getting on in the straw-barton to which they were relegated. For it was a time of the year that brought great changes to the world of kine. Batches of the animals were sent away daily to this lying-in hospital, where they lived on straw till their calves were born, after which event, and as soon as the calf could walk, mother and offspring were driven back to the dairy. In the interval which elapsed before the calves were sold there was, of course, little milking to be done, but as soon as the calf had been taken away the milkmaids would have to set to work as usual. Returning from one of these dark walks they reached a great gravel-cliff immediately over the levels, where they stood still and listened. The water was now high in the streams, squirting through the weirs, and tinkling under culverts; the smallest gullies were all full; there was no taking short cuts anywhere, and foot-passengers were compelled to follow the permanent ways. From the whole extent of the invisible vale came a multitudinous intonation; it forced upon their fancy that a great city lay below them, and that the murmur was the vociferation of its populace. "It seems like tens of thousands of them," said Tess; "holding public-meetings in their market-places, arguing, preaching, quarrelling, sobbing, groaning, praying, and cursing." Clare was not particularly heeding. "Did Crick speak to you to-day, dear, about his not wanting much assistance during the winter months?" "No." "The cows are going dry rapidly." "Yes. Six or seven went to the straw-barton yesterday, and three the day before, making nearly twenty in the straw already. Ah--is it that the farmer don't want my help for the calving? O, I am not wanted here any more! And I have tried so hard to--" "Crick didn't exactly say that he would no longer require you. But, knowing what our relations were, he said in the most good-natured and respectful manner possible that he supposed on my leaving at Christmas I should take you with me, and on my asking what he would do without you he merely observed that, as a matter of fact, it was a time of year when he could do with a very little female help. I am afraid I was sinner enough to feel rather glad that he was in this way forcing your hand." "I don't think you ought to have felt glad, Angel. Because 'tis always mournful not to be wanted, even if at the same time 'tis convenient." "Well, it is convenient--you have admitted that." He put his finger upon her cheek. "Ah!" he said. "What?" "I feel the red rising up at her having been caught! But why should I trifle so! We will not trifle--life is too serious." "It is. Perhaps I saw that before you did." She was seeing it then. To decline to marry him after all--in obedience to her emotion of last night--and leave the dairy, meant to go to some strange place, not a dairy; for milkmaids were not in request now calving-time was coming on; to go to some arable farm where no divine being like Angel Clare was. She hated the thought, and she hated more the thought of going home. "So that, seriously, dearest Tess," he continued, "since you will probably have to leave at Christmas, it is in every way desirable and convenient that I should carry you off then as my property. Besides, if you were not the most uncalculating girl in the world you would know that we could not go on like this for ever." "I wish we could. That it would always be summer and autumn, and you always courting me, and always thinking as much of me as you have done through the past summer-time!" "I always shall." "O, I know you will!" she cried, with a sudden fervour of faith in him. "Angel, I will fix the day when I will become yours for always!" Thus at last it was arranged between them, during that dark walk home, amid the myriads of liquid voices on the right and left. When they reached the dairy Mr and Mrs Crick were promptly told--with injunctions of secrecy; for each of the lovers was desirous that the marriage should be kept as private as possible. The dairyman, though he had thought of dismissing her soon, now made a great concern about losing her. What should he do about his skimming? Who would make the ornamental butter-pats for the Anglebury and Sandbourne ladies? Mrs Crick congratulated Tess on the shilly-shallying having at last come to an end, and said that directly she set eyes on Tess she divined that she was to be the chosen one of somebody who was no common outdoor man; Tess had looked so superior as she walked across the barton on that afternoon of her arrival; that she was of a good family she could have sworn. In point of fact Mrs Crick did remember thinking that Tess was graceful and good-looking as she approached; but the superiority might have been a growth of the imagination aided by subsequent knowledge. Tess was now carried along upon the wings of the hours, without the sense of a will. The word had been given; the number of the day written down. Her naturally bright intelligence had begun to admit the fatalistic convictions common to field-folk and those who associate more extensively with natural phenomena than with their fellow-creatures; and she accordingly drifted into that passive responsiveness to all things her lover suggested, characteristic of the frame of mind. But she wrote anew to her mother, ostensibly to notify the wedding-day; really to again implore her advice. It was a gentleman who had chosen her, which perhaps her mother had not sufficiently considered. A post-nuptial explanation, which might be accepted with a light heart by a rougher man, might not be received with the same feeling by him. But this communication brought no reply from Mrs Durbeyfield. Despite Angel Clare's plausible representation to himself and to Tess of the practical need for their immediate marriage, there was in truth an element of precipitancy in the step, as became apparent at a later date. He loved her dearly, though perhaps rather ideally and fancifully than with the impassioned thoroughness of her feeling for him. He had entertained no notion, when doomed as he had thought to an unintellectual bucolic life, that such charms as he beheld in this idyllic creature would be found behind the scenes. Unsophistication was a thing to talk of; but he had not known how it really struck one until he came here. Yet he was very far from seeing his future track clearly, and it might be a year or two before he would be able to consider himself fairly started in life. The secret lay in the tinge of recklessness imparted to his career and character by the sense that he had been made to miss his true destiny through the prejudices of his family. "Don't you think 'twould have been better for us to wait till you were quite settled in your midland farm?" she once asked timidly. (A midland farm was the idea just then.) "To tell the truth, my Tess, I don't like you to be left anywhere away from my protection and sympathy." The reason was a good one, so far as it went. His influence over her had been so marked that she had caught his manner and habits, his speech and phrases, his likings and his aversions. And to leave her in farmland would be to let her slip back again out of accord with him. He wished to have her under his charge for another reason. His parents had naturally desired to see her once at least before he carried her off to a distant settlement, English or colonial; and as no opinion of theirs was to be allowed to change his intention, he judged that a couple of months' life with him in lodgings whilst seeking for an advantageous opening would be of some social assistance to her at what she might feel to be a trying ordeal--her presentation to his mother at the Vicarage. Next, he wished to see a little of the working of a flour-mill, having an idea that he might combine the use of one with corn-growing. The proprietor of a large old water-mill at Wellbridge--once the mill of an Abbey--had offered him the inspection of his time-honoured mode of procedure, and a hand in the operations for a few days, whenever he should choose to come. Clare paid a visit to the place, some few miles distant, one day at this time, to inquire particulars, and returned to Talbothays in the evening. She found him determined to spend a short time at the Wellbridge flour-mills. And what had determined him? Less the opportunity of an insight into grinding and bolting than the casual fact that lodgings were to be obtained in that very farmhouse which, before its mutilation, had been the mansion of a branch of the d'Urberville family. This was always how Clare settled practical questions; by a sentiment which had nothing to do with them. They decided to go immediately after the wedding, and remain for a fortnight, instead of journeying to towns and inns. "Then we will start off to examine some farms on the other side of London that I have heard of," he said, "and by March or April we will pay a visit to my father and mother." Questions of procedure such as these arose and passed, and the day, the incredible day, on which she was to become his, loomed large in the near future. The thirty-first of December, New Year's Eve, was the date. His wife, she said to herself. Could it ever be? Their two selves together, nothing to divide them, every incident shared by them; why not? And yet why? One Sunday morning Izz Huett returned from church, and spoke privately to Tess. "You was not called home this morning." "What?" "It should ha' been the first time of asking to-day," she answered, looking quietly at Tess. "You meant to be married New Year's Eve, deary?" The other returned a quick affirmative. "And there must be three times of asking. And now there be only two Sundays left between." Tess felt her cheek paling; Izz was right; of course there must be three. Perhaps he had forgotten! If so, there must be a week's postponement, and that was unlucky. How could she remind her lover? She who had been so backward was suddenly fired with impatience and alarm lest she should lose her dear prize. A natural incident relieved her anxiety. Izz mentioned the omission of the banns to Mrs Crick, and Mrs Crick assumed a matron's privilege of speaking to Angel on the point. "Have ye forgot 'em, Mr Clare? The banns, I mean." "No, I have not forgot 'em," says Clare. As soon as he caught Tess alone he assured her: "Don't let them tease you about the banns. A licence will be quieter for us, and I have decided on a licence without consulting you. So if you go to church on Sunday morning you will not hear your own name, if you wished to." "I didn't wish to hear it, dearest," she said proudly. But to know that things were in train was an immense relief to Tess notwithstanding, who had well-nigh feared that somebody would stand up and forbid the banns on the ground of her history. How events were favouring her! "I don't quite feel easy," she said to herself. "All this good fortune may be scourged out of me afterwards by a lot of ill. That's how Heaven mostly does. I wish I could have had common banns!" But everything went smoothly. She wondered whether he would like her to be married in her present best white frock, or if she ought to buy a new one. The question was set at rest by his forethought, disclosed by the arrival of some large packages addressed to her. Inside them she found a whole stock of clothing, from bonnet to shoes, including a perfect morning costume, such as would well suit the simple wedding they planned. He entered the house shortly after the arrival of the packages, and heard her upstairs undoing them. A minute later she came down with a flush on her face and tears in her eyes. "How thoughtful you've been!" she murmured, her cheek upon his shoulder. "Even to the gloves and handkerchief! My own love--how good, how kind!" "No, no, Tess; just an order to a tradeswoman in London--nothing more." And to divert her from thinking too highly of him, he told her to go upstairs, and take her time, and see if it all fitted; and, if not, to get the village sempstress to make a few alterations. She did return upstairs, and put on the gown. Alone, she stood for a moment before the glass looking at the effect of her silk attire; and then there came into her head her mother's ballad of the mystic robe-- That never would become that wife That had once done amiss, which Mrs Durbeyfield had used to sing to her as a child, so blithely and so archly, her foot on the cradle, which she rocked to the tune. Suppose this robe should betray her by changing colour, as her robe had betrayed Queen Guinevere. Since she had been at the dairy she had not once thought of the lines till now.

Chapter 32

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Tess seems to want to stay in a state of perpetual betrothal with Angel, although the beginning of November seems to be when she will marry him. Angel mentions to Tess how Mr. Crick told him how, when he leaves Talbothays it will be winter, when the workload would be light and therefore he should take Tess with him. Tess finally agrees to fix the day of the wedding. Angel wishes to see a little of the working of a flour mill, and visits one at Wellbridge, where he stays at a farm house that had once been a d'Urberville mansion. Tess finally decides to marry Angel on the thirty-first of December. Tess, however, forgets to publish banns in time, but Angel says that obtaining a marriage license will be a better means of marrying. Angel obtains a white wedding dress for Tess. She thinks of her mother's ballad of the mystic robe: "That never would become that wife / That had once done amiss. Tess wonders whether her wedding dress will betray her.

In a state of near-permanent engagement with Angel, Tess may feel secure in her relationship, for she has no obligation to tell Angel of her past experiences and need not fear the consequences of divulging this information. Therefore the inevitable fact that she must set a date for the wedding continues Tess's sense of anxiety. When Tess forgets to publish the banns for the wedding, this is an action that simultaneously reveals her fear that her secret may be exposed and her desire to sabotage the possibility of an earlier wedding. During this time in England, a couple had several means by which they could become married. The most common means by which this could be done is the publication of banns; this required the announcement of the engagement on several successive Sundays in church. This means of legally marrying is public and allows the possibility that a person may voice objections to the marriage; in the particular case of Tess, she likely fears the possibility that knowledge of her illegitimate child may be exposed. However, a less public, if more expensive means of marriage is through a marriage license, which Angel will obtain. Obtaining a marriage license therefore decreases the possibility of exposure for Tess, even if it does not relieve Tess's sense of guilt. Hardy foreshadows the inevitable return of Tess's history with the d'Urbervilles when Angel secures a former d'Urberville mansion as the site of the couple's honeymoon. Tess will come to face her family ancestry at this location; this suggests that she will face her more personalized d'Urberville experiences as well